The Spymaster's Lady sl-1

by Joanna Bourne

  While that woman worked on Adrian’s manacle, he groped his way across the cell to Henri, who was, as she had said, breathing. The Frenchman was tied, hand and foot, with his stockings and gagged with his own cravat. A thorough woman. Checking the bonds was an academic exercise. There was indeed a secret pocket in the jacket. He helped himself to the papers, then tugged Henri’s pants down to his ankles, leaving him half naked.

  “What do you busy yourself with?” She’d heard him shifting Henri about. “I find myself inquisitive this evening.”

  “I’m giving Henri something to discuss with Leblanc when they next meet.” It might buy them ten minutes while Henri explained his plans for the girl. “I may eventually regret leaving him alive.”

  “If we are very lucky, you will have an eventually in which to do so.” There was a final, small, decisive click. “That is your Adrian’s lock open. He cannot walk from here, you know.”

  “I’ll carry him. Do you have a plan for getting out of the chateau with an unconscious man and no weapons and half the Secret Police of France upstairs?”

  “But certainly. We will not discuss it here, though. Bring your friend and come, please, if you are fond of living.”

  He put an arm under Adrian’s good shoulder and hauled him upright. The boy couldn’t stand without help, but he could walk when held up. He was conversing with unseen people in a variety of languages.

  “Don’t die on me now, Hawker,” he said. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

  Two

  “ME, I SHOULD NOT BE PLAYING NURSEMAID TO a couple of English.” The woman shifted to take more of Adrian’s weight. “We go left here, English, if you are set upon coming to this place.”

  “It’s the closest church?”

  “It is indeed. There is the Church of St. Cloud midway down the hill, of course, which is a more proper church—in daylight you could see the steeple—but the chapel in the orphanage is by far closer, if you do not mind that it is ruined, which I suppose is a matter wholly indifferent to you. It was burned in the Terror. They are all gone now, the nuns and the orphans, to God alone knows where.”

  “If it’s the closest church, there’ll be a message.” If he were lucky, his friend Doyle would be waiting for him.

  “The English spies in Italy had a similar arrangement. I am all comprehension.”

  Night stretched unbroken on every side, lightless, but decent and clean after that cell. He took a deep breath. The possibilities seemed endless, under this sky, breathing this pure, empty chill. They’d come this far. He’d get them all to safety. He’d find a way.

  “I do not know why I am helping you. It is an example of disinterested benevolence, this.” He could imagine the resigned shrug. Already he knew her that well. “And therefore doubtless unwise. Ah, we have removed ourselves from the road slightly. We shall edge back. Yes. Thusly. Take care.”

  They supported Adrian between them while Annique tapped the path ahead with the broomstick she’d picked up in the chateau garden. She’d saved his life again and again tonight. It was Annique who’d counted out the steps of a complicated route through the maze of the chateau cellars. She’d known the secret of the door hidden in the back of a storage closet. In utter blackness, with assurance a cat would envy, she’d threaded a way past the unseen hazards of the gardens. She found water caught under leaves in a deep stone basin. As long as he lived he’d remember that water. He’d remember Annique cupping water in her hand and holding it to Adrian’s lips before she took a drink herself.

  He could never have lifted Adrian over that last wall alone. It had been an endless, agonizing ordeal, accomplished in uncanny silence, while fifty yards away guests came and went on the front steps of the chateau and music of unearthly purity hung in the air like crystal.

  Now she led them forward and whispered encouragement and direction and caustic complaint. “The ruts are deep because wagons turn to go into the back gate of the chateau.” “The wall on the right is abundant with sharp stones. Avoid it.” “Ah. That is a low branch. You will come to it in a moment.” He could see her walking into hell saying, “On the right, take note of the chained demon. Take care to walk around him.” His respect for her, and his wariness, grew with every step. He’d take every care, capturing her.

  She said, “It is not far, the gate to the orphanage.”

  On the other side of the River Seine, a line of pinprick lights marked the city of Paris. A few streets away, a single bright window hung in the night. Other than that, it was black as the belly of a cow. “How the devil can you tell?”

