Undercover Cavaliere

by Judith B. Glad

  Washing her underclothing and the blankets and pads Gabe had laid upon for three days had been an extravagance, but his bedding had been filthy. Now that he was able to control his elimination, he would just have to sleep in sweat-soiled bedding.

  Gabe refused the laudanum Regina offered him after their meager luncheon. He was sick and tired of feeling stupid, of remembering events that might never have happened. The pain in his knee had subsided to a constant ache, strong enough to hold his attention, but manageable as long as he held completely still. Even when he moved, it was bearable. Most of the time.

  He watched her clear up after their midday meal, wondering if she realized just how the sight of her in that skimpy towel affected him. No, he was not dead, he realized as his cock stirred. Thank God. He deliberately tried to bend his knee, a sure cure for an inconvenient erection.

  There was still a gap in his memory, but he knew Heureaux and his gang were responsible for the damage to his leg. He remembered jumping from the wagon carrying the women away from the pickup site. His bad knee had given way slightly, making him land off balance, and he'd used his cane to balance. Alain had not answered his whistle.

  That was all. The next memory was of being hauled along a narrow alley between stacks of battered crates, his arm across someone's shoulders, his bad leg dragging, useless. Before they reached a shabby carriage, his bottom lip had been bleeding from his efforts to bite back screams of pain.

  That was Dom. I'm sure it was.

  Getting him into the carriage had been enough to send him back into unconsciousness.

  After that, there had been periods of more pain, of light and dark, and of someone speaking reassuring words. A woman. Gina? Or had there been two women? He couldn't remember.

  Alain was there later... Where?

  After refilling his cup, Regina had climbed onto the small crate that let her peer out the louvers that gave a view of the river. He'd noticed that she spent a lot of time there, and wondered why. Surely the view wasn't that interesting. It was too early to be watching for Peter, wasn't it?

  "I wonder if they will come tomorrow," she said, as if reading his mind.

  "If Peter said he would, you can count on it."

  "He said that was the earliest he could get back." She turned her head and looked at him. "Gabe, we're short on water, and there's only one loaf of bread. The sausage is going rancid. What if he doesn't--"

  "He'll be here." Holding out his hand, he said, "Come talk to me. I'm tired of lying around with nothing to do. Peter should have left us a chessboard."

  She stepped down and came to him. Lowering herself gracefully onto the small pad she'd fashioned from a burlap bag, she fanned herself with one hand. "I swear it's hotter than yesterday. Would you like me to uncover you?"

  He was naked under the ragged shirt serving as a blanket. "I'm fine."

  Her giggle was almost carefree. "Gabe, I've seen all you have to show. Why be modest?"

  Why, indeed? "Pride, I guess. A man feels kind of defenseless when his private parts are exposed."

  "Afraid I'll attack you?"

  He responded in the spirit of her question. "Hoping you will." He thought back to the afternoon in the gazebo at her folks' house in Boise. One of the best--and the worst--days of his life. "I'm not sure it would do you any good yet, though," A lie, for his cock was showing welcome signs of life. Not enough, but he had hopes.

  "I've been thinking..." She caught one of the wisps of golden hair that had escaped the untidy knot atop her head. "I may have been wrong when I said I wasn't an adventurer. Ever since those men captured me, I've had the strangest feeling. As if I'm more alive than I've ever been before." Biting her lip, she looked away, hiding her expression from him. "Does that make any sense?"

  "It makes every kind of sense," he told her. "Danger is like pepper on mashed potatoes. It gives life flavor. Do you remember when those bully boys showed up at Cherry Vale? They thought they could take over, because there was only one family living there."

  "Oh, my, I'd forgotten that. It was the summer Ma and Pa took Katie and Buff East. You were sixteen?"

  He nodded.

  "Then I was ten, Lulu was eleven, and Micah was eight. And the littles..."

