by Shana Galen
At the end of the corridor shone a small beam of light, and she could hear the hum of voices. It had not been there earlier, but now she realized the door to the soldier’s station was ajar. She crept closer, keeping the knife at the ready. At the edge of the corridor, she hid in the shadows and watched as five soldiers sat playing a card game. They were smoking and drinking and laughing, oblivious to her presence or to the fight taking place on the steps just a few yards away.
She could not get through the gates without passing in front of that open door. The soldiers were not looking at the door, but one could glance that way at any moment—especially if movement was detected.
She thought she was close enough that even if they saw her, she could run into the street and escape, but then the prison would be in an uproar. Armand would never make it out. She had to escape without alerting the soldiers to her presence.
She lurked across from the door for what seemed an eternity. The soldiers played hand after hand, and still Armand did not join her. Had he lost the fight? Was there another exit? Please God, save him.
She could wait no longer. As the minutes ticked by, she could feel the danger of discovery grow. Sooner or later there would be a change of the guards, or one of them would leave to walk the grounds. She must go now.
Saying a quick prayer and taking a deep breath, she inched forward. One of the guards turned slightly, and she paused, held her breath.
But he turned back to the game, and she continued to creep forward. Another step and she would be visible to any soldier who looked. Should she go quickly and risk a blur of movement that might draw their attention? Or should she go slowly and risk one of them turning and seeing her accidentally?
Her heart was pounding, and her legs felt restless. She wanted to run, but she clenched her fists, her fingernails biting into the knife handle, and inched past the open door. She must go slowly for Armand’s sake. Now that she was in full view of any soldier who looked her way, the lamplight felt as harsh and bold as a ray of sunlight. The doorway seemed to gape and go on for yards. Her muscles revolted, wanted to freeze. She wanted to fall to the floor and curl up in a ball, but she pushed herself farther. She pushed herself to the patch of shadow just ahead.
The room of soldiers erupted in a chorus of hoots and howls, and she bit her tongue to stop a scream. For one terrifying moment, her heart stopped, and she was certain she had been caught. But a quick glance at the small room showed her the soldiers were deep in their game, and she scooted the rest of the way without being noticed.
Once in that tiny patch of shadow, she raced for the first gate. It was still unlocked and slightly ajar, but she dreaded the squeak it would make as she wedged it open enough to allow her body through. Perhaps if she pulled it slowly…
She tucked the knife in her left hand and pulled the gate with her right. She inched it open, a fraction at a time, certain that at any second one of the soldiers would see her and call out a warning. In her mind, a fast sonata played. Her fingers raced over the keys of the pianoforte, even as she moved with tortuous slowness at the gate.
Finally, she had made enough progress to squeeze through. She did so, breathing in relief as she raced for the last gate to the beat of the sonata.
The Paris air had never smelled as sweet as when she cleared the last gate and stood outside the prison, free. She had been inside less than a half hour and felt immense relief. She could only imagine what Armand must have felt when he’d escaped.
Perhaps he was right behind her. Perhaps he would join her in a moment. She wanted nothing more than to hold him. She turned to look back, hopeful, and saw the blur of movement just in time to duck.
With a scream, she stumbled back. The guard they had left in the shadows by the gate lurched drunkenly toward her. “I knew you would be back,” he said, moving forward.
***
The soldier beneath Armand was gaining strength. He was older, perhaps thirty, but in good physical condition. His cap fell off his head to reveal dark yellow hair, and his face was thrown into a patch of dim light. Armand sucked in a breath. He knew this man, remembered him. He had been one of those assigned to bring him food—if the paste he was given could be considered such. He had been one of the soldiers to beat Armand, trying to force information out of him, trying to discover why he was there.
“I know you,” Armand spat. Straddling the soldier, Armand pushed his hands down, but he could feel his own muscles beginning to protest.
“And I know you. You escaped, caused us a lot of trouble. I should have killed you when I had the chance. Worthless scum.”
Armand had lost his knife, but the soldier was deftly holding on to his pistol. Armand tried to shake it free from his grip, but if he concentrated on that arm, the other came up. And finally he was too tired to hold it down anymore, and the soldier’s fist was free. Armand held the pistol down but took a glancing blow on the chin. For a moment, he saw white dots against blackness, and then he was flying through the air.
He hit his head on the stairwell behind him but managed to roll away before the soldier could jump on top of him. The only place to roll was down the steps, and the fall jolted his already bruised body. He landed on a wide step, looked up, and saw the soldier raise his pistol. “Now you die.” The soldier smiled.
There was nowhere to hide, and Armand closed his eyes, waiting for the hot sting of the bullet.
But all he heard was the click of the hammer.
Armand opened his eyes, smiled, and said in French, “Misfire.”
The soldier roared, tossed the gun aside, and leapt for him. Armand met him halfway, and the clash of bodies sent them both tumbling down the steep stairs. Armand, conscious that they were nearing the bottom of the flight, doubled his efforts. He would be doomed if the soldier was able to alert the others to his predicament. Felicity would be doomed. He was not a praying man, but he prayed now. Prayed hard that she was safe and far away. He could not go on if anything happened to her. He could never forgive himself.
