Hostage to Love

by Maggi Andersen

  “Over there! Halt!”

  Anthony pushed past brambles and moss roses that caught at his clothes. He leapt fallen logs, and ran on, until he no longer heard voices. Doubled up, gasping, he swung around to peer into the wall of vegetation and his foot slipped on the mossy bank. He fell, rolled to the bottom, and landed breathless on a bed of pebbles in a shallow stream. Damp and winded, his knees and elbows bruised, he crawled beneath shrubbery growing along the bank. The soldiers’ excited voices came nearer, while he fought to quiet his breath. They searched for Philippe. As an English lord he might be able to talk his way out of it, but he wasn’t a gambling man, and didn’t like the odds. Their blood was up, and they’d likely shoot him first and ask questions later.

  The commotion the soldiers’ made faded. They moved away. Anthony crept from his hiding place and scrambled up the bank. He had to get to the cottage and warn Phillippe. He reached the lane and was gaining confidence when a shout went up, followed by the crack of a rifle. Then a volley. A ball burned into his arm with a flash of hot steel. He didn’t slow, running south, away from the cottage, forcing himself on until his breath came in agonized spurts. Blood dripped down his arm onto his right hand. He smiled grimly. How ironic. He’d come to rescue Philippe and now needed help himself.

  Winded, he fell to his knees and crawled behind a tree. Pulling off his cravat, he wound it around his arm, then raked a pile of leaves over himself. He lay still and listened. Again, it seemed they’d failed to catch him for he heard nothing but bird song and the rustle of some small animal. An hour passed, it would soon be dark. When night fell, he must go back. Had to take a chance. An hour later, under the cover of darkness, he crawled from his hiding place and made his way stealthily to the cottage, worried about what he would find.

  Mademoiselle Bourget stood in the center of the room with her hands to her face. She rushed forward. “We’ve been so worried.” She saw his bleeding arm. “The soldiers?”

  “Did they come here? Is Philippe all right?”

  “Oui, the soldiers came, but they didn’t find him.” She grabbed a candle and picked up her skirts. “Quickly, come upstairs.”

  Anthony’s strength ebbed as he climbed the stairs. His legs were like lead. He reached the upper floor, and held onto the banister, swaying. “Where is he?”

  Mademoiselle ran to a cupboard and, with Anthony’s help, pulled it aside. Behind it was a small door leading into the roof cavity. She pulled it open. Inside, Philippe lay on a pile of blankets. He gazed owlishly up into the candlelight. “Good God. Anthony! I feared something had happened to you.”

  “They winged me, but it’s not much more than a scratch.”

  “I must dress your wound.” Mademoiselle Bourget brought a chair. “Sit here.”

  She returned with a bowl and cloths then set about cleaning the wound. After she’d wiped most of the blood away, she studied his arm. “The ball is still inside; it has missed the bone, but it must come out.”

  “Can you do it?” Anthony asked.

  She met his gaze calmly. “Oui.”

  “Then do so, please.”

  She returned with a tray containing a paring knife, tweezers, a jug, and mug. “Apple brandy to ease the pain. This will hurt.”

  Anthony poured the drink and swigged it down. Sharp yet sweet, it did little to sedate him, but at least, it warmed his cold insides. “Go ahead.” He put down the empty mug.

  She dipped the knife in the alcohol then held his arm and made a small cut to widen the wound. He dug his fingers into his thigh with his good hand. The room spun. Mademoiselle dipped the tweezers in the brandy then pushed them into the wound. She was skillful, and a minute or so later, she removed them along with the ball.

  “Bless you, mademoiselle,” Anthony muttered, cursing his weakness.

  “I’ll fetch your food. Then you must rest.”

  He listened for horse riders on the lane as he and Philippe ate Josette’s wonderful potage, thick with pieces of hare she had been fortunate to kill that morning. Anthony’s anger burned in his stomach, a pain worse than the wound in his arm. What a fool to make a target of himself. How long before he was in a fit state to help them?