  "Were little." He closed his eyes, remembering how scared he'd been when he saw the three ruffians riding up the trail to his parents' cabin. He'd known they weren't paying a neighborly visit, just from their appearance. Papa and Merlin had been out in the far pasture, doctoring a calf a coyote had tried to kill, and Mama was in the cabin. He and the younger children were all in the barn, supposed to be mucking out the milking stalls, but really playing one of their battle games. At least the younger ones were. He remembered feeling grown up and superior and impatient with such childishness.

  Until he saw the invaders.

  "Into the loft," he'd said to the kids. "Now!"

  Lulu, Iris and Rhys scrambled up the ladder immediately. He caught Regina's arm, said, "Take this," and handed her the rifle that was never far from his hand. Living in the wilderness taught children caution early on.

  She followed the littles up the ladder. He heard her footsteps going toward the hay door and knew she'd be sitting by it, ready to fire if necessary. He ran through the barn and out the far door. Brush, deliberately left uncut between the foot of the hill and the barn, concealed him as he ran toward the cabin.

  His mother had seen the ruffians and was standing beside the closed door, holding his papa's shotgun. She smiled as he tumbled through the window at the back of the kitchen. Gabe pulled the Spencer from its position over the mantel and made sure it was ready to fire. Uncle Emmet had given it to his papa, but it was Gabe who loved its precision. Papa still preferred a spear or a knife.

  "Open the door," Mama said when they could hear the creak of saddle leather.

  He did, and stepped through, holding the rifle across his waist. "Looking for something?" he said, proud that his voice hadn't quavered.

  "Just payin' a visit," the one in front said. "Your folks at home, boy?"

  He hated to be called boy worse than anything, particularly in that tone of voice. "Yes."

  "I don't reckon they is," the skinny fellow on the right said. "Else they'd be out here to greet us." He made to dismount, but paused when Gabe turned the rifle his way. "You ain't bein' neighborly, boy."

  "I'm not feeling neighborly," he said. "You'd best be on your way."

  "No nigger kid is tellin' me what to do," the leader said, and dropped a hand to his hip.

  Before he could pull his handgun, Gabe shot him.

  Mama stepped through the door and caught the skinny one with a barrel full of buckshot. A bullet from the barn sent the last man tumbling from his saddle. The horses reared and stomped, and two ran away before Gabe got the third under control.

  Papa came galloping in a few minutes later, having heard the shots. By then both Mama and Regina were crying, hugging onto each other. Lulu and the littles were silent and big-eyed, staring at the three bodies sprawled in the dust in front of the cabin.

  Gabe was sitting on the bench against the cabin wall, not sure whether to puke his guts out or to cry like Regina.

  Eventually, he had done both, but not until after they'd buried the bodies and caught the horses...

  "Remember how you felt afterward? Like you were ten feet tall and covered with hair?" he said.

  "I remember I felt sick and scared and so glad you were there to make sure they didn't hurt us. I never, never wanted to have anything like that happen to me again." she buried her face in her hands. "Gabe, I killed that man. I don't think I could do that again."

  "Reaching out, he caught her wrist and pulled her hand from her face. "You could, Gina. I pray you'll never have to, but you could do whatever it took to keep the people you love safe."

  She shook her head, eyes closed.

  "You took care of those girls, didn't you? When you thought you were headed into slavery or worse?"

  "Uh-huh."
r />   "Would you have killed to protect them?"

  "Of course, but--" Her fingers clenched around his.

  "There's your answer. Admit it, Gina. You're no fragile little city girl. No matter how much you try to be something else, you're still Hattie and Emmet Lachlan's daughter."

  She shook her head, but he saw a dawning realization in her eyes.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Regina spoke little that evening. She had purged the memory of killing a man from her memory as best she could. Sometimes it returned in a dream, but she'd become practiced at banishing those upon awakening.

  No longer. It was all there, in the front of her mind. The dreadful excitement of waiting to see what the bad men would do. The pride when Gabe had stepped out of the cabin, holding the new rifle her Pa had given Uncle William for Christmas. The feel of the trigger as she had pulled it, knowing her shot would be true.