He saw the fist coming, but his reflexes were slower now, and he ducked too late, taking a blow to the eye. His world spun for a moment, and then fury swept through him. With renewed vigor, he slammed the soldier back against the stone wall. He heard the man’s head crack against the hard surface. “Now you see what it’s like,” he rasped out. “Now you see how it feels.” The soldier looked momentarily stunned then charged again. This time, Armand deftly sidestepped, and the man’s unchecked momentum sent him tumbling down several more steps.
Before he could rise, Armand was on his back, arm wrapped around the soldier’s throat. The soldier struggled, beat his feet on the floor, and then ceased the fight.
He wasn’t dead. Armand knew he was only unconscious. Something in him wanted to keep squeezing until the man was dead. He could make this man pay for all he had suffered. It was time someone paid.
But Felicity’s face swam before his eyes. Could he face her? Could he ever look in her eyes again if he became the monster he had always feared lurked inside him?
Slowly, he released the soldier, allowed the body to slump on the steps. He rose unsteadily to his feet, his breath coming in quick gasps. He had only a few minutes until someone came this way and discovered the soldier. Then the alarm would sound, and it would be too late for both Felicity and himself.
If it wasn’t too late already.
He stumbled down the steps before him, praying Felicity had made it out of Le Grenier.
***
Felicity’s hand felt heavy and clumsy, and she fumbled with the knife. The guard stumbled toward her, and still she could not seem to find her grip. She backed away, trying to raise the knife in self-defense, but it almost slipped from her fingers. Finally, as the guard was all but on top of her, she managed to hold it, blade out, before her.
“Stop. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He cocked his
head at her, and she could see his brown eyes were bloodshot and there was a trickle of blood running down his temple where the wound that had incapacitated him earlier must have bled. His uniform was ripped, and the tattered material that had bound his hands dangled from one wrist. “You’re English,” he said in French. “On top of all this, you’re English!”
Felicity winced. She should not have spoken. Her French was adequate, but her accent very poor.
“Come here, little English girl.” He reached for her, and she squealed, ducked, and skittered out of his grasp. He lurched forward then swung around again. “I’m going to catch you.”
“Not if I can help it,” she muttered in English and brandished the knife again. Brandishing was about all she was capable of. She had never used a knife against another person before. She could not even conceive of hurting a rabid dog, much less a person. She looked behind her. The street was clear. She could run, and even if the guard alerted his cohorts, she would probably be away before they could catch her. The guard was in no shape to chase after her.
But she had to think of Armand. He was still inside. If she alerted the soldiers that the prison had suffered a break-in, he would never escape. She could not be the one responsible for his imprisonment. It would be better that she were caught, that she were killed by this guard than to have to think of Armand locked in the garret cell again. If she could just distract the guard, keep him busy a few more minutes, perhaps Armand would have enough time to join her.
The guard was coming for her, and though she was backing up, he was closing in. His head wound must have opened up again, because fresh blood flowed down his cheek and into his eye. He swiped it away, creating a macabre crimson smear along one side of his face.
Her back rammed into the outer prison gate, and she felt the sharp metal dig through the thin material of her gown, scratching her skin. As she watched the guard advance, she knew she could still evade him. She could still escape.
But she stood still; she stood patiently. She waited. It struck her that this was love. That right now she would fight to the death for Armand. She was prepared to go to prison in his place. Yes, if she were caught, she could distract the soldiers long enough to give Armand the opportunity to escape. She did not delude herself about the consequences of being caught breaking into a prison. She was a woman who would be remanded into the hands of half a dozen angry soldiers. She was a foreigner and an enemy of France. She would be imprisoned for a very long time—and that would not be the worst of what she suffered.
And still she stood and waited. The guard was on top of her now. He was leering, the blood trickling down his cheek a thick red river. She held up the knife, and he sneered. “Try it.”
He stepped closer, and she swiped at him. He jumped back, but his reflexes were too slow. The knife grazed the material of his coat. Unfortunately, it was a glancing blow and did no harm.
Except now the guard was angry. “Little bitch!” He leapt for her, and she stuck out the knife. But he was ready for her, and he evaded the blade. His hand came down, striking her arm, and she buckled in pain. Her reflex was to release the knife, but instead she bit down hard and held on. She ducked under his arm, but he was right on top of her. He grabbed her arm and twisted it back, holding her far enough away that she could not strike with the knife. He yanked her arm up hard, behind her back, and she stifled a scream of pain. Screaming would only bring the soldiers sooner.
“Drop the knife,” he breathed, yanking her arm up until the pain was almost all she could think of. It burned through her, made her vision flicker, caused her knees to buckle. But through the haze of pain she saw Armand. She had to be strong for him.
She held out the knife. “I’ll drop it.”
“Do it!” the guard hissed.
