by Sheila Walsh
‘I think perhaps you do not understand your situation so good, little bantam ‒ it is even possible that you do not know us …’ His tone indicated how great was her misfortune. ‘There is a name they give to us in these parts … Chauffeurs …’
Her look of horror appeared to gratify him. ‘Ah, you are quick! Good, it saves much tedious explanation. But until now you have perhaps not given credit to the rumours which abound, heh?’
He smiled ‒ and a sweat of pure terror washed over Madalena.
‘Now, I ask you one more time ‒ the Anglais?’
‘I cannot tell you what I do not know,’ she insisted desperately.
The big man sighed. ‘Oh, you will tell me, boy. In a very short time you will be babbling like an idiot ‒ begging me to listen! Did I not explain how Frochot here is a genius … an artist!’ He kissed his fingertips. ‘Why, he can make people remember things they did not even know they knew!’
The men were growing tired of all the talk.
‘The fire is good and hot …’
‘… fry him a little, Frochot, old son … then we shall hear what tune our bird will sing …’
She was dragged, protesting, towards the fierce heat of the fire. For good measure her arm was given a final, vicious wrench which almost lifted her off her feet and brought a strangled scream to her throat. The red-hot needles stabbed, radiated in waves across her back; they tore at the delicate tissues of her breast so that involuntarily she arched her back in an effort to ease the pressure ‒ and made it worse.
Through the mists and the roaring in her ears there was a shout. The big man was so close that the garlic on his breath suffocated her. The long, slim blade of his knife pointed straight at her stomach …
Madalena found herself watching him with a kind of detached fascination. ‘So! Does he then mean to kill me now, quickly? He does not look so merciful!’ In a quiet corner of her mind time stretched into infinity. If Dev were alive and came back, would he ever know what became of her? And Papa ‒ she prayed that the Bon Dieu would keep him safe ‒ and Armand also. She thought of the good people in England … perhaps they would miss her a little … ‘Why does the great oaf stare so? Perhaps if I taunt him again he will lose his temper and stick his knife in me … it is not much of a choice, but I do not think I can be brave if they do that other barbaric thing! Peste! The fool is grinning again … that is not good. He is mad, I think ‒ but dangerous …’
The stiletto snaked upwards with terrifying suddenness ‒ and Madalena screamed. There was a rending sound and the crimson cord of her jerkin and the shirt beneath it was sliced through.
The brigand stood back, laughing uproariously, enjoying the spectacle of Madalena endeavouring, one-handed, to clutch the torn edges of her shirt across her budding breasts.
‘Here is a turn of events, mes amis! Our pugnacious little bantam cock is a poseur! Release the mademoiselle at once, Frochot ‒ can you not see how she is desperate to cover her embarrassment!’
Still he chortled, but his eyes made Madalena go hot and then very cold. Deep down, this, more than anything, was what she had been dreading. Coarse hands with indescribably dirty fingernails pawed at her, grabbed at the shirt as she fought to keep it closed; her ears rang with obscenities, and a harsh voice rising above the rest to remark that they had never before fried a girl, was drowned out by other quite specific and horrifying predictions of her final fate.
‘Gentlemen! Please! You are frightening our guest!’ The big man was in high good humour. He sketched a travesty of a courtly bow. ‘Mademoiselle ‒ forgive their over-enthusiasm, I beg you! They grow greedy like children suddenly faced with a surfeit of sweetmeats. And do you know why, heh?’
Madalena feared this affable mood more than all the bombast; she awaited his next words with a sense of dread.
He leaned forward confidentially. ‘It is the breeches, you understand? To see such a nice young mademoiselle in breeches gives them quite false notions … so I think we have them off, heh?’
There was much laughter and the rabble moved closer. A sudden draught set the flames leaping, but Madalena in a paroxysm of shivering felt neither the heat nor the cold.
And then a voice she had thought never to hear again was threatening with cold fury, ‘Just move so much as one muscle, you old devil ‒ and you get my bullet right between your blood-shot eyes!’
