****
Aurore gripped Emmanuel’s arm tightly at the sound of running footsteps, but he snatched it away, making her stumble. She had always been proud of how big and strong her brothers were, but Emmanuel, already taller than she, didn’t have the care for her the others had always shown. Jean-Louis gave the two of them a warning look from atop his horse. A boy, about ten years old, ragged and skinny, let in a stab of feeble, pink sunlight as he slipped into the stable where they hid. Horses nickered and shifted in the aisles, men with swords and muskets astride.
“Madame la Comtesse!” The boy stared in surprise at Aurore before bowing low. She tried to smile, but her lips were too tight, so she nodded. The boy looked frightened but turned to Jean-Louis. “Monsieur le Capitaine, they’ve sent me to tell you they’ve had the signal. The gate will be open in a minute.”
“Merci,” said Jean-Louis. “I hope you will stay here with my sister and my youngest brother. Keep them safe. Hide them and protect them the best you can.”
Emmanuel snorted. “I am twice the boy’s size. Maybe I will protect him.”
“Protect our sister.” Jean-Louis stared for a long moment at Emmanuel, who couldn’t meet his eyes. Then Jean-Louis said, his voice quiet, yet firm, “Alfred, hide them in the stable. Emmanuel, listen to him and do as he says.” His voice softened a bit. “That goes for you, too, Aurore. You know I wanted you to stay behind, but Dom agreed to have you here. I think it was an unnecessary risk. You should be safe in the stable, but I want you to hide.” He directed one of the men on foot to stay behind, too.
Aurore didn’t think it was a capricious whim to want to be there when Dom and her brothers walked into her home. Jean-Louis, especially, had become increasingly desperate to keep her away from the fighting, even while Dom had grown more resigned. She had been touched that Dom had stopped fighting her. Her heart fluttered with trepidation. Perhaps they were right. If they lost, if a mercenary got to her, if one of the bastards got to her, she was a weakness. She clutched at the knife she had in the pocket under her peasant skirt.
Michel’s voice boomed down the lane, “De Bures!” the signal for Jean-Louis and his small troop of cavalry to ride.
Aurore shivered as the stable boy swung the door open and Jean-Louis led his men in a full-out charge up the street. A musket barked and then another. Shouting and screaming filled the previously quiet morning.
Aurore grabbed Emmanuel’s arm again, this time to keep him from running out to see what was happening.
****
From atop the battlements, Dom signaled to the men. A musket ball whistled past his head at the same moment he heard the report of a musket. He ducked, still exposed to the courtyard but making less of a target of himself. He yanked the monk’s robes off over his head and fit an arrow to his longbow, then let the arrow fly at the large man who had ducked behind a low wall to reload his musket. The angle was bad and the arrow glanced off the wall, but it scraped across the man’s chain mail and went through the exposed sleeve of his tunic.
Dom cursed his sore bow arm, wondering briefly if it would ever regain full strength. The man pulled back further behind the slight cover the wall gave him, his arm pumping as he jammed a new musket ball into the barrel of his gun. Dom shot another arrow, just a hair higher, and sank it into the man’s right arm. The musket flew to the side as the man spun and fell.
Dom and Henri scanned the courtyard for other traitors as horsemen thundered through the gate, shouting and brandishing sabers. Jean-Louis had arrived, followed by Le Fèvre and some others of Dom’s personal guards. Cédric and his group would be on foot right behind them. The baron led a division which would guard the gates from the outside in case any mercenaries were in the village and came to their leaders’ aid.
Pâques was with him. The man had insisted on coming, seeking vengeance for the loss of his left arm. It was probably only because of Pâques that Dom had not tried even harder to leave Aurore behind. Pâques still could not fight well, though as he was less of a target than Aurore, and he had extensive training before his injury; he would not be a liability.