  * * *

  After Henrietta fell asleep, Verity tucked the small bottle into the pocket beneath her skirts and blew out the candle. She shut the door behind her and walked down the corridor to Ramsbotham’s cabin. Close to midnight, through a porthole, the moon sailed serenely across a cloudless sky. The boat’s gentle rocking on calm seas had spared Verity from having to deal with Henrietta’s continued seasickness. She’d been demanding to be allowed up on the deck. Verity had distracted her with a game of cards. They continued to play until Verity feigned a yawn and said she’d go to bed. Henrietta, exhausted from her malaise, dropped into the deep sleep of the young and innocent.

  Ramsbotham answered Verity’s knock, and she stepped inside his lavishly furnished cabin, with oak paneling and silk damask draperies. On a table, a bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses sat on a silver tray.

  He wore an embroidered robe and silk slippers and had dispensed with his wig; his greying hair cropped close to his head. Verity looked away from his covetous gaze, and pulled her shawl closer, feeling demeaned and oddly naked. Her plan must work. If she was seen to reject his advances, Henrietta would be in danger from this man. She tamped down a shudder of loathing with a seductive smile. “A lovely night, my lord. Champagne! How pleasant.”

  “Only the finest for you, Madame.” He poured two glasses and handed one to her.

  She stared out the porthole. “Was that lightning? Are we heading into a storm?”

  He frowned. “Surely not. My captain would have informed me of it.” Once his back was turned, Verity slipped the bottle from her pocket, removed the cap, and poured half its contents into his glass. She managed to replace the bottle in her pocket before he turned. His smug expression reminded her of a spider with a fly in his web. “No storm. A cloudless sky. I trust that isn’t your attempt to delay the inevitable?”

  With a light laugh, she raised her glass to his. “Bonne chance, my lord.”

  “I make my own luck.”

  She struggled with a surge of deep anger. “What do you expect to find at your chateau? All estates such as yours have been confiscated. They are now the property of the French government, and anything left behind would have been ransacked by the peasants.”

  He cursed, drank the last of his wine and slammed down the glass. He grimaced. “This champagne is not up to snuff.” He leaned forward his thick fingers spread out over the table. “If a famous French actress such as yourself was to accompany me there I’m confident you could charm those peasants into returning my most valuable pieces. Beautiful possessions are of no use to ignorant people.”

  Verity tilted her head. “I wish you well, but I regret I shall not be able to join you.”

  Disappointed, she saw no sign that the laudanum affected him. Was the man invulnerable? Bitterness filled her mouth. Should she have added more? She didn’t wish to kill the man.

  “Come now, why the disguise?” He laughed. “You didn’t fool me for a moment. Saw you in Hamlet. You were magnificent as Ophelia.”

  “Merci.” She held up her empty glass with a teasing glance. “I may tell you… later. Might I have another?”

  “Just one,” he said, playfully stroking her fingers as he took her glass.

  She clinked her glass against his, stroking her throat with her free hand. He watched her greedily over the rim of his glass. She wrinkled her nose. “I find it airless in here. There’s a calm sea. Might we open the porthole?

  “I believe you wish me to spend more time at that porthole than with you,” he said gruffly. “As you wish. And then we will go to bed. I hope you enjoy some of my tricks, Mademoiselle Garnier. I have much to teach you.” As he flipped the catch, the boat rolled. Spray splashed through the porthole into his face. He cursed and slammed it shut.

  While he struggled wit
h it, Verity emptied the rest of the bottle into his glass.

  He turned, brushing the seawater from his sleeve. He held up their glasses. “Shall we take these to bed?”

  Her heart thudding wildly, Verity perched on the edge of the bed, sipping her wine. She feared she’d be drunk before this man became even a little unsteady.

  He tossed back the champagne, cursed at the inferior quality, then dropped the glass onto a side table, snapping the stem. His robe slipped to the floor, and he stood before her naked, swaying, a glassy expression in his eyes. “Let’s get those clothes off you…” he said thickly. “I wan to see the woman beneethe.”

  Verity giggled and turned her back to him. “You’ll have to undo my hooks.”