  She laughed in the darkness. She was another one glad to be out of that cellar. “I walked this road many times when there was daylight for me. My memory is most excellent.” Joy lilted in her voice, like singing. It was strange to hear her sound so young, like a brave child, instead of the coiled serpent he knew her to be. “This tree we stand beneath,” she banged the stick against bark, “which naturally you have not been introduced to and cannot see anyway, is a beautiful cherry which was old already when I first came here. I have climbed it and stolen many cherries in my time. The whole corner smells of the fruit that fell a few weeks ago. The road you seek, the driveway to the Sisters of the Orphans, is opposite. There.” She touched his shoulder lightly, showing where she meant.

  Her night vision was extraordinary. “I can’t see a thing.”

  “Stop trying to see, English. Listen instead. The night is telling stories all around you. The Rue Bérenger lies ahead…oh…fifty paces perhaps. The baker on the corner is even now making bread. One can smell that. Rue Bérenger runs east toward the bridge, to Paris, where men of your profession likely have friends. Or go uphill to the west, and you will come after a time to England, where you have even more friends, beyond doubt. The little wind in our face—feel it—is blowing from the northeast, from the Bois de Boulogne.”

  He closed his eyes and tried to sense the currents of the night as she did. She was right. It was easier listening and feeling the wind on his skin, not straining to see. “You’re good at this. You’ve done your share of sneaking around in the dark.”

  “More than I would like, certainly.”

  “Did you learn all that working for Vauban? You were one of his people, weren’t you?”

  “You ask many questions. Have I told you that? Now pay attention and I will teach you secrets. When you face the wind you will always know where you are. It is the direction of the river scent.” He heard her swallow. “The smell of the water.”

  And with that, he’d found the bait to lure her in. Her voice gave her away. The catch basin in the garden held barely enough to wet their mouths. She was thirsty. Hurting with it.

  He chose his words carefully. “I’ll be glad to get to the chapel. I hope there’s water.” He felt her attention quiver. Good.

  “It is most likely.”

  He picked a few more insidious words. “There should be a well. Do you think we’ll find a bucket or something to draw the water up?”

  “You will doubtless discover. It is not far, as I said.” Her voice had thickened and he heard her swallow again. “I shall leave you to your so-secret rendezvous. Me, I have business elsewhere. I am not anxious to enlarge my acquaintance with the English spy community of Paris.” But her voice said she was thinking about water.

  “Probably nobody’s there. I can’t manage Adrian alone. And you can show me that well.”

  “Do not nag at me, monsieur.” He heard her stick grind the dirt of the road. “It is not an attractive trait.”

  “He needs your help. What is it, a hundred steps?”

  She snorted, a delicate, French snort of exasperation. “I do not know how it is the English have the reputation for being stoic, for you are not in the least.” She gathered Adrian closer to her. “Come then. We will find your water that obsesses you so. Most certainly we will stop loitering here in the roadway, chatting, for anyone and his cat to remark upon. This is the gate.”

  The broomsti
ck clicked angrily along the iron railings as they went through.

  “I go as far as the steps of the main house. Not beyond that,” she said. “Not one inch. Not if you have a dozen young spies upon your hands, all wounded horribly. It is thoroughly illogical that you should ask it of me.” Their feet crunched on gravel and the way led steeply downhill. “I have had little to do with the English before this. I see now that was wise, though there are doubtless many sorts of Englishmen who are more reasonable than you. Perhaps I will reserve judgment.”

  He could detect no trace of a human presence ahead. But then, he wouldn’t. Not if it was Will Doyle waiting there.

  A few steps forward and she stopped. “I do not like this.” And right she was. She had excellent instincts. “No. I will not go farther. Take the boy…”

  Adrian, even half-conscious, must have been listening. He played his part then. He moaned and sagged against her.

  She staggered and held him up. “Your friend has fainted again. We must…”

  At his side, close enough to touch, Doyle said, “It’s about time you showed up.” A burly presence coalesced from the night. “I was getting ready to storm the place.”

