by Regan Walker
Zoé inclined her head, but did not curtsey. She never curtsied when she wore the clothing of a citoyenne of the Republic. Her fine manners she saved for the Isle of Guernsey where Joanna, her uncle’s wife, insisted she act the lady.
Suddenly looking impatient, her uncle turned to the nuns. “We must make haste; my ship awaits and, by now, I fear my quartermaster is cursing me under his breath.”
They were nearly to the quay when two soldiers in the blue and white uniforms of the republican army stepped out of the fog and into their path.
Her uncle muttered a curse.
Beneath his bicorne, the fat soldier displayed plump red cheeks and a bushy brown mustache. The cold eyes of his companion matched his thin lips, curved into a cruel smile, as his gaze roved over Zoé and the younger nun. “Eh bien… what have we here? One man with three women? That seems hardly fair when, as you can see, we servants of the revolution have none.”
The soldier with the mustache laughed, one hand on his ponderous belly, the other on his long musket. “Surely you can share, citoyen.”
From their leering eyes, Zoé did not put rape past either of them. Rumors abounded of the soldiers’ abuse of the local women. The thought of one of these touching her made Zoé’s skin crawl.
The younger nun gasped and was stilled by the hand of the older on her shoulder. Zoé stepped in front of them and slid her hand into the small slit in her full skirt to reach the sharp knife strapped to her thigh.
“Ah, mes amis,” said her uncle, adopting the common speech, “on another occasion, if these were but stray cats, I would be happy to invite you to join my party but, alas, this is family business. These are my sisters and my wife, women under my protection.”
His tone hinted of velvet laid over steel and the red-cheeked soldier did not fail to notice. The smile faded from his corpulent face as his fingers nervously played with the end of his mustache.
Seeing his companion falter, the thin-lipped one aimed his musket at her uncle. “You will share, as I have said, or reap the consequences, mon ami.”
If the republican soldier thought to intimidate Jean Donet, he picked the wrong man. Her uncle had a fierce reputation known to many in France.
Zoé was tempted to inform these idiots, who played at being soldiers, they were dealing with the great capitaine of la Reine Noire, the Black Queen, but she held her tongue, knowing her uncle could swiftly deal them a deathblow if he chose.
“Je ne pense pas,” he said to the soldiers. “Not tonight.” Before they realized what was happening, her uncle slipped his knife from the sheath at his wrist and sent the deadly blade hurtling through the air and into the neck of the thin-lipped one. His eyes bulged and he made a gagging sound as he clutched his throat, spurting blood, and dropped to the ground.
Zoé did not even blink. Behind her, Sister Augustin exclaimed, “Mon Dieu!”
The rotund soldier began to back away, apparently forgetting he held a musket.
Her uncle drew a pistol from the pocket of his frock coat and pointed it at the mustached soldier. “Go now and you will live. The streets of Granville are full of enemies and your comrade did not see the blade coming, d’accord ? Neither did you see the one who killed him.”
The soldier nodded slowly and then, as if coming out of a trance, turned and ran.
“You have killed him!” Sister Augustin scolded, coming around Zoé and bending over the soldier bleeding profusely from his neck.
The young Sister Angélique, apparently more pragmatic, knelt beside the man and swept her hand over his face, closing his eyes as she murmured a prayer for his departed soul.
Zoé’s uncle retrieved his knife, wiping the blade clean on the soldier’s uniform. “This is war, Sister, and, in war, to hesitate is to accept defeat. That I will never do.”
By the time Zoé and her uncle arrived at the quay with the two nuns, Erwan had settled the four refugees into the waiting skiff and slipped back into town where his plain clothing would enable him to blend with the peasants.
Relieved to see their capitaine restored to them, the six seamen touched their foreheads in respect, acknowledging his return.
Zoé shook her head at the boat riding low in the water with the added weight. “The boat is full,” she said to her uncle. “We had better stay and ask the crew to return for us.”