Dom shook thoughts of Aurore, tiny and vulnerable, from his mind, swung his bow to his back, and left Henri and Paul-Bénédicte on the battlements as he rattled down the stairs, eager to be among the first into the château itself, eager to flush out the enemy leaders. He noted that a crowd of villagers armed with shovels, axes, and pitchforks was streaming through the gates behind Cédric’s troops and the man he had shot with an arrow was no longer in the corner. He brandished his sword and pushed past the few men who were fighting back, barely glancing at Jean-Louis as he dismounted to follow. Cédric’s friend de Ligny bashed a man in a nightshirt with the pommel of his sword and stuck close to Dom’s left side, helping shove through the confused crowd. Cries of “It’s the comte!” rose up around him.
****
“Manu, no!” Aurore whispered urgently as her youngest brother shoved his way past Alfred the stable boy and ran up the street. Aurore checked her knife again and peeked out the door. She grabbed the stable boy by the shoulder as he moved to chase after. “Let him go, Alfred. Underneath, he is like my other brothers and can’t stay out of a fight.”
Alfred turned to usher her back into the stable and froze, staring in shock at someone behind Aurore.
Her stomach clenched.
“Ah, la comtesse has returned to me. How sweet,” growled the voice from her nightmares, that of Yves Saint-Ange, the bastard son of the Baron de Lucenay.
****
Dominique, de Ligny at his side, pulled the latch of Aurore’s bedchamber and eased the door open just an inch. He glanced down the hall at Jean-Louis and one of his officer friends, who kicked open the door of the master chamber and stood flattened against the wall, waiting to see if anyone lurked inside. Jean-Louis rubbed his formerly broken leg and bent his knee with a grimace as he listened for movement.
Dom focused on Aurore’s room. He heard a faint swish, perhaps a foot brushing against the plank floor. De Ligny nodded in agreement when Dom held up one finger. One person inside. The sound of Jean-Louis’ footsteps faded into the master bedchamber, and Dom could hear him and the lieutenant rummaging around, turning out the bed and looking behind curtains. There was no shout of surprise, no sound of combat, so Dom supposed the room was empty. Still, he waited in the hall until Jean-Louis called out that all was clear. The soft brush of a footstep came again from inside Aurore’s chambers and metal clinked. Then silence.
The door creaked as it swung inward at Dom’s push. De Ligny jerked his head toward the door. Dom nodded—their enemy was behind it.
Sword in one hand, dagger in the other, Dom stepped into the room and kicked the door, hoping to strike his enemy with it. It bounced off the wall as he deflected the sword that swung toward his head.
Dom brought up his dagger and stabbed at the man’s sword hand, forcing the man back, and their swords locked together. With a twist of Dom’s sword and a slash with his dagger, the other man’s sword fell away, and Dom kicked him hard in the stones before slamming the pommel of his sword against the man’s temple, knocking him down.
A thump and a crash came from the next room, and Dom stepped around de Ligny, who knelt on the fallen man’s back, and faced the door separating the bedchambers. Jean-Louis burst through with a battle cry, sword brandished.
Jean-Louis stood up from his defensive crouch and sighed. “You could have left some for me.” He nodded at the man who lay moaning on the floor.
“Is it Poudrain or Saint-Ange?” Dom asked, his heart still pounding from the fight. “And where is the other one? The servants said they both slept up here.”
De Ligny already had the man’s hands tied behind him and rolled him to his back.
Jean-Louis said, “I’d say Poudrain, but I really have no idea. He doesn’t have the look of the Saint-Ange I know, but they only share a mother.”
They locked the moaning man in the chamber with two guards posted in
the hall and the instructions to allow in only Dominique’s guard Le Fèvre to treat his wounds.
Michel came around the corner and stopped short, breathing heavily. “We’ve checked all the rooms, Monsieur le Comte. The château is yours.”
Michel bowed deeply. Dom clapped him on one heavily-muscled shoulder. “Stand up, brother. We need to find the other bastard and bring Aurore inside.”
Dom drew his sword again as he went down the narrow spiral stairs and stepped into his great hall, which was swarming with servants and people from the village. They called out to him in greeting, and he nodded, thinking only of his wife. He spotted Emmanuel lurking off to the side.
“Emmanuel!” he barked out, making the boy jump. “Where is your sister?”
Emmanuel shrugged and looked around as if Aurore might be wandering by.
