by Brenda Joyce
His mission was, finally, complete.
Images flashed in his mind now—of Evelyn, of Aimee and the memories they had so recently made on his island. God, he wanted to get home. But returning to Britain would not solve the predicament he would soon find himself in. He thought about LeClerc. By tomorrow, the vicomte would surely realize the extent of Jack’s treachery.
He did not know where LeClerc was. But he would find out.
He had one ambition now—to get on board his ship, where he could flee France if need be. He wished he could do just that. He realized that he would not mind if he never returned.
But he could not return to Britain just yet. The hunt had just begun—and only when he found LeClerc would he be able to go home to Evelyn.
The beach was just ahead. In the growing twilight, he could just make out his black ship on the iron-colored sea. His glance moved to the shoreline, where he had left the dinghy with three of his men.
Jack stumbled.
There were six men there—his sailors were bound, and held at gunpoint.
He heard an assailant coming from behind and whirled, raising his carbine, pulling the trigger. But he faced three men, and each man had his musket leveled at his face.
And LeClerc was behind them, his eyes blazing. “Bonjour, Jack. I did not realize you had a penchant for our beautiful countryside.”
“LeClerc,” he said tersely, his mind racing. He had found LeClerc! But the tables had been turned. He had to talk his way out of this—otherwise, he was the dead man walking, and LeClerc could exact his vengeance upon Evelyn. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“There is nothing fancy about it,” LeClerc said, stepping past his men. “May I?” He reached for Jack’s gun.
Jack tensed, instantly realizing he would have little choice but to hand his weapon over. “I have been trying to make contact with you, LeClerc. You can be a hard man to find.” He spoke calmly—as if he were not about to be seized, and maybe murdered, on the spot. “There is a British naval squadron offshore. They are about to land their troops. You must get word to the French at Fort Penthievre.”
“Liar!” LeClerc struck him hard, across the cheek, with the butt of his gun. “Royalist!”
Jack had seen the blow coming, and he had jerked back, so the gun did not strike him squarely. Still, pain exploded in his head and he stumbled. However, he still held his carbine.
“You are wrong,” he said as calmly. “Or have you forgotten that I am wanted for treason in Britain? I can hardly be a traitor in two warring countries.”
LeClerc nodded at whomever stood behind Jack.
Jack whirled to deflect the blow, but he was too late, as a musket was used to slam his legs out from under him and another musket slammed down on his chest. Jack rolled away, firing; the Frenchman he had aimed at, who had hit him last, fell back, his chest exploding bright red.
From behind, someone wrenched the carbine from him.
Someone else kicked him hard in the ribs.
Another savage beating ensued, as he was kicked and beaten with the guns. And finally, when his body was a mass of blazing pain, the cloud of darkness descended. Almost miraculously, the kicking, the punches, the blows from the guns, stopped.
LeClerc bent over him and whispered, “We still execute enemies of the revolution, mon ami. You have made a terrible mistake, and now, you will pay…with your head.”
* * *
LAURENT CRIED OUT, his eyes wide, and then he swept Evelyn into his arms, embracing her happily.
Evelyn hugged him in return. She had not been able to keep her suspicions to herself; she had just told him that she believed she was three months pregnant.
“You are going to have another child! Mon Dieu!” Tears now filled his eyes.
“I am praying it is true,” Evelyn said as she sat down on the sofa in her sitting room. She touched her still-flat belly. “Of course, I do not know what Jack will do.”
“He loves you, madame. It is obvious—so of course he will marry you!”
Evelyn simply smiled, her hand still on her abdomen. The door to her sitting room was ajar, and Julianne suddenly stepped onto the threshold. She prepared to politely knock on the open door. Instead, her gaze shot to Evelyn’s hand as it rested on her belly in a gesture as old as time.
Evelyn stood up, smiling. But inwardly, she was dismayed. If she wasn’t careful, Julianne would guess that she was with child. Her hostess was astute and clever.