“There is no time,” he said with a worried look. “If the fat one talks, the republican soldiers will be fast on our heels. I will stay but you should go.”
“That would mean one in the skiff must step out. Our passengers are too dear a cargo to leave even one behind. You and I can maneuver in Granville’s streets where they cannot. Non, I must stay with you.”
Freddie paced the deck, glancing toward shore, wishing the fog would miraculously part to reveal the skiff he awaited. He had tried to convince Zoé of the foolhardy nature of her excursions into the ports to gather the refugees like a mother hen gathers her chicks. Stubborn as always and determined to save as many as she could, she would hear none of it. While he could admire her courage, he feared for her safety.
Standing amidships, Bequel nervously chewed on a bit of broom straw, bespeaking his unease at the vulnerable state of the ship idling in Granville’s harbor for so long.
The crew, silently going about their tasks, kept glancing toward shore.
Except for the occasional band of drunken men, loud in their goodbyes as they left the taverns, silence reigned on the quay some fifty yards away.
Freddie’s anxiety reached a crescendo. “She should have returned by now. Something must have gone wrong.” He faced Bequel. “Spare me a few of the crew. I’m going after her.”
That the quartermaster motioned two of the crew forward and ordered them to lower the boat and take Freddie ashore betrayed his worry for the capitaine’s niece.
Moments later, the rowing boat moved silently through the fog-shrouded waters. Freddie’s stomach churned, his eyes fixed on the wharf emerging from the dense mist.
What could have happened to her?
Zoé recognized the impatience brewing on her uncle’s face as he raked his fingers through his black hair, the silver streaks catching the light from the lanterns on the quay.
“I can see you mean to be stubborn,” he muttered, “but we cannot stand here and debate this all night.” He gazed around him. “We may be attracting unwanted attention as it is. Alors, it shall be as you wish; we will both stay.” He ordered the men in the skiff, “Take these people to the ship and return for us but only if ’tis safe. We will be watching.”
The skiff shoved off, disappearing into the fog that had settled in wisps on the dark waters of Granville Harbor. Zoé and her uncle began to walk down the wharf toward the quay when a small boat carrying three men emerged out of the fog and pulled up alongside them. She recognized the two men at the oars as crew from la Reine Noire. Behind them in the stern knelt Freddie, beckoning to her.
“’Tis Freddie!” she said, her spirits lifting at the sight of her friend.
“Get in!” he implored.
“Be quick,” said her uncle, directing her to the wooden steps built into the side of the wharf that ran down to the water.
She climbed down to the rowing boat and her uncle followed. He was nearly to the end of the steps when shouts from the wharf drew their attention.
“Vous, là! Halt in the name of the Republic!” The musket-bearing soldier strode toward them, his boots loud on the wooden planks. A short distance away, a half-dozen soldiers hurried to join him.
Her uncle ascended the stairs, pulling a pistol from his coat, and fired. The soldier stumbled and fell to the wharf.
Racing down the stairs, her uncle leapt into the boat. “Vite, away!”
The two crewmen pulled hard at the oars.
Freddie drew his pistol.
The cluster of republican soldiers knelt at the edge of the wharf, took aim and commenced spewing shot toward their small boat. Zoé crouched low as the balls whizzed ove
r her head and the loud crack of pistols and musket fire exploded around her.
Freddie and her uncle returned fire.
The crew pressed into the oars and the boat slipped into the fog. Her uncle subsided onto the bench in the bow, stuffing his pistols into his coat pockets.
Zoé cast a long look toward the lights on the receding quay. The sound of muskets still firing echoed in the mist.
One of the soldiers shouted, “I told you he was the one! That was le porc who cut Pierre.”
Her uncle shook his head. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”
Zoé turned her gaze away from the shore. Finally, the shots died, leaving only the rhythmic sound of the oars pulling through the water. “Dieu merci, at least ’tis over.”
“Oui, for now,” said her uncle. “We have West to thank for our lives.”
