The Broken Heart

by Lancaster, Mary

  Isabelle wondered if she should allow herself to fall off to please the mayor’s wife.

  She spent almost the whole journey to the inn hemmed in by Lucie’s brother, Auguste, and one of the officers, Captain Linville, who vied with each other for her attentions. For the first ten minutes, it was amusing, and she jested with them both. After half an hour, she felt so constricted, she wanted to scream.

  It didn’t help that she could see Armand in front riding beside Lucie. She had to keep reminding herself that she was here to be friendly to all and prevent any suspicions arising about her “family.” Not to give set-downs and act as though she were immeasurably above her foolish companions. Nevertheless, she approached the inn with considerable relief and attached herself to the other women as closely as she could during the time they spent there.

  “Where next, divine Madame Lucie?” Lieutenant Bernard demanded jovially as he sat back in his chair.

  “You are planning to go further?” Isabelle asked, dismayed.

  “Absolutely,” Lucie enthused. “There is the most beautiful medieval church in—”

  “I must leave that treat for another time, sadly,” Isabelle interrupted, “I must return to St. Sebastien this afternoon.”

  “Why?” Lucie asked blankly.

  “My brother-in-law is in his sick bed and needs nursing. I have promised to return in time to give his wife some rest.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she won’t mind for once,” Lucie said carelessly. “Come with us, for you can’t go home alone.”

  “Of course I can. I have an excellent sense of direction.”

  “But you will not,” Armand declared. “I shall escort you.”

  “There is no need,” Isabelle said hastily, only too aware of the daggers spitting at her from Lucie’s eyes.

  “There is every need, and I am no loss to your party, Madame, since I, too, have to return.” He lowered his voice, murmuring something in Lucie’s ear.

  A faint smile dawned on her discontented face. A few more teasing words, and she laughed, playfully slapping Armand’s wrist. “You are a wicked man! Very well, you may go, too. Goodbye, Isabelle! You must come to Monsieur le Maire’s birthday reception—I shall send you a card.”

  With massive relief, Isabelle mounted the mare in the inn yard once more. “Do you really need to go back this afternoon?” she asked Armand.

  He shrugged, urging his horse toward the inn gate. “I want to. Frankly, an hour of such company is enough.”

  “And yet you flirt well enough with it,” Isabelle retorted.

  “I had the impression you wished to avoid ill-feeling.”

  “What on earth did you say to her? If it won’t make me blush.”

  “I only promised to return your mare to her.”

  She glanced at him skeptically, and he laughed. “Come, we shall go the direct route.”

  Although shorter and less picturesque, the journey back to St. Sebastien was much more comfortable. They talked only of impersonal things, and yet there was wit and fun in the way he expressed himself, the deep passion of his character occasionally breaking out with a surge of enthusiasm or disgust. Isabelle could not help but respond, and the road flew by in enjoyment of his company, until before she expected it, they were back in St. Sebastien.

  The reality of her situation began to close around her once more, slowing her tongue and her laughter. But she had had time to think, and as they turned into the Rue l’Église, she said abruptly, “Come tomorrow morning to meet the major. It will give his wife—”

  “I will meet him now,” Armand interrupted.

  She frowned at his implacable voice. “But that gives us no time to—”

  “Exactly.”

  There was a hardness behind his eyes that made her shrivel, even as she lifted her chin in defiance. He knew from Dr. Ghibert that the patient existed, but he wanted an honest reaction to his presence, an unprepared meeting from which to make his judgement.

  “You are most certainly not a trusting man,” she said coldly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When she opened the front door with her key, Sir Marcus Dain was just coming out of the sitting room, a folded newspaper in his hand.

  “Ah, how was it?” he asked in careless English.

  Armand stepped in behind her and smiled. “Monsieur.”

  Dain’s gaze flew to hers. Armand shut the door deliberately.

  “He knows,” Isabelle said flatly. “He has told no one, but he wants to speak to you and your brother. And, no doubt, Louisa.”