Madalena turned on a sob to see Devereux striding across the room, a pistol levelled unerringly at Le Loup-garou. She hastily pulled her clothes together, ashamed that he should see her so in front of this canaille.
Dev looked very pale and drawn; someone had fashioned a sling for his arm from a cravat and he wore his greatcoat slung across his shoulders. She wanted very much to fling herself on his chest but to do so would impede his aim, so she stared mutely, her eyes wide against her tears.
‘There was a scream,’ he said abruptly. ‘Are you all right, mignonne?’
She nodded and he turned on the brigand chief with searing vehemence. ‘If you have harmed her in any way, you misbegotten savage, I will personally cut your miserable heart into little pieces and feed it to the fishes!’
The other shifted awkwardly. ‘Easy, mon vieux. I give you my word there was no more than a little gentle interrogation …’ As Devereux’s glance moved to take in the state of Madalena’s clothes, he added with a nervous laugh, ‘Ah well, how was I to know that she was your woman?’
Madalena stared ‒ uncomprehending. This was not a conversation between strangers ‒ rather there was a kind of rough camaraderie; it was very odd. And then Dev had put away his pistol and was reaching out for her. She flew to his side and his arm closed tight about her; it was like being in paradise.
Above her head the arguments and explanations continued; it was made clear to her that Dev was not the enemy of these men ‒ that Daniel Merehent was the Anglais they were seeking. He had killed their compatriots and Armand had been with him, which was why they had mistaken her. But it did not matter, nothing mattered to her save that she had been given back that which she had thought lost forever.
Presently she became aware that Dev’s arm had tightened; she felt him sway a little.
‘A chair,’ she demanded, and when the astonished brigands stared, she rounded on them like a small fury. ‘Bêtes! Imbéciles! Can you not see that Monseigneur is injured and is still far from strong?’
The best armchair was dragged forward and Devereux sank into it without a word. He was very white about the mouth. Le Loup-garou went at once to a cupboard and returned with a bottle of Armagnac and glasses. He also called two of the men aside and gave them orders after which they silently slipped from the room.
With the Armagnac some of Devereux’s colour returned, but Madalena stayed very close beside the chair reading him a stern lecture upon the folly of attempting too much too soon. It earned little for her beyond a smile of gentle irony.
The two men returned and some sign passed between them and their leader, who cleared his throat.
‘Are you now sufficiently rested to take a few steps, mon vieux?’
Devereux gave him a derisive stare and in spite of stringent protests from Madalena, came slowly to his feet.
‘Do not fear, mademoiselle,’ grinned the brigand. ‘I do not seek to tire your Monseigneur. Au contraire ‒ if you will please to follow …’
They were led with elaborate ceremony into an adjoining room where flames already licked hopefully round a pile of logs in the grate; a hasty and not altogether successful attempt had been made to effect some degree of order and cleanliness.
The pièce de résistance of this unlikely boudoir was triumphantly displayed for their approval. It was a huge bed, of doubtful ancestry, piled with a quantity of equally dubious-looking rugs and furs.
The big man, however, saw nothing amiss. In high good humour he set a smoking lamp down upon a rickety dresser and beamed at them.
‘Voilà, mes amis! Does old Loup-garou not provide for you a
veritable love nest, heh? I tell you, in that bed you will be as snug as two ticks on a dog’s back!’
From the crowded doorway came a chorus of ribald assent, interspersed with many helpful and extremely graphic suggestions which had Madalena’s cheeks burning by the time the door clicked shut.
She felt suddenly and quite ridiculously shy until, meeting Dev’s eye, her awkwardness dissolved in laughter.
As abruptly as it had come, the laughter died away. They stood looking at one another until Madalena thought that her heart would burst, then Dev’s good arm was pulling her forward, crushing the breath from her body and their lips clung as though they would never again be parted.
‘You shouldn’t have gone off like that, you crazy idiot!’ Dev muttered, punctuating his strictures with kisses rained on her eyes, her lips and the trembling hollow at the base of her throat. ‘I told you to stay with the boat.’
