“He must have stirred up a hornet’s nest. He at least saved Portugal and probably southern Spain.”
“Indeed. Napoleon’s charged out of Madrid, chasing Moore like a schoolboy who’s had his name turned into the latest playground taunt.”
“You’re not impressed,” she observed mildly. The distant fire was still burning, still isolated, and still surprisingly bright.
“Napoleon has ten times as many troops as Moore—even though he has to use most of them to keep the local civilians in check. On the other hand, if he doesn’t destroy Moore here and now, he loses his reputation for invincibility.”
“And the rest of Europe takes heart and begins to tear him apart, every chance they get.”
“Exactly.” He kissed her hair.
She leaned her head back, savoring his steady heartbeat, which meant safety and homecoming.
“Napoleon must stop Moore before he reaches Benavente, where the Corunna road starts climbing into the truly nasty mountains and a handful of men could hold off a division,” Jean-Marie said quietly. “I’d wager Napoleon has also ordered Soult’s forces to head due west and cut off the British.”
“A race for Benavente,” she summarized, wondering why he was spending so much time talking, instead of riding. It was less than an hour until first light, and they should be taking shelter soon.
“Correct. We’ll have to get there first, of course, but we’re ahead of Moore on the Corunna road, as is Sir Andrew.”
“Excellent.” She let the silence linger for a moment. “What’s the other news?”
He chuckled. “Will you ever let me bring up something diplomatically?”
“Perhaps,” she murmured tactfully.
“Sir Andrew and the others have, if anything, lengthened their lead.”
“What!” She pulled herself out of his arms and whipped around to face him. “Mon Dieu, he must be driving them like beasts of the field. How can we rejoin them?”
“There is worse news, chérie.” He watched her steadily, his voice darker and deeper.
“Go on.” She drew herself up.
“Roaming patrols of Napoleon’s beloved Chasseurs à Cheval cavalry, his ‘favored children’ from the Imperial Guard, have been seen in this area.”
She froze, chilled to the bone. “Oh no…”
“Interestingly, they are not patrolling in our direction—but where Sir Andrew and his team must be.”
“Celeste…” Her hand flew to her throat. No, she couldn’t lose la petite. Not her only family. “We must warn them immediately, lest they be captured during the day.”
“Only a mind link will work for that, mon coeur—and a very strong one.”
She’d only been able to reach Celeste mind-to-mind very briefly, even using the channel they shared as hijas of the same creador.
Celeste! She frantically pictured her sister—the dark hair and eyes, laughing over a joke. Celeste!
Nothing. She could faintly hear Jean-Marie’s thoughts, sternly withdrawn to allow her to focus. She could even catch snatches of a few local peasants’ thoughts just starting to rise for the morning chores, less than a mile away beside the small river. But not a hint of la petite’s, even though the distance was small enough she should have been able to reach her.
Jean-Marie cleared his throat. “Try Sir Andrew.”
“I should be able to reach my sister much more easily.” Why was he suggesting her creador, whom she only had the most formal relationship with? The bond should be stronger with her sister.
“What can it hurt to try talking to your creador? Perhaps Celeste is distracted in some way and not listening.” His words were so carefully chosen as to be unreadable, like his face and voice. What was he driving at? But she had no time to worry about such details, not with sunrise approaching.
She straightened her shoulders, assuming a marquise’s posture, that of a lady born and bred to the nobility of the sword, the proudest nobility in France.
Sir Andrew, may I have a word with you, please?
A very faint buzzing, as if he was distracted.
She tried again, forcing herself to shout.
Andrew threw down his greatcoat and looked around the meager shepherd’s hut yet again, extending every sense he had. The mules were in the excuse for a stable, peacefully eating the grain he’d bought in Valladolid. It had taken them days to accept vampiros as passengers, not surprising since most animals were extremely wary of the unfamiliar scent.