“You’re hurting me,” she cried, trying to make her voice sound as plaintive as possible. It was not difficult, because tears had sprung to her eyes from the pulsing ache in her arm. Any minute now he would break it. She could feel the muscles screaming, feel the bone dangerously close to giving way.
But her cry must have worked, because he eased his grip just enough that she could see clearly again, and then, turning into the pain, she swung the knife at him. It was a wild swing, but she was lucky. She caught him, felt the resistance as the blade swiped and saw the blood as her hand came around again.
He cried out, but to her dismay, he did not release her. Instead, he yanked up her arm, and she swore she heard something pop.
This time she could not stop the scream of anguish from bursting forth. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the ground. Immediately, he was over her, reaching for the knife in her free arm. She would have given it to him. She would have done anything at that moment to make the pain stop.
But then she saw Armand. Not the image of him. Not this time. It was he in the flesh. She blinked, not trusting her eyes, but he was running through the gates, coming for her. His eyes were wild, savage, intense. Oh, how she loved his eyes, loved that they were fixed on her. The guard reached for the knife, and in one last moment of resistance, she brought it up—and felt it ram into something soft.
He screamed, and she fell forward as he released her. She hit her forehead on the cobblestones, but the pain of that was nothing compared to the scream in her arm.
And then Armand was beside her. She heard the guard’s screaming, and Armand had her in his arms, had her on her feet, and was pushing her to stand, to move. “Run, chérie. Run!”
She wanted to tell him she couldn’t run. She didn’t have any strength left, but she had never been able to tell him no. And so she ran as the guard’s screams echoed behind her, and the sound of booted feet grew louder.
They ran for what seemed like hours. Her lungs were on fire, her arm was on fire, her legs were on fire. At one point, she stumbled and almost fell, but Armand caught her, carried her for a moment until she regained her footing. The night was dark now, but Paris did not sleep. It was not long before they were in a busy quarter, surrounded by lean, hungry people who had more to worry about than a woman with blood on her dress and the savage-looking man running beside her.
“Please,” she wheezed. “I can’t go any farther.”
“We can’t stop yet.” He pulled her along, and she plodded after him. But her legs felt encased in lead. She could barely lift them.
“I can’t. Armand.” She grabbed his shoulder, turned him to face her. “I can’t.”
He looked ready to argue, but then his face softened. He pushed her into the doorway of a shop that was closed for the night and pulled her into his arms. She sank into him as soon as he touched her. Even after days of travel and with the grime from the prison on him, he still smelled good to her. He still felt good to her. His arms were solid around her, and she closed her eyes and laid her head on his shoulder. She wanted to stay like this forever.
“How is your arm?” he murmured.
She rotated it gingerly. “Sore but not broken.”
“Good. We need to get out of here.” His voice was a rumble through her bones. “Once the soldiers at Le Grenier sound the alarm, the city will be closed off. We’ll be locked in.” She could hear the undertone of worry in his voice at the thought, and she pulled away, cupped his face.
“We’ll hide. They’ll never find us.”
“We need to go to Calais. If we can find the captain Marius hired, convince him to take us back to England, then we’ll be safe. That’s the only way.”
She nodded. He was right, of course. They had to get out while they had the chance. “What do you propose? I’m too tired to walk all the way to Calais.”
He nodded. “I’ll get us a horse and cart.”
“You have money?” she asked.
He shook his head. “A few pounds, which won’t do me any good here. I’ll have to steal him.”
Oh, Lord. It seemed her sins continued to add up. Soo
n the tally board would be lopsided. “What if you’re caught?”
He raised a brow at her. “I won’t be. Stay here.”
She grabbed his sleeve as he moved away. “But what if we can’t find that captain once we get to Calais?”
He shrugged. “Marius paid him to wait. He’ll still be there.”
“But you’re not Marius.”
“No. I’m something better.” There was an uncharacteristic ghost of a smile on his face. “I’m the brother of Captain Cutlass.”
***
Stealing the horse and cart was almost too easy. His brief life of crime in the streets of Paris had taught him skills he was unlikely ever to forget. And Armand was surprised at how quickly those criminal skills came back to him. While he was feeling adept, he stole a loaf of bread, several apples, and a cloak. Paris was cold, and Felicity had been shivering when he’d left her.
He’d hated to leave her, but bringing her along on his mission would only have drawn more attention. Now, he hoped she’d stayed put and would use the knife he’d pulled from the guard and given her on anyone who had tried to get too friendly.
He directed the horse through the crowded quarter until he reached the dress shop where he’d left her. He jumped down as soon as he saw the flash of her yellow hair. “I can’t believe you actually did it,” she said, admiration and something like censure vying for dominance on her face.
“This is only the beginning.” He hoisted her into the seat beside him and started for Calais.
As he’d expected, Marius’s captain was still waiting. The captain didn’t ask many questions after ascertaining that Marius would not be returning. His fee was a concern, but Armand used the Valère name, promising payment when they returned.
The trip back was not as uneventful as that to Paris. A winter storm made the Channel rough and caused several days’ delay. Armand used part of that time to speak with the captain. He hoped the man could answer some of his many questions.