Dom strode to him.
“I left her in the stable with the stable boy and the guard,” said Emmanuel.
Jean-Louis grabbed his arm and barked out, “Did I not tell you to protect our sister? Did I not tell you to stay in the stable? You follow orders!”
Emmanuel looked half-frightened, half-defiant. He whined, “You don’t think I can do anything, do you? Well, I’ve had some training, you know.”
“I thought you would protect my wife. You had the most important job of all.” Dom’s stomach curdled, and his breath rasped. “I trusted you to stay with her. Without her, all this means nothing.”
“Lead us back to the stables, boy,” said Jean-Louis, releasing Emmanuel’s arm and giving him a shove.
They pushed through the crowd, many of whom bowed and congratulated Dom. He tried to nod politely, but as he exited into the courtyard he moved faster, looking around. They went out the gates and still did not see Aurore.
“Henri!” Jean-Louis shouted. “Has Aurore come out of the stables?”
Dom heard the negative reply as he broke into a trot, the other men moving behind him, their mail and arms squeaking and clanking. Dom banged one gloved hand on the stable door and shouted, “Aurore!” before flinging the big door open.
Jean-Louis held him back from rushing in stupidly. He never would have done it except that Aurore must be in there and in danger. The other men flattened their backs against the outside wall of the stable.
Dom stood off to the side and barked out, “Aurore!”
“Dom!” she called back. Her voice was coming from far back in the stable, muffled. She didn’t sound relieved.
“Come on out, mon âme,” said Dom, trying to make his voice jocular. “It’s all over.”
There was a thump and a scuffle from the back, and Dom’s heart stopped. She was not alone. She was a prisoner. Had the man guarding her turned on them?
He listened closely over the sound of villagers coming out of their homes. Henri shouted something from the battlements. He nodded to Jean-Louis, and they stepped inside shoulder to shoulder, swords drawn. Peering through the dark and dust, Dom saw a small form lying just a few feet in. Alfred, the stable boy. Dom heard Jean-Louis whisper something, and a man carried the boy out. Michel slipped in too, sword and dagger in hand.
“Aurore? Come on out, mon âme. Everything is well. Our people wish to greet you.” Dom forced a fake laugh. “Are you all right? Maybe stuck in a hiding spot more suitable for Alfred?”
Jean-Louis pointed Michel to the left and stepped to the right himself. Dom went forward, peering into stalls as he went. Dom stopped outside the tack room and held up his hand for the others to stop.
“I promise, Aurore, you can come out safely,” he said mildly in spite of the fear gripping his guts. He knocked on the tack room door.
He glanced at Michel, who set his ear against the thin wooden wall, then whispered, “Two people. Maybe more.”
Dom put his sword away and moved the dagger to his right hand and down to his side. He shoved the door open and stepped back.
A man lay against the wall, lit by a dusty ray of feeble morning light: the guard left behind for Aurore’s protection. Dom swallowed. His heart stuttered again at what else he saw—Saint-Ange, he assumed, whose glare was every bit as vicious as that of his half-brother Albert de Lucenay, gripping Aurore’s arm, a long, thin dagger pointed at her neck. Her eyes were huge and her expression blank and lost.
“Ah,” Dom said politely. “Thank you, Monsieur …Saint-Ange, is it? Thank you for finding my wife.”
Saint-Ange blinked in surprise but lifted his knife and bared his teeth. “I’ve already found your wife, de Bures. Your wife and I have spent some happy times together. Just ask her.”
****
Aurore shuddered and blinked, the fear that froze her melting just a little around the edges. Dom is here. Dom will save me. She glanced down at the man who had been left to guard her. Jean-Louis and the other cavalrymen had checked every corner of the stable before leaving her. Her brother and the stable boy knew all the hiding places in the wood and stone structure. The guard lay completely still, blood drying in his hair. Had Saint-Ange killed him? How had Saint-Ange got in? She shuddered again. Dom was right. I wasn’t safe here.
The stable boy might be dead, too. Saint-Ange had hit him hard with a shovel when the little boy leapt at the man to save her. She choked back tears, glad Emmanuel had run off.