  And later, the sight and smell of three dead men lying on the dusty ground in front of the King cabin.

  Playing adventurous games was one thing, because the pretend-dead enemy got up laughing, and walked home with you. Killing someone was forever.

  Now she had to wonder if she'd only been half alive for twenty years. Had she denied her heart because of that one day, when she'd done what was necessary? And would have again, if her family had been in danger.

  She'd been ready to stab Peter with the corkscrew. She would have knifed the harsh-voiced Frenchman if he'd given her the smallest opportunity.

  If the man who had tried to crush Gabe's knee were standing her in front of her, she would kill him without hesitation.

  And if Gabe ever again asked her to marry him, she would say yes.

  * * * *

  Peter will be here today, she told herself when she woke on the fourth day, shortly after dawn. She dipped a scant cup of water from the nearly empty barrel to make soup for Gabe. For herself, she cleaned her teeth with a moistened finger, swallowed instead of spat. She could be thirsty for a day or two, but he should not.

  After they ate a slice of dry, stale bread each, she went to the louvers to watch the river. Each boat, each barge that appeared from downriver gave her hope. Hope that died when they steamed on past.

  Sometime after noon, they ate half of the remaining bread, but neither of them could choke down the sausage, which now reeked. She drank half a cup of water when he insisted, and made sure he drained the other half. Afterward she dozed, for the room had become so stifling that every movement was an effort.

  She heard the sound, just as Gabe must have. The screech of the big doors that opened onto the dock. Paralyzed, she waited, expecting--hoping--that she'd hear Peter's British accent.

  Instead she heard a harsh voice speaking in French. One she'd heard before.

  Gabe gripped her wrist with a crushing strength. She looked at him in time to see his lips move. It took no imagination to know that he'd commanded her to be still and silent.

  For an eternity they waited, listening to heavy footfalls, the scrape of crates and barrels being moved as someone--several someones--searched the nearly empty warehouse. She knew that only luck would reveal the entrance to their hiding place. Luck, or careful measurement.

  Using the noise from below to cover her movement, she went to the louvers between their hidey-hole and the warehouse. Although she could see nothing, she could hear. If only she could understand even half of what she heard. Why on earth I thought Latin would be useful, I'll never know.

  Finally the noise ceased. She heard voices again, at least three different ones, but their words were garbled by the echoes in the mostly empty warehouse. One might have belonged to the cultured sounding fellow who'd seemed to be the head flesh-merchant. She couldn't be sure, but he did seem to be giving orders.

  The man with the harsh voice laughed. A nasty, hateful sound.

  More footsteps, fading voices. The big doors screeched as they were pushed shut. She turned to smile reassurance at Gabe.

  He was frowning. When he saw her looking at him, he held a finger to his lips, then motioned her to him with the other hand.

  Setting her feet carefully, she crept toward him, knelt beside him.

  "Is there a way out?" he breathed.

  "Yes, but--"

  "Where?"

  "There. Where I poured water." She pointed to the end wall. "But you can't--"

  He raised up on one elbow, grimacing in pain as he did. "Smell."

  She sniffed. Faintly but unmistakably, the biting odor of coal oil came to her nose. Oh my God!

  Gabe pulled her down so he could speak directly into her ear. "Is there any way we can get out without being seen? They're probably hoping to smoke us out.

  "Or burn us to death."

  "Peter said... It's a chute. Straight down. Into the river. Gabe--" He'd never learned to swim. He was injured. Weak. "No. We can't."

  "Pack what you can." He gripped her wrist. "Gina, it's up to you to take what we'll need. I'll have all I can do to get myself to that hole."

  She stared into his eyes and knew what that admission had cost him.

  Damn! If I could only think! Gabe held her wrist, feeling the fine tremor there. Thanking his lucky stars that Gina was here. He could depend on her.

  "Go," he said, knowing he might not be able to pull himself the eight feet or so to the corner in time.

  "Yes, but--"

  They both heard the first crackle of fire. "Do it," he said.