  He bent over her, breathing heavily, and fumbled at the hooks. “Minx!” He tugged the material tearing a seam. Then he gave up and gave her breast a painful squeeze. His strength took her by surprise as he pushed her forward onto her stomach on the bed. Her skirts were flipped over her head. “You’ll not disshapoint me.” His deep pinch on her derriere would leave a bruise. “I’ll take you like this, damned if I won’t.”

  “Such a lack of finesse, my lord,” Verity scolded, fright causing her voice to quiver. She tried to push herself up, but her skirts became entangled with her wig and blinded her. “This is your trick my lord? I’m sure you wouldn’t want it put about that you’re a bad lover?”

  “We have till dawn,” he said huskily. He lay heavily over her. When he pushed against her, ice flooded her veins. She wriggled away from his grasping hands as he struggled to hold her still enough to mount her. The room filled with his curses and heavy breathing, and her gasping protests. Suddenly, he fell silent. His heavy body weighed her down. He snored in her ear.

  With a sob, Verity wriggled out from under him. She straightened her skirts, grabbed the bottle of champagne, and splashed the last of it over the bed and him. With shaking fingers, she struggled to open another bottle. From the bed, Ramsbotham snorted and stirred. Her pulse thudded in her throat. The cork came free with a pop loud enough to wake the dead. She turned anxiously, but he didn’t stir. She opened the porthole and emptied the wine into the sea. Put the bottle down and returned to the bed. She stood over him, her hands curled into fists remembering with horror her desperate fight with Rocchard. Ramsbotham was capable of the same violence. He’d come fearfully close to ravaging her. She wanted to kill him not tuck him into bed. Nauseous, she swallowed, and pulled the bedclothes from beneath him, rolling him first one way and then the other. Then she tucked her perfumed handkerchief under the pillow. He mumbled as she covered him. She fought a strong urge to flee, stood and took stock, glancing around the room until satisfied that it looked as if a drunken romp had taken place.

  “Rêves doux!” Bruised and exhausted, she left his cabin closing the door behind him. She doubted she would sleep with his brutality causing her pulse to race.

  If she did, her dreams would not be sweet.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Henrietta woke to sunlight brightening the cabin. She stretched and looked down over the edge of the berth. Below, Verity slept with an arm thrown above her head. She really was pretty. No wonder Papa liked her. And brave, Henrietta thought. She must have fallen asleep before Verity was in bed. Her clothes were in a bundle on top of the trunk. Perhaps she didn’t want to disturb her, Verity usually took care of her few clothes.

  Henrietta put a foot on the ladder and climbed down. She picked up the voluminous black and silver gown and shook it out. A bottle fell out. She uncorked it and sniffed. It smelled like cloves. Laudanum. Her aunt took it for headache. Might Verity suffer them? Odd that the bottle was empty. Verity’s cloak slipped to the floor with a clunk. Henrietta bent and plunged her hand in the pocket. Her fingers closed over cold steel. She pulled out a pistol, gasped, and turned the gun over in her hand. Verity had made no mention of it. Henrietta’s stomach churned. What did she know about this woman? She’d taken her at face value and trusted her. But really, should she?

  When half asleep during the night she thought she’d heard a door close. Had Verity left the cabin? Where did she go? Henrietta bit her lip. She’d been naïve to place such faith in Verity. The gypsy had said: Be warned. There is someone in your future you will want to trust, but you must not. And another, whom you feel you cannot, but for your life you must. Henrietta spun around. Which applied to her?

  “I hope you slept well, Henrietta.” Verity sat up and stretched with a yawn. “What do you have there?”

  “A pistol, I believe, mademoiselle.” Henrietta held it out.

  * * *

  Henrietta’s eyes were filled with reproach.

  Verity sighed and slipped from the bunk. She held her hand out palm up. “I believe that is mine, si vous plaît.” Her head ached. She’d drunk too much champagne and the struggle with Ramsbotham left her frightened and exhausted. And she had more work to do to convince him they’d enjoyed a night of passion. Now, she must also deal with Henrietta.

  Henrietta scowled but handed it over. “Why didn’t you tell me you had the pistol?”

  Verity tucked it in her reticule. “And let you brandish it about? Perhaps shoot Ramsbotham? I thought not. It was safer not to.”