‘I thought I would get help, but there was none to be had, and when I returned, these brigands were here ‒ and your boat had gone. I did not know what to do …’ Her breath caught on a sob.
‘And poor old Jason had me halfway home before I came to my senses!’
‘I was half-afraid that I had killed you, after all …’ she said fiercely, ‘and I too wanted to die!’
He caught her close again and as her arms slid round his neck, her aching muscles protested.
He swore. ‘That old devil has hurt you. I’ll go and break his head!’
‘No, no ‒ it is nothing.’
‘Nothing! My God ‒ when I think what almost happened …’
The strain was back in his voice and Madalena was immediately contrite.
‘Come. You must lie down at once. Oh, I am a great stupide to keep you standing for so long.’
She chivvied him into the bed and insisted on pulling off his boots. ‘For I am an expert,’ she gasped, giving a last great heave. ‘With a father and a brother, I had much practice.’ She sent him a quick look. ‘What about Papa, Dev? Will he be safe?’
‘I believe so, child. We shall soon know for sure.’
Under his sardonic gaze she piled the rugs and skins on top of him, her nose wrinkling in distaste at their musty smell. As she pushed the last rug up under his chin, his fingers closed round her wrist.
‘And what about you, little one? God knows, you must be worn out.’ He paused. ‘It is a very large bed.’
Madalena knelt, poised on the edge of the bed, her heart thudding against her ribs, her eyes enormous and smudged with fatigue.
‘You must know you are safe, mignonne.’ Dev’s smile was gentle, half-rueful. ‘In spite of that old bear’s lecherous optimism, I am clearly in no state to ravish anyone tonight.’
Madalena’s heart had now leapt into her throat; it constricted her breath so that her reply, when it came, was scarcely audible.
‘Do you think you might contrive to manage if I promise not to struggle?’
Her words hung in the silence.
‘I have shocked you.’
His thumb was tracing the delicate pattern of veins in her wrist, where a pulse was beating wildly. He kept his voice very even. ‘No, ma petite ‒ you could never shock me.’ He looked up to regard her intently. ‘But I think you have not truly considered what it is you are saying.’
‘Oh, but I have! And you can see that I am quite without shame!’ Her chin trembled very slightly, but her eyes were ablaze with the light of her love … and he was lost.
‘Egad! It isn’t how I would have planned matters,’ he murmured.
‘Perhaps not, mon amour, but this time it is I who am the seducer ‒ and I do not think I shall be able to bear it if you reject me!’
Devereux’s fingers moved slowly up into the curls at the nape of her neck and a tremor ran through her. ‘You are … that sure, mignonne?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Yet when he would have drawn her down beside him, she resisted. ‘I must blow out the lamp.’
‘To the devil with the lamp!’ murmured Dev succinctly.
Chapter Fourteen
It was growing light when Madalena wakened. She lay quite still, savouring a wondrous sensation of well-being. As memory flooded in she turned eagerly, but the place at her side was empty. There was a moment of panic and then she saw Dev outlined against the window.
He heard her and came to sit beside her on the bed, kissing the glowing face she lifted to him.
‘Little sluggard!’ he teased. ‘No need to ask if you slept.’
‘U… um.’ She uttered a blissful sigh and stretched with an unselfconsciously sensuous abandon which entranced him, the more so when it was suddenly transformed into a wriggle of indignation. ‘Ma foi! This bed has bugs!’
‘A veritable army of them, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he agreed.
‘Oh well!’ she shrugged, and grinned. ‘It makes no matter. What of you, chéri? How is your poor shoulder? Are you feeling more rested?’
‘Rested? I’m not sure.’ He eyed her quizzically. ‘Did I only dream that I was bewitched by an adorable, wanton enchantress who came to my bed and wooed me with soft words …?’
Madalena gurgled with delight. ‘It was no dream. Have you any regrets, mon amour?’
The question was quite without artifice; indeed, there was no need to dissemble ‒ the totality of her love both exhilarated and distressed him. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t worth it, but her eyes that had been heavy with sleep now shone as though she had taken them out and polished them to a new brilliance.