She turned her face toward Dom, who clutched his dagger tightly, pointing it toward her. Maybe if she dodged to the side, he could slash at Saint-Ange, who was right behind her. She tugged slightly at the bastard’s grip on her upper left arm, but his fingers dug in more deeply and the knife pricked her neck, sending her thoughts scattering again.
“I almost left here without anyone seeing me, but your men cornered me by accident. We’ve been expecting you for several days, after all. I’ll need the comtesse as my traveling companion, I believe. A hostage to get me free.” Saint-Ange’s voice was higher than usual. He was panicking.
What had Michel said? Panic was the most useless reaction—and the most dangerous. Useless in oneself and dangerous in others. Saint-Ange could do something stupid while she was too stupid to protect herself. Michel had told her that he learned it from Dom himself. Why did she remember that?
“First I’ll kill you, Monsieur le Comte,” said Saint-Ange, his voice shaking.
Aurore saw the sharp tip of the blade rise at the side of her face to point at Dom. Her assailant’s hand appeared, and the low light glinted on his signet ring. The ring whose impression she wore on her face and leg. Her gut clenched, but she fought down nausea and panic again.
She took a deep breath. There was no way he could get to Dom without shoving her out of the way and somehow beating Dom’s strike with his dagger. She hoped Saint-Ange would try. His grip didn’t relax, though he stepped a little to the right, his arm bumping her shoulder blades.
He was focused on the bigger threat: Dom and whoever was behind him. Her brothers and other men would be at his back. They had always followed his lead. Dom would never let her die. He would never let Saint-Ange take her out of the stable.
But Dom could die trying to save her, and his quest to regain everything would be for nothing. How could she live without him?
She inched her right hand up to her waist and down through the pocket hole of her simple skirt. She touched the hard hilt of her knife, then gripped it.
Saint-Ange said, “If, as you say, you have retaken the château, then you will not enjoy it. Maybe some truly deserving person will get it from the king, even if my brother and I cannot have it.”
Dom’s eyes flickered to her face and down to the hand in her pocket, then snapped back to Saint-Ange’s face. His voice was cold but calm. “You can die here today, Yves Saint-Ange, or you can die at the hands of the king’s executioners. Release my wife and drop your knife. Perhaps the king won’t have you killed right away.”
Dom stepped toward them and drew his blade back sharply.
Distraction was good.
Saint-Ange let go of her.
Perhaps he meant to gra
b her arm with a different grip. Perhaps he meant to shove her in the path of Dom’s dagger.
She yanked her knife out of its scabbard and straight out of her pocket, knocking Saint-Ange back half a step with her elbow as she whirled around.
There was a tiny, breathless moment of surprise as he looked down at her, but her arm was already swinging forward to the precise center of his torso, his flesh parting too easily as she swung the blade in an underhand arc and up under his rib cage.
Blood gushed over her hand and she raised her eyes to Saint-Ange’s face. His eyes rolled up, he coughed once, forcing more blood over her hand, before he crumpled silently against her, pulling her knife away and sending her backwards. She stumbled out of the way to keep from falling to the floor with him.
She stared as a great puddle of blood spread across the dirt. Her rapist gasped once, then was silent.
****
Jean-Louis and Michel bumped into Dom’s back as he rushed ahead, dropping his dagger. Aurore turned to him, fresh blood coating her arm and the front of her skirt and bodice. Her face was entirely blank. She lifted her right hand and stared at it.
Dom went to her and pulled her against him, his body shaking.
“Well done, Aurore,” said Jean-Louis as he bent over the body. “Not many men have the strength of will for that.”
Dom could feel a tremor pass through her. She turned her head slightly away from his shoulder. “I would have killed him before we left the village, if we had made it past you,” she whispered.
“He wouldn’t have made it past us, mon âme.” He had been slashing at the bastard’s unprotected shoulder when Aurore turned and stepped into the way. Even if she hadn’t struck, she had moved out of his power for just the second Dom needed to close on his enemy.
The Indispensable Wife Page 17