  Dain drew himself up to his full height, which was more or less level with Armand’s, his expression one of aristocratic disdain. And then he opened his mouth.

  “Don’t even trouble to defy me,” Armand said curtly. “The alternative for all of you is unthinkable. But by all means, lead the way.”

  Dain’s eyes narrowed. “So, you are the fellow who kept an inn full of women and children at gunpoint all night?”

  “It wasn’t full, and I had help. Lead on, monsieur.”

  “Marcus,” Isabelle said quietly.

  Without a word, Dain turned on his heel and marched upstairs. Armand followed him, and after an instant’s hesitation, Isabelle went after them. She was the only one who knew all concerned.

  With a brief knock, Dain opened his brother’s bedchamber door a crack, then turned as if to block the Frenchman’s entrance. Before anyone could guess his intention, Armand simply reached beyond him, shoved the door wide, and walked in.

  “Good evening,” he said in cheerful English. “Madam, please excuse the unannounced visit. How are you, Major…?” He trailed off on a question, clearly asking the major’s name.

  The invalid and his wife, looking understandably confused by the entrance of an obviously French officer, glanced wildly at Dain and Isabelle who had all but fallen into the room behind Armand.

  The major, pale and sickly beneath the tan of his skin, said hopefully, “Renard?”

  As a performance of his new character, it was poor, and it made Armand grin.

  Isabelle stepped forward. “Perhaps it would be simplest if I made the introductions? Allow me to present Captain Armand le Noir, who is…an acquaintance who owes me a debt.”

  “Do I indeed?” Armand drawled.

  Isabelle ignored him. “Sir, Major and Mrs. Dain. And Sir Marcus Dain.”

  Armand bowed. Sir Marcus and Mrs. Dain glowered, the latter with more than a hint of alarm.

  The Frenchman, ignoring the hostility, perched on the end of the major’s bed. “Where were you wounded?” he asked sympathetically. “Badajos?”

  “No, got through that without a scratch, though God knows how. This was from a mere skirmish, took both sides by surprise, but I took a scattering of shrapnel.”

  “Bad luck. It can take ages to get all of it out.”

  “I think the surgeon missed some. They sent me home for some proper excavation, but, well, we haven’t quite made it.”

  While they talked, Sir Marcus and Louisa looked rather helplessly at Isabelle for further explanation. But she had none except what they all saw and heard. Two officers, enemies, chatting about wounds and battles in Spain. They discovered they had fought each other at Fuengirola in 1810, even discussing ways in which the day could have gone against the French. Armand told an amusing tale of his narrow escape from capture that day, and the major laughed.

  By then, however, he was looking exhausted, and Armand stood up, taking in, Isabelle noticed, Louisa’s clear anxiety for her husband.

  “I wish you a speedy recovery,” Armand said. “Though I don’t want to meet you in battle now. Mrs. Dain.” He bowed and casually left the room.

  Isabelle bolted after him. At the foot of the stairs, he made straight for the front door until Isabelle almost exploded after him.

  “Armand! You cannot leave us like this!”

  He swung to face her, scowling. His eyes looked angry as they clashed with hers. Then he threw up one hand and all but st
alked into the sitting room.

  “Well?” Isabelle demanded, closing the door behind them and leaning on it. “Will you let us stay until he is well? Will you let us go?”

  Armand strode up and down the room like a caged beast. “He would die in prison,” he snapped. “And the rest of you have no business here. And for that, I am to betray…”

  “No more than you asked Lieutenant Steele to betray when he let you go.”

  “He kept the damned prisoners.”

  “And you came back for them. You couldn’t have done that if he’d called the soldiers after you.”

  Furiously, he waved that aside and kept prowling, from side to side and back.

  “Armand,” she said gently. “I think your decision was made that first day when you didn’t send soldiers after me.”

  He paused, staring at her. “You are different.”

  “Because I’m a woman?” she challenged.

