by M. J. Putney
“Do you have papers?” he asked, his voice uncertain.
“Of course.” Cynthia raised her hem and made as if she were removing papers tucked under her garter.
Rebecca’s hand tightened on the mesmerized guard’s wrist. You have seen our papers and are satisfied. You have done your duty.
The guard frowned in confusion, then said gruffly, “Very well, you may pass.”
Rebecca straightened, letting her fingers drift across his wrist as she drew her hand away. “Thank you, Monsieur le Sergant. You are most kind.”
His gaze lingered on her and Cynthia as he closed the door. “Straight along this road to the center of the camp, and don’t wander onto any of the side roads!”
“We won’t,” Allarde assured him.
Then the carriage was rolling again, moving at a slower pace now that they were inside the camp. Endless lines of square wood-and-mud huts stretched in both directions, with occasional banners identifying different regiments. The tang of wood smoke was in the air as men sat around occasional fires. The elegant carriage attracted some attention, but in a casual way. No one suspected that British raiders had arrived.
The road began to descend toward the harbor of Boulogne. Rebecca gasped as she looked across the water. Ships’ masts, hundreds of them. An endless forest of masts.
Tory sat in the rear-facing seat with Elspeth as a good maid should, but she craned her neck to look out the window. “Good heavens, look at the size of the flotilla! Seeing is very different from knowing how many ships are waiting for the order to invade.”
“If the wards fail and their mages produce good weather, the Army of Boulogne will be knocking on English doors within a day,” Cynthia said grimly.
“I’ve been monitoring the wards and sending what power I can spare.” Tory leaned back against her seat, her face pale. “The wards might disintegrate at any minute. If that happens and we fail to change Bonaparte’s mind, the army may be mobilizing and embarking on those ships by morning.”
Rebecca pressed her hand to her heart, feeling almost unbearable pressure. In prison, she carried no particular responsibility apart from helping the other prisoners. Here—she felt the weight of all Britain pressing on her.
Tory said quietly, “Don’t worry. We can but do our best. You’ve already proved that you have the courage to face anything.”
Rebecca closed her eyes and prayed that Tory was right.
The carriage rattled to a halt in front of a long wooden building. A pair of bored guards flanked the main entrance.
Allarde opened the carriage door and bowed as if he really were their footman. “My ladies, we have arrived.” He flipped down the steps and assisted Rebecca and Cynthia out, then their two faithful maids. Rebecca brushed her damp palms on her cloak. Imagine yourself beautiful!
Allarde approached the entrance, and the two guards crossed their rifles to bar his way. From their glances at Cynthia and Rebecca, they were no longer bored.
“Identify yourselves and state your purpose!” one of the guards demanded.
“My ladies are known as the Siren and the Rose,” Allarde said as he bowed with a gesture that encompassed the guards and ladies. “Surely their purpose is obvious.”
The guard who’d spoken smiled crudely. “Aye, ’tis.” He swung his rifle out of the way and his companion did the same.
Allarde knocked on the door. After a wait that seemed long but wasn’t, it was opened by a round-faced servant, probably Bonaparte’s valet. “Why do you wish to disturb the consul at this hour?” he growled.
Allarde bowed grandly. “The Siren and the Rose have been sent by a friend of the consul to provide a bit of diversion at the end of the day.”
Cynthia sauntered forward past Allarde, letting her cloak fall open to show her very revealing gown. “His duties are so difficult,” she said silkily. “We have come to provide pleasure and relaxation.”
The valet’s eyes almost popped from his head, but he still looked uncertain. Time for Rebecca to go to work. She moved forward and touched the back of the man’s hand. “We wish only to give him joy,” she said throatily as she sent the message that the first consul would be very, very glad to see his visitors.
The valet’s doubts dissolved. “Very well, you ladies may come in. You stay outside,” he added to Allarde.
Allarde bowed again and withdrew to the carriage to stand on one side of the door. He looked like an obedient servant, but Rebecca knew that he wanted to be within call if there was trouble with Bonaparte. So did Nick, who descended from the carriage and took up position on the other side of the door from Allarde.