One of the crew pulling at the oars glanced over his shoulder. “The Englishman has been shot, I think.”
Zoé looked behind the seamen. In the darkness, it was difficult to see but she could just make out Freddie’s form slumped in the stern. “Freddie!”
Chapter 2
The Isle of Guernsey off the coast of Normandy
“Your skin is as soft as a babe’s,” Freddie muttered in his fevered sleep. “I want… I want to kiss you… everywhere.”
Zoé felt her cheeks heat at his laudanum-induced dream. It was not the first. She had sat vigil at his bedside through what remained of the night after her uncle’s surgeon, Pierre Bouchet, had removed the ball and treated the wound. For hours, Freddie had burned with fever, murmuring in his sleep. Despairing of his recovery, she had allowed no other to take her place during the dark hours the fever held him in its grip.
Dipping a cloth in lavender water, Zoé brushed one of his auburn locks off his forehead and soothed his fevered brow.
Suddenly, he grabbed hold of her wrist, pulling her hand to the part of his naked chest not covered in bandages. “Take off your shift,” he said in a raspy voice.
She pulled back at the shock of his words but he only pressed her hand more tightly to his warm skin, curling her insides. The feel of his warm suntanned chest beneath her palm made her nipples tighten and sent an echoing shudder coursing through her, something she had never experienced before. But how could that be when this was just Freddie?
It wasn’t as if she’d had much experience with men and never before had she laid her hand on a man’s bare chest. She had never been alone with Louis-Pierre and Henri had only kissed her once and that had been in celebration of his latest victory.
But her friend Freddie…
His hand dropped to his side.
Slowly, she slid her palm over his heated skin, threading her fingers through the short auburn hair sprinkled across his chest. Fascinated by his nipples, she wanted to touch them, but the thought seemed too wicked. Besides, she scolded herself, he was wounded and fighting for his life.
“Thirsty,” he mumbled, his eyes still closed.
She brought a glass of water to his dry lips and managed to trickle a few drops into his mouth, all the while wondering if he were recalling some tryst with a tavern wench. Surely he had no idea it was her hand he had grasped, her hand that had been warmed by his burning skin. Non, he must be dreaming of a woman he had met in town.
Guernsey had many public houses whose customers included shipmasters, seamen and merchants, both English and French. Her uncle, his quartermaster and Freddie had often patronized them. Not a few had comely serving girls.
Zoé had watched ladies eyeing her friend whenever she accompanied him in St Peter Port on Guernsey, and many smiles were directed his way at the soirées they attended. Yet he had no petite amie of which she was aware. Would he seek out a tavern wench for his manly needs? Her uncle’s crew did. She had heard them at night on deck bragging about their conquests.
The thought of another woman running her hands over Freddie’s bare chest unsettled her.
Freddie tossed his head from side to side and raised his right hand as if to grasp something. She dare not think what he was seeing. If he dreamed of a woman and she was down to her shift, it would only be a matter of time before—
He tried to raise himself from the pillows and grimaced, his eyes never opening. She reached out and gently pressed him back to the pillows. He sighed and relaxed into a quiet sleep.
As dawn approached, Tante Joanna appeared and urged her to get some rest. “You’ll be no good to him if you fall off that chair to the floor.”
Zoé reluctantly agreed but returned a few hours later to again take up her vigil, gratified Freddie was still sleeping quietly. Sunlight flowed in through the window and a breeze ruffled the lace curtain.
“Did he say anything in his sleep?” she asked her aunt, hoping he had not.
“No, not a word. He has been as you see him. I applied the lavender water you left. Perhaps it helped. I’ll look in on him a bit later.”
Relieved to know her aunt had not been exposed to Freddie’s erotic dreams, Zoé took up her book, several times glancing over to see Freddie sleeping.
When her aunt bustled in an hour later with tea, Zoé was still attempting to read the manuscript of a new novel one of their friends had given her. It was The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe, to be published later this year.
“A good story, is it?”