  “Because you’re mine,” he ground out. He took the distance between them in two strides and seized her in his arms, hard against his body, making her gasp. And then his mouth crushed hers in a kiss so overwhelming, she would have collapsed if he hadn’t been holding her so tightly.

  Her surrender was total, immediate, and blissful. He devoured her mouth with lips and tongue and teeth, as if he would never stop, and yet when she struggled feebly in his hold, he began to release her. With a sob, she threw her arms up and around his neck and kissed him back. A growl of triumph rose up his throat, vibrating his chest against her breasts.

  Lost in him, she did not even hear the door opening.

  “What on earth!” Sir Marcus exclaimed, striding across the room. “Sir, you will answer to—”

  Still stunned, Isabelle found her lips free at last. She grabbed for her wits and stepped back from Armand’s only loosened embrace.

  “Oh, stop it, Marcus!” she said irritably. “You forget you are not really my husband.”

  Dain stopped in his tracks, frowning. “No, but I still stand as your protector. And this libertine taking advantage of—”

  “There is no question of such things,” Isabelle said hastily, for Armand seemed more inclined to laugh.

  “I am almost sorry,” Dain snapped. “For if I shot him in a duel, it would kill two birds with one stone!”

  “There will be no duels,” Isabelle pronounced. “No one has been injured. And Captain le Noir is leaving.”

  “You just asked me to stay,” he protested from sheer devilment.

  Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “To discuss Major Dain.”

  “Major Renard,” Armand corrected.

  “Is he enjoying this?” Dain demanded.

  “Immensely,” Isabelle replied, taking the captain’s arm and urging him past Dain to the open door. He allowed himself to be removed, even going so far as to wish Dain a polite goodnight.

  But in the hall, as she reached for the front door, the rollicking look faded from his eyes, leaving them thrillingly warm and serious. He cupped her cheek in a tender caress. “We will find a way,” he said softly.

  She held his rough hand against her skin, inhaling its scent of horse and leather and sheer Armand. “I know.”

  And then he was gone, letting himself out and closing the door behind him.

  She walked rather slowly back to the sitting room, for she did not wish to discuss this now.

  “How is your brother?” she asked.

  “Asleep. Louisa is with him. He likes le Noir. I’m not sure I do.”

  “There is much that is likeable. And I suspect there is understanding between all soldiers that excludes us lesser mortals.”

  “Perhaps.” He seemed to hesitate, then said gruffly, “You do not need to take this so far. I wish you would not. Neither my brother nor Louisa would wish it either.”

  Isabelle went and sat by the fire, gazing into the flames for a few moments before she glanced back to him. “My relationship with Captain le Noir has nothing to do with our situation here or with your family. It is an impossible relationship, and yet it exists.”

  Dain was silent until he, too, sat down, choosing the chair on the opposite side of the fire. To anyone looking in, they would appear to be a comfortably married couple.

  “You are in love with him,” Dain said quietly.

  Isabelle returned her gaze to the flames and nodded. It tied her heart and stomach in knots, but there was no other way to describe the beautiful, terrible ache within her. She drew in her breath. “It does not affect our plan.”

  “Does it mean we have a friend?”

  “Yes,” she allowed. “But one of whom I will not take more advantage.”

  *

  She loved him.

  He woke with the elation of this knowledge, even as the smell of coffee filled his nostrils and he became aware of Caron’s presence in the room. A candle still burned on the table, for it was not yet quite light.

  Noir stretched and yawned prodigiously. “Morning, Caron! What news?”

  “Morning, Captain. Got a smuggler last night. And you’ve got two letters.”

  “Good news all round!” Noir threw off the blankets. “I’ll be down to see the prisoner directly.”

  Dunking his whole head in the washing water, which Caron hadn’t troubled to warm, could not damp his high spirits, though it did help to remind him that love was not enough for them to be together. She was still in danger, and he was suppressing knowledge of an enemy presence. At this moment, he did not care. He was happy and would live for the day.

  While watching out for her.