The valet frowned as Tory and Elspeth followed the strumpets in. “You’ve brought a whole harem?”
“If Monsieur le Consul wishes, indeed we have,” Cynthia said sweetly.
One of the guards squeezed Tory’s backside as the maids entered. She smiled flirtatiously and detached herself without missing a step, though Rebecca could sense how angry she was at the guard.
Inside, Tory and Elspeth stationed themselves unobtrusively by the wall while Cynthia untied her cloak and let it slither to the floor, revealing her sky blue gown. The valet swallowed hard, his expression glazed.
“Pray summon your master so that we may determine his pleasure,” Cynthia said.
The valet bobbed his head and left the room. Rebecca took off her cloak and laid it on the large oval table. The chamber seemed to be used as both conference room and office, with paper and quill pens and an inkstand on the table.
Glancing around, Rebecca saw a huge map hanging by the window. She moved closer to see better. It showed a coastline but was so complex that she wasn’t sure if it portrayed France or Britain.
“On a clear day, I can see Dover Castle through that window,” a commanding voice said.
Rebecca whirled and saw that Napoleon himself had entered. She’d always heard him called “the Little Emperor,” but in fact he was of average height. His white vest and breeches were splotched with ink, as if he wiped his pen on them. He was rather stout and would not have been impressive but for the mesmerizing force of his personality. She caught her breath, knowing that this was a great and terrible man.
Cynthia sank into a deep curtsy. “And surely someday soon you will stand in Dover Castle and observe Boulogne!”
He gave a bark of laughter and looked pleased. “It will not be long now. But what brings you lovely ladies here?”
Rebecca copied Cynthia’s curtsy, rather badly. “A friend of yours said that you had been working very hard and needed amusement. We are here at his request.”
The consul’s brows arched. “Now who would that be? Soult?”
Cynthia rose from her curtsy. “We are pledged not to reveal his name. We are the Siren and the Rose, a fantasy created to fulfill your dreams.”
Napoleon stared at her in fascination. “I had thought to work late, but perhaps I won’t. Constant, leave us and retire to your quarters. I shall not need you again tonight.” The valet bowed and left the room.
Cynthia had done her job. Now it was up to Rebecca. She glided up to him, grateful for the ballet lessons she’d taken for years. “Which is your choice, milord Consul? The blonde? The brunette? Both of us at once?” Fluttering her lashes and hoping she didn’t look like a fool, she took his hand.
And was almost knocked backward by his intensity. Was he a mage? No, but a cold, ruthlessly ambitious man. He burned to conquer the world, but most of all he must conquer the smug, superior English, who had defied and taunted him and forced him into war. He was a man of peace goaded by his enemies to take battle to their shores.
Focusing all her uncertain magic, she sent the thought Invading Britain will be your doom! You cannot cross the water. Turn away, turn away to the east. You cannot cross the water!
Napoleon stared at her, his brow furrowed with confusion. Rebecca frantically repeated her message: Turn away, turn away, Britain will be your doom! In the east you will find glory. Turn away, t
urn away!
Cursing, he jerked his hand away. “You’re a witch! You’ve been sent by the damned British to poison my mind! Well, it won’t work, you traitorous slut!”
She couldn’t do this, she realized with despair. The force of his mind was so great, his ambition so central to his nature, that she couldn’t change him.
Napoleon swung a furious fist at her head. She dodged the worst of the blow, though he grazed her temple hard enough that she staggered. Instinctively she grabbed for his swinging arm, locking both hands around his wrist, because if she couldn’t change him now, they were all doomed.
As the first consul tried to yank free, Tory grabbed Rebecca’s shoulder, sending her own power and enhancing Rebecca’s. Dizzily Rebecca poured all the magic into Napoleon. He stiffened and stopped thrashing as her energy flooded into him.
Stalemate. She had brought him to a halt, but she still lacked the power to change the fierce determination at the center of his soul. Rebecca had a tiger by the tail and she dared not let go. “I am no witch, but a healer sent to cure you of this madness. You cannot cross the narrows sea, my lord!”