In the hayloft, Wade had just finished feeding Celeste—or should he say that Celeste had just drained Wade dry yet again? In any event, Wade was snoring loudly, and there’d be no waking him for hours to come.
There weren’t many shadows to search, given that they’d lit two candles. Normally they went without any light, since this was enemy territory. But Celeste had begged for the special treat, saying it was almost Christmas, and she wanted to see her men. He’d agreed, thinking the hut was sturdy enough to conceal them.
Linen rustled and hay crackled. Celeste must be rolling over. She preferred to sleep next to her partners when they traveled in harm’s way, although not back home in England. There she had more—adventurous notions of how to sport in a bed.
A slow smile brought the corners of his mouth up, echoed by his cock’s anticipatory surge. He ignored them both.
Where the devil was the marine dictionary, the codebook that would decipher any message he—and every other British spy in the Iberian Peninsula—sent? It had to be here. He’d made sure it was in his coat when they’d first arrived but he hadn’t seen it since.
It was a small book, leather bound and designed to survive in the worst sort of weather. This was a tiny hut, and there were very few places it could have disappeared into.
Sir Andrew? Hélène’s voice intruded.
Thank God you’re alive! Give me five minutes, and I’ll talk to you.
But…
He broke the link, enforcing it with a brutal order to be silent. Even though he was delighted to know she was alive, the codebook was far more important than any sentimental reunion.
He sniffed, choosing to hunt by scent instead of sight. The book’s binding held traces of its past owners, who’d all been prosaicos and therefore rather odiferous to a vampiro’s acute senses. Vampiros, however, smelled quite differently than prosaicos, and their scent faded with age, even as their ability to detect it grew. In the end, only a vampiro of his own age—or older—could have found Andrew, although he could readily locate any vampiro younger than himself.
His coat bore strong traces of the codebook.
He sniffed again, catching a vagrant draft through the door. What the hell?
Totally disregarding the abominably cold weather, he whipped the door open, drew in a deep breath—and went completely still.
An instant later, he grabbed the codebook from its hiding place under the frozen watering trough and dove for cover in the stable.
A heavy musket ball thudded into the wood, barely missing his head.
The book reeked of Celeste. She must have stolen it from his coat and taken it outside when she’d relieved herself.
Christ, how could he have been such a fool not to have noticed that all the agents who died did so after missions she went on or evenings when he chatted about what old friends were doing now?
A pistol shot rang out from inside. He cursed, knowing it meant Wade’s death.
“God dammit, Celeste, I will kill you for this!” he shouted. A dozen prosaico cavalrymen had little chance against a vampiro. He’d start by stampeding their horses…
She had the effrontery to laugh at him from inside the hut. “Did you truly believe that I’d turned against my country? Take a deeper breath of the night air, you fool, and then tell me what you think of your chances.”
His skin prickled at her tone. The horsemen were staying farther away than they should for a night action, barely within musket range. What else was wrong?
He crawled to the
end of the water trough and tasted the wind, where it flowed unhindered by haystacks or low hills.
A very, very faint but unmistakable scent reached him, one whose like he’d encountered before in London. A vampiro mayor, far faster than he was and well able to hunt by daylight—when he’d be forced to seek shelter indoors lest he be turned into ashes by the sun.
It was the perfect trap. Worst of all, the French would have the codebook, the nearly impossible to destroy volume.
Celeste smashed through the small window in the hayloft. She thudded to the ground and ran for the closest French cavalryman, ice and snow crackling under her feet.
Dammit, why had he broken his own rules and not kept a pistol to hand at all times? He could have done at least one thing right and destroyed the treacherous bitch.
Celeste dropped into a walk a few feet away, smirking when no bullet clipped her skirts. The foolish Englishman was still so enamored of her he couldn’t bear to kill her? Well, he’d learn differently in a few more minutes, once the Emperor’s men caught him.
She began to hum one of the tunes she’d danced to with Raoul, allowing herself to remember a little of her only joy.