  “I heard you leave the cabin last night. Where did you go?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I needed fresh air.”

  The young woman nodded, then shrugged. “I feel the same. I’m not sure I can stay in this tiny cabin a moment longer.”

  Verity looked out the porthole. “We’ve made wonderful time. There’s the French coastline. We should reach land in a few hours.”

  Henrietta grinned. “Then our adventure really begins.”

  Verity had had enough adventures for a lifetime. “Let’s have breakfast. You must be hungry.”

  “Famished.”

  “Trés bon. Let’s dress and go to the salon.”

  Henrietta scowled. “Should I come? Won’t Lord Ramsbotham be there?”

  “Perhaps. Oui, come.” Verity was confident that even if the marquess appeared, he would be in no condition to seduce Henrietta.

  “I am sorry I left you to cope with him.”

  “He’s not such a bad man,” Verity said steeling her features.

  “You told him nothing of our plans?”

  Verity shook her head. “Of course not.”

  “Good.” Henrietta rummaged in the trunk and drew her page’s breeches on under her nightgown. “I look forward to dressing as a woman again. These clothes have begun to itch.”

  Verity smiled at the slim young woman’s naturalness and beauty. Anthony must be very proud of her. A swift pain of anguish tightened her chest. Despite Ramsbotham failing to carry out his objective, she felt despoiled and unworthy of a good man like Anthony’s love. She drew in a slow steady breath. She must be strong. There would be far worse to come.

  In the salon, the butler seated them at the table set with white linen, silverware, and fine china. While they sipped chocolate served from a silver pot, Ramsbotham appeared, looking remarkably fresh. He eyed her sharply. “Good morning, Madame.”

  He cast an eye over Henrietta as he sat. “How are we this fine morning?” His coat was of ice blue taffeta and mulberry embroidery, with a froth of lace at the neck. The massive diamond sparkled on his finger as he spread the linen napkin over his lap.

  Verity smiled. “Je vais bien, merci.”

  Henrietta leaned over her plate shoveling bread into her mouth.

  “Your page has a good appetite,” he said with a hard stare.

  Verity nodded. “Pierre has recovered from his sea-sickness.”

  Ramsbotham pursed his full lips, running his gaze over Henrietta’s slim body in her page boy’s garb. “I appreciate a good appetite.”

  Verity moved uneasily on her chair. “How long before we reach Le Havre?” she asked to deflect him.

  He sipped his brandy. “You are eager to leave us?”

  “Eager to complete my journey, o
ui.”

  “You go to directly to Rouen? My coach is at your disposal.”

  “Merci, my lord. That is not necessary.”

  “No trouble. Rouen is but a small detour.”

  Verity bit her lip. Henrietta flashed a warning glance at her. “I am to be met at Le Havre,” Verity said.

  He raised his brows. “Oh? You failed to mention that when we were together last night.”

  Henrietta’s mouth tightened.

  “You must not concern yourself with my travel arrangements, my lord,” Verity said.

  “Oh, but I do. Your plans concern me… intimately.”

  “I am grateful for your consideration, but have no need of assistance.”

  Ramsbotham picked up his knife and fork with a satisfied look. “We shall see.” He attacked the devilled kidneys the butler placed before him. The man was tougher than boot leather.

  Verity pushed put down her napkin and rose. “Please excuse me. We must pack.”

  He reached across and grabbed her wrist. “Send your page. I should like company while I eat. Surely, you cannot deny me that.”

  Verity signaled for Henrietta to leave. “Pack, Pierre.”

  After enduring a clumsy kiss, Verity returned to the cabin, scrubbing her mouth with a handkerchief.

  “Here you are.” Henrietta eyed her, thumped the trunk lid closed and went to the porthole. She squinted into the glare. “I can make out buildings and trees along the shore. We’ll land in a few hours. What do we do then?”

  “First, we must inquire after your father.”

  “How are we to avoid the marquess? He seems intent on taking us with him.”

  Verity shook her head. “Leave him to me.”

  “We can hire a vehicle for our trunk. Then drive to the village.”