  Doyle. Thank God. Two tons of worry rolled off his shoulders. “Adrian’s hurt.”

  The instant she heard Doyle’s voice, the girl pushed free of Adrian and backed away into the woods. She stilled, out of reach.

  “Give him to me.” Doyle was a big man. He picked Adrian up bodily and carried him. “I heard he went and got himself shot. We’ve been wondering how bad it was. I stole a coach just in case. It’s down the drive.”

  “Good.” He turned his head to one side and the other, listening, locating the girl. There. The whisper of her breath betrayed her. Feel safe in the darkness, Annique. You just do that. “I need water for my guide,” he called after Doyle.

  He could swear Doyle read his mind. “There’s a couple flasks in the coach, nice and cold. I’ll fetch it down. Good clean water.” They were the right words, offhanded and calm.

  He felt a tremor in Annique’s waiting silence. Keep thinking about water, Annique. Keep thinking about how thirsty you are. “I’ll get that flask for you, mademoiselle, with my thanks. That’s the very least I owe you.”

  She hesitated, an almost inaudible rustle of indecision. She must be desperate for water.

  If he grabbed for her and missed, he wouldn’t get a second chance. She was too fast in the dark, too comfortable slipping around with that stick of hers. He’d have to tempt her close. “Wait,” he said softly. “I’ll bring water.”

  The smell of fresh paint led him to the coach and a spiderweb of faint lines leaking from a dark lantern. When he slid the tin sheathing aside, a wedge of light sprang up across the weed-grown courtyard.

  Doyle settled Adrian in the coach. “Where’d you catch it, lad? Shoulder? No. More along of the chest. Just the one bullet?”

  Adrian said hoarsely, “One’s enough…don’t you think? Waistcoat’s a total loss.”

  The coach rocked as Doyle spread a blanket over the boy. “Dunnoh how I’m gonna face yer tailor, knowing that. Here, put some water in you before you faint on us.”

  “Set it where I can reach it. Let’s get out of here.”

  “An’ who died and left you in charge, lad? You tell me that sometime.” Doyle swung down from the coach. “He’ll do. How many after you?”

  “The whole nest of hornets. I’ll pay off my guide and we can go. Where’s that water?” He swung the lantern around. Yes. Oh, yes. Now he had her. She hung back well beyond the reach of his light, making herself a shadow among shadows, wise and wary. But it was already too late for her to be wary.

  Doyle met his eyes. “Of course. Have it down in just a tick, sir.” Doyle climbed the rungs to the top of the coach, hand over hand, with the curious, slow, lumbering grace of a great brown bear. “I got food, too. Big basket here. Bread, cheese, sausages. Some wine.”

  Out in the darkness, Annique would be listening. She’d be hungry. Leblanc would have seen to that. “Some bread. But water first. Give me something easy to carry. The water bottle. That one.”

  Doyle passed down a water bottle and half a long loaf of bread, still fragrant from the baking. That was all the bait he needed. He had her. It was just sliding the trap closed.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  She’d backed farther into the dark. Careful. Nervous. When he walked closer, he could see she had her eyes shut against the lantern light to preserve that remarkable night vision of hers. But then, he already knew how clever she was.

  She leaned heavily on that old broom handle she’d collected. Her clothes were filthy with dirt and cobwebs, her skin bone-white with fatigue. Alone, exhausted and on foot—how far did she think she’d get before Leblanc ran her down? He was doing her a favor, really, gathering her in. Whatever he did to her it couldn’t be worse than what Leblanc had in mind.

  He set the lantern down carefully on the gravel, freeing up his hand.

  Water sloshed in the bottle. With any luck, that would be enough to nail her to the spot. He strolled toward her, bottle swinging loose between his fingers, the loaf tucked casually under his arm. Simple tricks work best. It was like catching a filly in a field. You go slow and steady and act like you’re thinking about something else.