Her magic and his will teetered in the balance. Then more hands touched Rebecca and she felt the essence of Cynthia’s warrior spirit, Elspeth’s strength and clarity. Rebecca blended their power with hers and Tory’s and sent a cascade of searing light into Napoleon. Invading Britain would be your doom, my lord hero! Turn away, turn away, for glory awaits in the east!
The first consul’s fierce gaze wavered. Then his face seemed to melt, furious intensity turning to bafflement.
It was working! His obsession with invading Britain began to dissolve. Rebecca sensed his chaotic thoughts as he tried to sort out his ambitions. Why bother with that damp little island? The British are a bloody bedamned nuisance, but no real threat to Napoleon Bonaparte, the greatest soldier of this or any age. Leave them to rot on the edge of Europe, helpless to interfere with the glory of Napoleon’s growing empire! Prussia, Spain, Italy, Austria, Russia—all would be his, and those spineless Britons would be unable to stop him! He was born to rule!
As abrupt as the ricochet of a cut rope, the force that had been driving Napoleon to invade Britain vanished. He stared at Rebecca, his expression dazed. Magic churned through her like stormy seas.
Shaking and near collapse from burning so much power, Rebecca whispered raggedly, “It’s done. Britain is safe from invasion. Elspeth, can you knock him out?”
As Cynthia wrapped a supportive arm around Rebecca’s waist, Elspeth clamped her hand onto Napoleon’s nape. A moment later, the first consul and future emperor of France went limp and folded onto the floor.
Mission accomplished.
CHAPTER 33
Rebecca stared at the dictator’s motionless body. “He isn’t dead, is he?”
“No, but when he wakes, he won’t remember any of this,” Elspeth said. “Quickly! We must move him into his bedroom and make it look as if he fell asleep naturally.”
Tory looked through one door, shook her head, and crossed the room to peer through a different door. “Here is his bedroom.”
Cynthia released Rebecca and grasped one of Napoleon’s arms while Tory reached for the other. They started to drag him toward the bedroom but could barely budge his dead weight.
“Help us,” Cynthia said through gritted teeth. “The little brute is heavy.”
Elspeth took one leg and Rebecca pulled herself together enough to take the other leg. The colossus of France gave a snore, so he was definitely alive.
It took all four girls to get him into the bedroom, half dragging him. The room was very austere, as befitted a soldier. The bed was narrow, the coverlet plain, and the furnishings sparse.
Cynthia said, “We need to get his clothing off so it looks as if he has been amusing himself in the way his servant will expect. Rebecca, you’re too young to see this. Rumple up his bed and make it look as if it’s been used.”
As Cynthia started unfastening Napoleon’s breeches, Rebecca turned away hastily, grateful not to have to strip his clothing off herself. As she messed up the blankets and sheets, she heard the rustle of fabric and the thump of boots.
Behind her, Tory said, “Now we move him onto the bed. Rebecca, we’ll need your help with this.”
Rebecca turned warily and was glad to see that someone had draped a white towel over the consul’s naked body. The bed was high and hard, and they were all panting when they dragged him onto the mattress.
Cynthia said, “The rest of you splash around some cognac or wine and do anything else that might make it seem he was carousing with strumpets. Quickly!”
Tory stopped, her fingers pressed against her temples. “The wards have been restored,” she gasped with relief. “A little battered, but as strong as ever. With Bonaparte’s will to conquer withdrawn, the mage corps’s attacks have ended.”
“Odd,” Elspeth said, frowning.
“We’ll think about it later,” Tory said. “All those mages who were attacking the wards have had their powers freed up, and they might just notice us!”
The possibility was enough to send them racing about to create the scene of a pleasant, uncomplicated debauch. It was a relief to leave Bonaparte’s residence, but Rebecca was as nervous as a cat, wondering if the guards by the door would be suspicious that the Siren and the Rose hadn’t been there long enough.