Happy for the interruption, Zoé set the manuscript aside. “Tedious, more like.”
“Well then you won’t mind being amenable to a spot of tea.”
“Not at all.” She only hoped Freddie did not give out with one of his sensual utterances while his sister was in the room.
Her aunt poured the tea and looked toward Freddie. “How is he?”
“Still fevered but resting peacefully. M’sieur Bouchet peeked his head in a half-hour ago and told me not to worry, that Freddie will come ’round. But his skin is still overwarm and sometimes he spouts… incoherent murmurings.”
Zoé would not tell her aunt what he had said or what he had done while the fever ruled him but she remembered his skin beneath her fingers and the feel of his muscled chest against her palm. She looked down at her tea, hoping her aunt did not see the blush she could feel rising in her cheeks.
Freddie’s sister went to stand at his bedside, smoothing his hair off his forehead. “I spoke with M’sieur Bouchet as I was on my way here and he was encouraging to me as well, but then he always is.” With a catch in her voice, she said, “Let us continue to pray he recovers.”
“He was very courageous,” said Zoé, wanting her aunt to know how proud she was of her friend.
Returning to her tea, Tante Joanna said, “Jean has told me what happened in Granville. I shudder to think you both might have been shot if not for my brother. Freddie was always a brave one, even when we were children. Once he rushed in to save a cottar’s child from a raging river. And, when our father was killed in the American war and then our elder brother in his duty with the Coldstream Guards, it was Freddie who was the stalwart one, the one who held us together. He encouraged our eldest brother, Richard, to take up the title and the leadership of the family.”
Zoé sipped her tea, thinking of her fevered companion. “I never saw Freddie as a hero until now. He was only my childhood friend. But now… I owe him my life.”
Tante Joanna, her auburn hair and brandy-colored eyes much like her brother’s, regarded Zoé over her tea. “Very often, the ones we think know best are the ones we know not at all.”
Zoé thought for a moment. “I’m beginning to see how true that is. We form impressions of people and even though they change and grow, we do not alter what we first believed about them.” She was only beginning to understand the man Freddie had become.
Rising, her aunt picked up the tea tray and smiled. “You have grown into a young woman of character, Zoé. I like to think I had something to do with it but, in fairness, I can hardly take credit.”
“You have much to do with who I am, Tant
e Joanna. You are the very model of the woman I hope one day to be.”
“Just don’t emulate my faults! Now, I will leave you to your tedious book and your patient. If you would like help or someone to relieve you, you have only to ask. I’ll send up the housekeeper in a while to look in on you.”
Zoé thanked her. The door softly closed and she went to Freddie’s side. When she was certain he still slept peacefully, she walked to the window that faced the front of the house. Outside on the green lawn below, a sculpture of two bronze stags, their antlers locked in combat, reminded her of the struggle for France’s future. The forces of all things she considered good fought the evil of Robespierre’s régime. Surely, in time, good must win. When that happened, would Freddie return to England? The possibility did not please her.
Behind her, Freddie moaned. The effect of the laudanum was wearing off, but she would give him no more if his fever was waning. She returned to his bedside and felt his forehead, thinking it might be cooler than before. With this encouraging sign, her spirits rose.
“At last you are naked and as beautiful as I’d imagined,” he murmured.
He might have meant the words for another woman but it was Zoé whose body reacted as she imagined standing before him, not in a gown but naked. The scandalous thought made her wonder, would he be pleased with what he saw?
Freddie woke to the heady scent of flowers wafting on a breeze. The intoxicating smell carried on the balmy Zephyr could only mean he was back on Guernsey.
Still alive then.
“’Tis about time you joined us, sleepy-head.”
Pigeon. He opened his eyes to see her sitting in a chair beside his bed, a clouded expression on her lovely face. Concern for him? His wound must have been serious then. He remembered a burning in his shoulder just before he lost consciousness. The throbbing ache he now experienced reminded him of his encounter with the republican soldiers. “The prognosis?”