  He dried his washed body thoroughly and sang to himself as he shaved. He grinned at the crash of a boot hitting the other side of the wall, but only sang louder. Which led to a slight nick under his chin, but at least it didn’t bleed much.

  Throwing himself into the chair by the table, he reached for the coffee pot and eyed his two letters. One was perfumed and tied with pink ribbon, directed in an almost childish hand. The other, emblazoned in bold, familiar letters was from the man who had given him a name, an education, and a value to himself and the world. Communications from him were not always undiluted pleasure, but they were generally interesting. In this case, he doubted even that, for he had ignored the last two summonses and the abbé would be miffed.

  With a sigh, he reached for the perfumed missive which was, as he’d suspected, from the mayor’s wife, thanking him prettily for returning her dear Isabelle’s borrowed horse to the stables, but expressing disappointment he had not called on her afterward. Perhaps he could rectify this serious omission during the morning? And by the way, she hoped he had remembered the mayor’s birthday reception, which would not be complete without his presence.

  Noir dropped the letter in vague irritation. If the silly girl had to look beyond the mayor, he wished she’d fix her interest on some other man. He had never had any intention of playing that game with her. For one thing, she was far too vapid. For another, Isabelle de Renarde had filled his heart since he’d returned from England, and it seemed she had spoiled him for other women.

  He broke the seal on the other letter and unfolded it. Disappointingly short, it was, as he’d suspected, little more than a summons, urgent in tone, together with the assurance that his leave was approved by his superiors. And as usual, it was signed only T. Which was why Noir normally addressed him simply with his initial, too. When he wished to be formal, he called him Abbé T.

  Noir scowled at the missive. But in truth, nothing could spoil his happiness right now, and even as he finished his coffee, he knew he had no intention of going. Not until matters here were resolved. Not until she was safe.

  Crumpling a letter in either hand, he threw Lucie Levigne’s in the fire and stuffed his foster parent’s in his coat pocket before leaving his quarters. He had already begun to sing again. On impulse, he walked in the wrong direction, threw open his neighbor’s door, and blasted him with a few climactic notes, only just managing to close it before the boot struck it with pai
nful force.

  Laughing, he went on his way. He was still humming below his breath as he entered the prison area of the fortress.

  Boucher was there, playing dice with one of the other men. On sight of him, they both leapt to attention.

  “Good morning,” Noir greeted them cheerfully. “Who do we have then?”

  Boucher trotted off to the cell along the passage.

  “He won’t talk to us,” the other soldier said. “Maintains he doesn’t smuggle, never sails beyond the shallows and was only fishing when we picked him up.”

  “Does he have a name?” Noir asked, sitting and sweeping the dice into the drawer beneath the table top.

  “Georges. But whether it is surname or no—or even his name—is anyone’s guess.”

  Boucher dragged the bedraggled prisoner into the room, and the man glanced warily around his captors.

  Noir cursed and stood up. “He’s one of ours! Let him go.”

  “Thought he looked familiar,” Boucher remarked. He should have been. He had been part of the crew that brought them home from England last month. “Thing is, though, we know a shipment of brandy went out last night, and he’d no other call to be on the water.”

  “You’d have been better stopping the brandy than Monsieur Georges here.”

  “We were too late. Most of us were at the other side of St. Sebastien.”

  Noir glared at his prisoner. “Why do you have to be so annoying? Can’t you just help your country?”

  “Got to make a living somehow, Colonel.”

  “There’s no point in flattering me with promotion. I like being a lowly captain.” He tapped his finger against his lips, looking from the prisoner to his own men. “Damn it, we can’t keep him,” he said at last. “If we break up their network, some poor French devil will be left stranded on some English beach.”

  “You think he’s that important?” Boucher asked doubtfully.

  “I don’t know,” Noir admitted. “But he does keep cropping up. Come on, Georges, I shall give myself the pleasure of kicking you out.”

  Georges grinned, jumping up with alacrity. Noir bowed him out of the room ahead of himself.