Half expecting one of them to grab her, she clung to her stealth stones and tried to send the guards a mental message that there was nothing to be concerned about. Perhaps it worked. The four girls reached the carriage without incident. As Allarde swung the door open, Tory said under her breath, “Done! Britain will not be invaded.”
“Thank God!” Allarde said equally softly. “Then we need to get out of here fast, because trouble is coming.”
Nick helped Rebecca into the carriage. “Are you all right?” he asked in a worried voice.
She tried to smile. “I’m fine, but Bonaparte’s mind was … not comfortable.”
Looking even more worried, he said, “I’ll ride inside with you. It’s not like I’m of any use with the horses.”
“It will be crowded,” Cynthia warned as she climbed into the coach.
“We’ll find the space,” Elspeth said quietly.
They settled inside quickly. Nick solved the space problem by scooping Rebecca onto his lap, with one arm around her waist and his other hand locked on one of the holds on the wall to keep them steady over the bumpy road.
Rebecca burrowed into him, grateful for his warmth and caring after Napoleon’s viciously cold ambition. Cynthia had dropped the illusion magic already, and Nick was his usual handsome self and wearing regular nineteenth-century clothing, not the elaborate footman’s costume.
They were all silent until they drove out of the military camp. Nick exhaled with relief. “I’d like to see my mother’s history book now. I’ll bet the chapter for this time period now clearly reads that Napoleon decided against invading England.”
“I certainly hope so!” Tory said.
“He won’t invade,” Rebecca said, sure of that in her bones. “He will find more accessible prey. In the end, he will be brought down, but it will be many years and many wasted lives until that happens.”
Her words produced an uneasy silence until Cynthia said firmly, “Call me selfish, but the other European countries can fend for themselves. What matters most to me is that Britain is safe from invasion.”
She got to her feet, grabbing on to a handhold so she wouldn’t fall over in the swaying coach. “Since we’re going to have to hike from the road back to the cave, I’m changing into my trousers. This gown was not designed for anything but simpering and drinking champagne. Nick, if you watch me, I’ll turn you into a frog.”
He laughed. “Surely you’ve noticed that I have eyes only for Rebecca.”
Which was a silly thing to say—in Rebecca’s experience, everyone liked to look at attractive members of the opposite sex, and Cynthia wa
s very attractive indeed. But it was a very sweet thing to hear.
“I’ll change after you finish,” Tory said. “There isn’t room for more than one of us to do that at a time. And to make sure Nick doesn’t break his romantic vow, I’ll throw your cloak over his head.”
She did, too. Cynthia’s long cloak settled over Nick and Rebecca like a tent. He whispered in her ear, “I like this. Very private. A good place for me to tell you what a heroine you are, Rebecca. You took on one of the greatest conquerors in history, and emerged victorious.”
She sighed against his shoulder. “I’m glad I didn’t let my friends down, but it doesn’t feel like victory to know that Bonaparte is soon going to declare himself emperor and that he’ll be cutting a violent swath across Europe for years to come. Would the world be a better place if we’d assassinated him when we had the opportunity?”
He stroked her back under the cloak. “I don’t know, Rebecca. As you said before, he did many good things for France, helping to make it a more just society, so it isn’t as if his reign will be all bad. One of his generals would have taken his place and perhaps have been even worse. As for Europe…” Nick shrugged. “It isn’t as if the Continent has ever been a particularly peaceful place. Look at our century.”
Her mouth twisted bitterly. “Horror upon horror.”
He pulled her closer. “There isn’t much we can do except survive and enjoy life while we can.”
“And be kind,” she whispered. “We can always try to be kind.”
“You don’t have to try, Rebecca.” He brushed a kiss on her forehead. “You’re the kindest, most compassionate person I’ve ever met. And a heroine as well. Rest now, and shalom.”
Shalom. Peace. Rebecca closed her eyes and slept.
CHAPTER 34
Tory’s feelings of dread continued to increase as they rode through the night. Jack drove as fast as he could without risking a wreck or breaking down the horses, but even so, the few miles felt much, much farther.