“Am I intruding?” Julianne asked.
“You could never intrude,” Evelyn said meaning it. But Julianne’s bearing was a bit sober. “Julianne?”
“I have war news and I know you will want to be the first to hear it.” She hurried into the parlor and put her arm around Evelyn.
“You’re frightening me! Is it Jack? Have you heard from him? Is he all right?” she cried, her heart lurching horrifically.
“I haven’t heard from Jack, and we haven’t heard anything about him. But, Evelyn, a British force comprised of our troops and émigrés, led by the Comte D’Hervilly, has invaded the peninsula of Quiberon Bay.”
Evelyn had to sit down.
“You are as white as a ghost!” Julianne cried, sitting beside her. “Why does this news strike you so?”
“Jack could be with them,” Evelyn managed, filled with fear.
Julianne’s eyes widened. “When you came here in April, you told us you had overheard Jack speaking about an invasion of France. He was speaking about this invasion?”
Evelyn nodded. “I begged him to tell me if he would be a part of it—he refused to even answer!”
Julianne was now pale, too. She took Evelyn’s hand and gripped it tightly. She finally said, “Well, my brother may be reckless, but he is a dangerous man in his own right. If he is there, he will survive whatever intrigues he is up to. I have no doubt.” She was firm.
“There is more,” Evelyn whispered.
Julianne started, stiff with dread.
“He told the French that the invasion would take place next month. Now they know he is not their spy. Now they know he has deliberately misled them—and betrayed them.”
Julianne was on her feet in an instant. “Lucas must know about this. Damn it, why did he keep this from me? I want to know everything!” She started for the door, and then turned. “Evelyn? I love you as much as I would if you were truly my own sister.”
Evelyn didn’t know where that had come from. “And I you.”
“Good. Then you must tell me the truth. Are you with child?”
Fort Penthievre, Quiberon Bay, France
June 30, 1795
IT HURT TO SIT UP.
Jack somehow did so, gasping and holding his ribs—which were broken this time. His head also hurt, as did various other body parts. He had been savagely beaten for his treachery, but he was still alive.
However, he would not fool himself. He was going to be executed for his crimes against the republic, for even if there was a trial, it would be a mockery. LeClerc had been very clear on that point.
And now he was in a prison in France.
His heart shuddered with real fear—a feeling he was not accustomed to. He was a prisoner of the French, and unless he escaped, soon, he would be beheaded as a spy.
He knew better than to hope that he would be rescued. If his crew had decided to set sail without him, Lucas and Warlock would probably already know that he had been captured, and the obvious place of imprisonment was at this fort. On the other hand it was unlikely that his ship had disembarked; his ship and crew were probably being held by the French. If that were the case, it might be days or even weeks before his brother and the spymaster realized he was a prisoner of war—and one destined for the guillotine. He did not think he had a great deal of time—only that morning, a prison guard had leered at him and told him that his days were numbered.
Jack limped over to the small, barred window of his cell. From it, he looked out over the beach and the bay. That afternoon was br
ight and sunny, gulls wheeled overhead, and the bay was unblemished. The British naval squadron was not in sight, not from his cell window, at least.
He did not think rescue likely.
And he had already tried to bribe two of his captors with the promise of a fortune in gold, but to no avail. He had approached each individually, in a hoarse whisper, at suppertime. The first guard had spit in his face and laughed at him; the second had begun to sing “La Marseillaise.”
Attempting bribery was dangerous—he could be reported to the warden. Therefore, he had begun to think of escape.
And there was only one way out of this prison—from his cell door. Every day, two guards came in the morning and at night, to bring a piece of bread and some bug-infested gruel. The guards were armed, and they used a trap door to slide the trays into the prisoners. Thus far, in the five days he had been a prisoner, he had identified six different guards.