A cold, dry wind softly brushed her cheek, totally unlike the ice-edged storms that came from the north. Run, Celeste.
The ghostly voice sounded like Raoul’s. Impossible. She dipped and swayed, her hand lifting to an imaginary partner. There was plenty of time to celebrate her triumph over the clumsy English.
A gust of wind swirled the snow around her, building it into a pillar. Celeste, run! Raoul shouted in her ear and shoved her hard, spurring her into movement. You’ll die if you linger.
She recognized his voice with an instinct owing nothing to logic. She was two steps away before she looked back.
Raoul was watching her, wearing his old revolutionary uniform, his body outlined in blue and silver against the tattered hut. The appalling scar he’d gained at the Battle of Valmy, marking his heroism, tore from his face the youthful beauty he’d once had. Dear God, how she wanted to caress it, kiss him, reassure herself he was here, with her.
She slowed and started to turn back. For him, she would brave Hell or the fires of Purgatory.
He raised his hand to her, warning her off.
A fierce wind slammed into her, staggering her. Snow swirled around him, dissolving his outline.
“No! Nooo!” The wind ripped away her cry and stripped the tears from her eyes.
A strong man ripped her away and swung her up before him, without checking his horse. A single glance over her shoulder confirmed Raoul’s ghost had vanished.
Tears blurred her eyes.
Sir Andrew? Hélène was speaking again. There are French Chasseurs à Cheval from the Imperial Guard nearby…
Hélène. He smiled grimly. His little firestarter. Damned if he’d ever valued her gift quite so much before.
They’re already here, my dear. Napoleon sent the best cavalrymen in his army. Where are you?
On top of the ruined castle about a day’s journey back. St. Just is leaving now…
There’s no time for that. The French were circling the hut, closing off his avenues of escape although disinclined to come too close. Smart lads.
He slipped into the stables and untied the mules, giving them the freedom to run as he could not.
How close do you have to be in order to set something on fire? He cursed the sexual folly that had kept him in a woman’s bed, rather than overseeing his hija’s training. His hija who was Britain’s greatest weapon.
Within eyesight. But you know my accuracy decreases with distance, sir. I’d be likely to burn everything within a couple of yards. Her voice wavered before she brought it back under rigid control. Who else is with you?
Wade is dead. He made a quick decision. The French destroyed Celeste, too.
No creador could directly lie to an hija in the mind link, although they could stretch the truth. His words weren’t enough of a lie to poison the link. After all, the vicious immoralities of the Revolution and Napoleon’s empire were what had destroyed Celeste’s oaths to the British Crown.
Hélène’s answering scream was soundless and heart-wrenching.
He gritted his teeth, praying the Lord would bring Hélène safely home without encountering her treacherous sister and the French army. At least he’d kept Hélène from hunting for Celeste and getting herself captured.
Thankfully, an hija couldn’t forcibly question her creador through the mind link, so she’d never know how much he hadn’t told her.
You have to set this hut on fire, he ordered.
I can’t kill you! She was almost sobbing for breath but somehow coherent. Damn fine fighter, she was, to rally her thoughts after these shocks.
Better my death than having Boney’s lads get their hands on this codebook—along with every other British spy in Spain and Portugal.
She continued to hesitate. But…But…
The wind changed, bringing a new reminder of his greatest danger. Metal clanked, and a horse whickered softly. The French vampiro mayor had started to move in.
You must. He sharpened his tone, desperate to bring this to a quick end. It is the only way to ensure the marine dictionary—the all-important codebook—is completely destroyed. Do not think of anything except the book.
She was silent, agony roiling her thoughts.
Hélène! As your creador, I command you to set fire to the book! He slammed his will into her, weighting it with memories of all the oaths she’d sworn, all the deaths which had driven her to pledging her own life.
Her breath caught, and he sensed strength flowing into her from someone else. St. Just, of course; good man.