  She snatched a burlap bag from the floor, dumped the cheese and bread into it. Spreading the ragged blanket that had been her bed on the floor, she threw her dress, a pair of trousers, a couple of shirts, a wool jacket and the linen towel onto it. The tin cup and two sheathed knives followed. She rolled it like a bedroll and used one of the ropes to tie it. The other rope went around her waist.

  Gabe, meanwhile, had pushed himself over onto to his belly, nearly passing out when his knee struck the floor. When the world stopped spinning, he realized he'd never get to the trapdoor without help.

  Regina had the trapdoor open. Setting her burden down, she came back to him and took hold of the blanket on which he lay. Her unshod feet skidded on the rough-hewn wood flooring a few times, but eventually she had him at the bolthole. From the void below came a fecal, fishy stench. The Seine.

  He shivered, hot as the room was. He wasn't afraid to die, but he was damned if he wanted to drown. Why didn't I learn to swim? he wondered, for the second time since he'd come to Paris.

  "You'll have to go down first," he said. "I can pull myself inside, but you'll have to catch me." He swore. "I'm about as useful as a sunbonnet in a snowstorm, and if there's water at the bottom of that hole, I could drown before you can get to me." He let his mouth twist in self-disgust. "Not that it would be that big a loss."

  What he didn't say was that he wanted to be sure she got out safely. The fire was closer. He could smell it, could hear it. And the floor was definitely hotter than it had been.

  "No. I...you..."

  "Gina, go! Please. Before it's too late."

  She stared at him for suspiciously. "Yes, but if you don't follow me, I'll find a way to come back for you. Promise, Gabe? Promise you'll be right behind me?"

  He touched her face. "Will you marry me if I do?"

  "Yes." She slipped her arm under the knot of the blanket-wrapped bundle and inserted one foot into the black hole. "I'd already decided to. I love you, Gabe."

  Her frown told him she was feeling for a foothold. God, I hope there is one.

  She smiled, shaky, but still a smile. "Just like the ladder in the barn." A pause, while she stared into his eyes. "You will follow." It was not a question.

  "I will."

  He watched her descend, staring over the edge of the chute until her bright hair was only a pale spot in the dark. When it disappeared, he grabbed the edge of the hole and pulled himself around. The effort of getting his splinted leg inside the hole sent arrows of hot pain from toe to hip. As the leg swung free, the wor
ld turned red and he clung desperately to consciousness. When he could see again, he felt for and found the first rung with his good foot.

  "Well, hell. Here I go." He took hold of the edges of the opening and held tight while he reached for the third rung. When he found it, he was able to grasp the top one. After that it was relatively easy to work his way down, taking most of his weight with his hands.

  With each movement, his splinted knee screamed its objections, but he told it to wait its turn. The fire was eating its way closer. The wall the rungs were attached to was hot. He had the insane thought that maybe it wasn't water awaiting him at the bottom of this pit, but fire and brimstone.

  Crazy notion. Got to hurry. Gina's waiting. He felt for another rung with his foot, but found only a stub on one side. Without the stability of something under his foot, made awkward by the splinted leg, he let go too soon. Or maybe the rung he'd just grabbed was weak. Whatever the cause, it broke under his hand and he fell into lightless, empty space.

  He tumbled. His head hit the side of the chute, then his splinted leg. Before he could right himself, he plunged into black water that went up his nose, filled his mouth and slowed his every motion. He fought the water's hold until he was grabbed by the hair and pulled upward, into blessed air. Coughing, choking, he sought something to hold onto, found only insubstantial liquid.

  "Stop." The word, spoken into his ear, meant nothing.

  "Stop, damn it." This time the words were accompanied by a sharp blow to the side of his head. At the same time, he saw vertical shapes around him. Like trunks of trees.

  "Gina?"

  "Shhh! Be still, until you have something to hold onto."

  She towed him a short distance, to where he could wrap one arm around a tree trunk. No, it had to be a piling. They were in the river.

  "Stay there. I'm going to look for the boat."