He had already decided which pair was the most vulnerable. The boy in that pair was clearly unnerved by the nearby fighting; he was thin, weak in appearance and even somewhat effeminate. Jack had heard him speaking. He had come from a good family, and by some bad luck, he had wound up in the republican army, as a prison guard.
His partner was middle-aged and overweight. He moved slowly, and Jack was certain his restricted movements were caused by arthritis or an injury, as much as they were by his obesity.
Jack thought it would be easy to seize the boy from behind, after he slid his tray into his cell and turned away—and put a knife to his throat. A successful escape would then depend upon good fortune—whether the second guard would hand over his weapons to save his comrade’s life.
Jack was well aware that he was desperate. But if the second guard could be coerced into dropping his arms, Jack knew he could get the boy to open up his cell. Last night, Jack had spoken to the man in the cell beside his. The prisoner—a slim, dark Frenchman who was a captured Chouan rebel—was eager to help.
The plan was simple. After the overweight guard surrendered his weapons and opened up the cell, Jack would knock both guards out, then release every prisoner on his row. In the ensuing chaos, he would don his captor’s uniform and find a way to escape.
There was no point in delaying their attempt at escape beyond tonight. Because he was damned if he wasn’t going to see Evelyn again.
Jack continued to stare out at the serene waters of the bay. But he was worried. He prayed that LeClerc had given up his thoughts of revenge against Evelyn, now that Jack was his prisoner. Hopefully he was preoccupied with the rebel invasion.
But he had to get home to her, and not just to protect her. There was no more denying the extent of his feelings for her. It hadn’t been easy, telling her how he felt, just before he had taken her from Looe Island back to London. But he had been compelled to declare his love. It was that consuming.
He now knew he had fallen in love with her at first sight, that night in Brest, when she had appeared in the middle of the night at the docks, seeking a way out of France. She had been so strong and so brave then. She was as strong and as brave now.
And she deserved a life of happiness, after all that she had endured. If he ever got out of that prison—if he ever got out of France—he wanted to be the man to give her that life. And he wondered at himself. He could hardly believe his own thoughts. He was an adventurer, a smuggler, a spy. But in the darkness of his prison cell, he did not feel the call of danger as he was used to. Instead, he could only think of Evelyn, and of Aimee, and how they needed a champion and a protector....
A war like this one could go on for ten or even twenty years. He knew that. Wars like this were always fought in the name of freedom, but they brought destruction and tyranny instead. He suddenly gripped the bars of his window. He was most definitely imprisoned by this war now. But even if he escaped the French, would he really be free, if he continued to work for Warlock? Did he really want to spend the next few years outracing two navies and outwitting both the French and his English spymasters? When Evelyn needed him?
When he needed her?
And suddenly he stiffened, as he heard footsteps in the corridor outside his cell. He was disbelieving. Were they coming to execute him now? When he planned to escape that night?
Jack slowly turned—and saw LeClerc standing outside his cell. “Bonjour, mon ami. I have a few questions for you.”
A guard was with him, holding a ring of keys. Jack looked from the key ring to LeClerc, his heart racing. He did not think he would be politely questioned; he thought he would be brutally tortured. And that guard had the keys to his cell....
Cannon boomed.
In the quiet of the afternoon, the sound was shocking. It was very close by. Jack started—as did LeClerc.
And then more cannon boomed, again and again, and there were the screams and shouts of an invading army and the sound of muskets firing.
Within the prison, bells began to toll, rapidly, warningly—a sound even a child would know....
“The fort is being attacked!” LeClerc cried, blanching.
Jack saw fear in his eyes.
“I have to get out of here!” LeClerc whirled, and as he did, the guard turned to look at him—and Jack seized him through the bars of his cell, both of his hands on his neck. The guard gasped and began to choke.
LeClerc looked at them in terror, and ran away, down the corridor.
“Pierre!” Jack ordered his neighbor, because he had had the good fortune to have seized the guard at the edge of his cell.
Pierre reached forward, laughing, and took the gun from the guard’s belt. He then placed it against the guard’s temple.