  “Do you want cheese, too? I can have him bring some down.” He spoke as if Doyle were still on top of the carriage. He wasn’t. Without looking, he could have charted Doyle’s course, circling in silence, cutting off the woman’s escape. They’d worked together ten years. He knew where Doyle would position himself. He’d be a dozen feet behind the target and to the right of the pathway. “Bread and water doesn’t begin to pay the debt I owe you.”

  “I do not collect debts from English spies.” She shuffled uneasily. “A debt ties you to people.”

  “Water’s not much of a debt. A little cool water.” He tossed the word like a looped noose. Let her think about thirst, not about him closing in. He was nearly there.

  He could almost hear her instincts screaming for her to run. The intent, listening tilt of her head said it all. How long had Leblanc kept her without water? She must be desperate to take this risk.

  One last step, and he clamped an unbreakable grip on her arm. She was his.

  She tried to jerk away. “I do not like people touching me, monsieur.”

  “This is the best way. You don’t have a chance against Leblanc. At least with me—”

  Pain exploded in his elbow. The broom handle spun, smooth as glass, and cracked across his kneecap. White, cold, unbelievable agony knifed up his leg. He fell. Slammed down onto his shoulder. The girl flicked free, like a fish out of a badly cast net. There was nothing in the dark but scattering gravel.

  “Bloody. Damn. Hell!” Blind with pain, he staggered up and limped after her. Idiot. He was an idiot. He’d seen what she’d done to Henri. He knew what she was.

  That was almost the end of it. She was unbelievably fast in the dark. He heard her stick clacking into trees, finding a path. She was getting away.

  But Doyle was the wiliest of old campaigners. He’d put himself where he could see the girl outlined against the glow of the lantern. He didn’t show at all in the dark shrubbery. She barreled straight into Doyle’s massive arms, and he scooped her right in.

  Almost scooped her in.

  “Son of a buggering…” He arrived to find Doyle clutching his belly, sputtering colorful Breton dialect. “…gangrenous sea cow.” The girl was loose and scrambling to her feet. She was damned good if she could land a blow on Doyle.

  Oh yes. It was going to be a pleasure bringing Mademoiselle Annique in.

  He dodged that blasted lethal stick of hers, stepped in, and twisted it out of her hands. That had her disarmed. Then he had to deal with the surprising, elegant little fight she put up. She was strong for a woman, all lean muscles and neat, sturdy bones, but she had no weight on her. The top of her head didn’t come even to his chin. She n
ever had a chance.

  It took less than three minutes. When it was over, he pulled her arms behind her, not hurting her more than he had to, but not letting her hurt him either. She panted, her sides heaving in and out, and every muscle in her trembled in shock. It had been a hard night for Miss Annique. Then it was step by step back to the coach, dragging her, letting her fight enough to tire herself out. She wouldn’t have much strength left.

  He felt a sense of fierce, primitive possession. His. She was his.

  Rubbing his belly and grumbling, Doyle ambled up. “Fast as bedickens, ain’t you, me girl? Bring her over here to the light.” Doyle took a handful of hair and tilted her head back. She was still fighting, her eyes closed in furious concentration as she tried to kick somebody.

  “God’s little parakeets. Annique Villiers.” Doyle gave a low whistle. “You collect the damnedest things, Grey. What the hell are you doing with the Fox Cub?”

  Three

  SOMETIMES, ANNIQUE THOUGHT, ONE PAYS dearly for a tiny mistake. She should not have been tempted by the water.

  It had been a short, inglorious fight. She had no chance against this English spy she had stupidly freed from Leblanc. They were both blind in this night, and she had practiced, endlessly, fighting without sight. But it gave her no advantage. She summoned up all the dirty tricks she had ever learned and pulled them out, one by one. The big man knew them all. He was much better at this business of fighting than she was.

  It ended quickly. He flattened her hard against him and wrapped her up like a troublesome little parcel, and she could not escape. His muscles were iron and polished wood, invulnerable, endlessly strong. She could feel savage satisfaction coursing through his body. He was positively gleeful to trap her like this. She became very afraid of him.