He groaned. ‘God knows, I should regret it!’
Madalena reached up and cupped his face in her hands, drawing him down to smooth away his frown. ‘But you know that you do not.’
He turned his face convulsively into the warm curve of her neck. Slowly, caressingly, his lips moved down over her throat to bury themselves in the hollow of her breasts, from whence his voice rose huskily. ‘Would you have me prove it to you again, dearest witch?’
He felt soft laughter ripple through her; the fingers stroking the back of his neck tightened, ‘Oh, my Dev! How I do love you!’
Dear God! This was no way to act. He had meant to be so circumspect ‒ an admittedly unfamiliar role for him ‒ and to court her in conventional fashion, with the approval of her father …
He prised her hands from his neck and sat up, full of resolution. But when he tried to tell her, she laid a hand across his mouth and would not listen.
‘Later,’ she pleaded. ‘We cannot spoil this moment with serious talk.’ She scrambled to her knees. ‘Besides, I must now attempt to make myself respectable.’
Devereux accepted temporary defeat. His eyebrow rose laconically. ‘That will be no easy task, my love. There is a total absence of facilities for you to make your toilet. And as for the remnants of that extraordinary costume …!’
‘I shall contrive,’ she declared blithely.
‘Then I shall await the result with keen anticipation!’ He stretched out on the bed and propped his head on his sound arm so that he might watch her. ‘You realize, my dear love, that your father is going to demand nothing less than my head on the end of a pole for involving you in all this ‒ not to mention the added provocation of having his daughter restored to him in the guise of something between a player from the Comédie Français and a back-alley doxy!’
Madalena giggled. ‘But you did not involve me,’ she pointed out, becoming rather flustered as, under his amused gaze, she struggled to wrap her shirt as far over as possible before pushing it firmly into her breeches. ‘I involved myself.’
‘Very true, mignonne ‒ but I doubt that argument will carry sufficient weight with your irate parent.’
‘Oh, Papa is not like that! He knows his daughter too well.’
‘I trust you may be right.’
Madalena was studying the jerkin with a furrowed brow. ‘Do you think your brigand friend might have a piece of leather thonging? It is just possible that he may use it sometimes to secure hi
s victims.’
She stared at him as he laughed aloud. ‘What is so funny?’
‘You are, my dear love ‒ funny and incredible and quite wonderful! Do you realize that most young ladies would by now be prostrate in such a situation ‒ and you talk prosaically of thonging!’
She grinned. ‘Eh bien! I am not so feeble as that!’
‘You are not feeble at all.’ Her resilience was a revelation to him, as was everything about her. He wondered briefly if in ten years ‒ twenty years from now, she would still be a source of new delights.
A great commotion outside drew them both to the window. A carriage was hurtling down the track with little Frochot up on the box, brandishing a driving whip and noisily urging on a superbly-matched pair of blood horses.
He slewed the equipage round into the courtyard with hair-raising skill and it passed from their view.
‘Now what is that old devil up to?’ Devereux mused, frowning. ‘He didn’t come by a turn-out like that honestly, I’ll be bound.’
He reached the bedroom door just as the outer door was thrown open, in time to see several of the men bundling in a tall, elegant and quite unmistakable figure.
‘Samson! Good God, man, what is all this?’
Samson was somehow managing to preserve an air of unruffled dignity despite the business end of a musket which rested just below his left ear.
‘Monsieur! So we were right to suspect you were in trouble.’
Le Loup-garou heard this exchange of pleasantries with the air of a small boy about to have yet another prize toy snatched from his eager grasp. ‘You know this black pig, mon vieux?’ he muttered.
‘Certainly I know him. Release him at once.’
Reluctantly the musket was lowered; Samson moved it aside and stepped forward.
‘We were troubled when you did not come. Madame sent me with the carriage in case you had met with an accident.’
‘Ah, that explains the carriage,’ said Devereux. His eyes rested for a moment on Madalena and then he said with apparent casualness. ‘The gentleman you were expecting? Did he arrive safely?’