“Open my door,” Jack ordered, as more cannons boomed, as muskets fired, as horses screamed and men shouted. The battle seemed to be just below his window, which meant that the fort was being besieged.
The guard jammed his key into Jack’s cell door, unlocking it.
Jack stepped through, took his musket from him and hit him over the head with it. He crumpled. Jack then opened Pierre’s cell, and the one across from them. “Finish this,” he said, handing him the keys, he ran into the opposite cell and looked out of the window.
He saw the British troops below the fort walls, a sea of invading red, fighting the French in blue. And in the center of the battle, waving high, was the red cross of St George, atop the white cross of St Andrew. His gaze slammed to the officer on the black charger, who was beneath the British tricolor, and in the midst of the battle—at once fighting his way forward and rallying his men.
“It is D’Hervilly,” he said. “And if I do not miss my guess, they are about to take the fort.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
London
July 10, 1795
EVERY PASSING DAY felt like an eternity now. Émigré troops, led by the Comte D’Hervilly, had invaded Quiberon Bay. All of London waited with bated breath for the daily war news, as the British forces took the fort there, and then, as the fighting swung back and forth between both armies, with the rebels advancing, and then the French. But in the past two weeks, there had been no word from Jack and no news about him.
Evelyn sat in the salon downstairs, alone, curled up on a sofa. She could not embroider or read. She was so sick at heart—afraid that Jack was dead. What other explanation could there be for this terrible sound of silence?
“Hello, Evelyn.”
And even though she now knew the timbre of Lucas’s voice, he sounded so much like Jack that as she glanced up, her heart slammed. He stood in the doorway, bicorn hat in hand, golden and handsome, smiling slightly at her. Julianne was with him.
Evelyn slowly got up. She was most definitely pregnant—she was probably four months along, or close to it. “Lucas!” Her gaze searched his. He was not an expressive man and it was hard to tell if he was disturbed or simply solemn.
He strode into the room, taking her hands warmly in his. “How are you?” he asked softly.
By now, the entire family and both househ
olds knew of her condition; she instantly knew Julianne had either written him, or mentioned it to him after he had just walked in the door. “As far as this child goes, I am fine. But I am terribly worried about Jack.”
He put his arm around her. “Jack is very much alive.”
She cried out, beyond relief, then turned into his arms, her face against his chest. She fought her tears, quite unsuccessfully. Her condition was making her temperamental now. She looked up. “Are you certain?”
“I received word indirectly, Evelyn. But I am certain.” His smile was brief but reassuring. However, he sent Julianne an odd, inquiring glance.
“What is wrong?” Evelyn cried as Julianne came forward. “What happened and where is Jack?”
“We do not know where he is now,” Julianne soothed. “Evelyn, he was captured during the invasion. He was, briefly, in prison.”
Evelyn had to sit down. Jack had been captured by the French—if he had been in prison, they knew he was not their agent.
LeClerc would know it, too.
Were they both in danger now?
“He spent five days in the prison at Fort Penthievre,” Lucas said, sitting down beside her. “The fort was liberated by our troops and the rebels—Jack got out then.”
“Thank God,” she breathed. “Was he hurt?”
“We don’t know,” Lucas said. “But I have some good news. Victor LaSalle, the Vicomte LeClerc, was badly wounded when we took the fort. He died there a few days ago.”
She shuddered. She could not wish death on anyone, but he had been intent on using her and Aimee against Jack, and she had believed his threats. “I cannot be sorry,” she whispered.
Julianne put her arm around her. “No one expects you to be sorry, Evelyn. At least we do not have to worry about LeClerc now.”
Evelyn’s mind raced. Did Jack know LeClerc was dead? God, she hoped so! And Jack was, at least, freed. “Could he still be in France? There is so much fighting going on now—I can’t even follow the news! One day, the rebels seem to have won, the next, we hear of a French victory. Would he stay to help the rebels, who are his friends?”