I can’t see the book with my eyes, sir, she said with a return to her usual crisp logic, not with the village and trees in the way.
He would have preferred them to be properly green English trees instead. But he’d always known, as Charles II had warned him, he was unlikely to find rest on the western side of the Channel. He blew out his breath and shoved away memories of swans floating on the River Avon under the verdant willow trees.
Use my eyes instead. I’ll return to the front of the hut and hold up my arm.
Very well.
He prayed God would see Hélène and St. Just safely home. On the count of three, then.
God be with you, sir.
And with you, little one. I wish I’d done better by you.
We’ll stick it to Boney for you, she assured him stoutly.
Despite himself, he laughed at her unusual vulgarity. Three, two, one…
Andrew jackknifed to his feet, holding his hand aloft with the codebook. He stared at it, picturing every detail for her as they’d taught him in that very secret spy school. Bullets thudded into the hut and tore at his greatcoat, trying to tear him down quickly before he could complete the image.
For King and country…
Light blazed, more brilliant than the sun, and he knew nothing more.
CASTRO SANCHEZ, EAST OF BENAVENTE, TWO DAYS LATER
Jean-Marie and Hélène were studying the bridge at Castro Sanchez, east of Benavente. The weather was abominable, with either snow and ice covering the roads or torrents of rain falling to turn the execrable tracks into bottomless troughs of mud. Jean-Marie almost envied those who lacked money and had to remain close to home.
Hélène had walked in a rigid haze ever since her sister and creador had died, where sobbing and brooding over revenge were her only true emotions. Even feeding seemed to be done by rote.
They’d searched the hut’s ruins, but found nothing except charred ashes and a man’s skeleton. They’d had Wade properly buried in the local cemetery, of course, and said their own prayers over everything else. Vampiros left nothing behind but fine powder, so there was no point in looking for any remains belonging to Sir Andrew or Celeste.
He regretted Sir Andrew’s death but hardly Celeste’s, not that he’d ever say so to Hélène, of course. A small voice
in the back of his head wondered if the little slut had actually done anything so convenient as to perish.
Jean-Marie smiled wryly and focused the spyglass yet again on the bridge.
He and Hélène had already studied the impressive stone structure, looking for the best spots to attack it. She’d been well trained by both her husband and the British in how to use munitions. But this job looked trickier than most, thanks to the very narrow, deep gorge and two massive piers rising from the riverbed far below. A sturdy tower rose on one side, flanked by the old medieval town, emphasizing the imposing mountain behind them. Unless executed properly, any explosion could be magnified by the chasm into unpredictably larger effects.
Napoleon’s vanguard was no more than a day away, giving them little time to carry out the attack. It also brought the risks of being captured or killed—and possibly finding out if Celeste had truly been destroyed.
Hélène was pacing the room behind him, far enough away from the window that the dawn’s first light would illuminate the bridge, not herself. They’d rented an apartment on the top floor of a wool warehouse, giving them a sturdy and well-locked building. The rooms were very private with a few pieces of old-fashioned, well-made furniture. Every window had strong iron shutters, of course.
“What do you think of it?” She paused, tapping her toe.
“It’s very promising.” He swung his spyglass again, checking a few last details. “This bridge is on the main road, cuts through a deep gorge with no convenient alternate routes, and it’s overlooked by a sturdy tower. Is that where you plan to get the gunpowder from?” He swung around to look at her.
She nodded. “The warden is very old, and I’ve already teased his mind into telling me the sentries’ schedule. He truly wants to be relieved of any responsibility before the professional armies arrive.” She silently ticked items off on her fingers. “Can you pick the locks here?”
“Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed.” He smiled at the prospect.
“Naughty boy.”
His smile deepened to a totally unrepentant grin. Damn but he liked seeing her come alive again, even if it was for destroying things. “Do you want to demolish only the roadbed or the arches, too?”
Bond of Fire Page 15