Falcon and the Sparrow

by Marylu Tyndall

  A wall of cold air struck her from behind. A burning spasm shot through her right arm as strong fingers grabbed her and dragged her from the tavern. She went tumbling down the steps, slipped, and fell. A jolt of pain shot through her knees as they struck the hard wood.

  “Vite. Levez-vous.” The man yanked on her arm so hard, she felt it would separate from her body. Shards of agony shot into her shoulder and down her back as the man lifted her off her feet and tossed her onto the dirt road. “Please, you are hurting me.”

  “Oh, pardonnez-moi,“the man barked as he hauled her down the street. Dominique glanced over her shoulder for the man in black. He stood across the road beside a brick building, arms at his sides, watching her.

  But making no move to come to her aid.

  Before she could yell to him for help, two other men emerged seemingly from nowhere and fell in line behind them. The man yanked her down an alleyway beside a small warehouse to their left. He flung her around to face him.

  The Frenchman.

  “Vous m’avez trompé. You tricked me,” he snapped between gritted teeth and squeezed her arm tighter.

  Dominique winced. His spit splattered over her face, dousing her with the scent of fish and tobacco. He glanced toward the street, flinging his greasy hair behind him.

  The beef she had eaten for dinner soured in her stomach and started to rise. “Whatever do you mean? I have brought the information you want.” She glanced down at the valise crushed against her chest. “I have not deceived you.”

  “You told someone.”

  “Non, je promets. I did not.” What was he talking about? What kind of game was he playing? Her mind sifted through a thousand possibilities. Oh God, what am I to do now?

  One of the men chuckled and spit a black glob onto the hard dirt. A ship’s horn sounded in the distance.

  “My men tell me you have been followed.”

  Followed? Who would follow her? Did they mean the man in black? “I swear to you I told no one. Where is Marcel? Is he here?” She started to push past him, but he gripped her shoulders and hurled her against the brick wall. Her head snapped onto the hard stone. Something warm and moist oozed from beneath her hair.

  “Oui, we have kept our bargain. Unfortunately, you have not kept yours.”

  Dominique tried to focus on the Frenchman as he spoke, but his face blurred into a nondescript, oscillating mass before her. Only the line of his slick mustache as it moved up and down remained tauntingly clear.

  Lightning cracked the midnight sky, outlining the villains with an eerie glow before drowning them in darkness once again. Thunder roared an angry growl. The building behind Dominique quaked.

  The Frenchman grunted, glared up at the sky, a boiling mass of dark clouds, then gripped Dominique’s arm again and dragged her back onto the street.

  “Le marché est rompu.” He released her and turned away, heading toward the river. She stumbled back and fell to her knees in the dirt.

  No. The deal couldn’t be off. He had said Marcel was here. Where were they going? The ship.

  “Wait!” Dominique shrieked, her voice cracking. “I have what you want.” Dropping her valise to the ground, she tore it open and felt inside for the stack of papers she had kept separate from the others. Where were they? Groping madly through her things, she took a deep breath, trying to keep her focus. Finally, she felt them, stood, and held them out before her. “Les voici.”

  The Frenchman slowly turned, a sinister smile angling his greasy mustache. He sauntered toward her, eyes as narrow and cold as a snake’s. A gust of wind bristled his hair against his white cravat and brought with it the sting of rain, a threat of the impending storm.

  Halting before her, he brushed a finger over the few pages. “Once again, c’est tout?“He shook his head with a snort. “Mademoiselle Dawson. You disappoint me. I am done with this game. C’est finis. “He waved a hand through the air and spun about.

  “Game?” Dominique’s anger surged, smothering her fear for a moment. “This is your game, monsieur. You have all the cards.”

  He continued walking toward the Thames, ignoring her, his two companions keeping in step beside him.

  “I have but one card to play,” she yelled after him.

  Dominique craned her neck to glance around them. Was Marcel on that ship? Her heart nearly crashed through her chest at the thought. Every muscle within her twitched to make a mad dash past the men, to jump aboard that boat. To find Marcel.

  “This is but a portion of what I have!” she screeched, her voice edged with terror. Holding the papers up high, she gripped them tightly against the increasing wind. “When you give me Marcel, I will take you to the rest. They are not far from here.” Her heart seemed to solidify into a brick as it jumped into her throat. Oh Lord, help them to listen. Do not let them sail away.

  The Frenchman turned and charged toward her as if he were going to knock her to the ground. Dominique cringed, squeezed her eyes shut for a second, but held her ground. He snatched the papers, sidled under the light of a streetlamp, and perused them. “You traitorous shrew,” he spat, eyeing her with disdain.

  Heavy footsteps crunched the gravel behind her. A short, portly man waddled toward them, beads of sweat dotting his puffy face. “They are not far behind. One of them is a navy officer. Vite. We must go.”

  Dominique glanced behind her. Whom was he talking about? Was this part of their plan? A trick to force her to hand over all the documents without getting Marcel?

  The Frenchman cursed and drew a pistol from his belt. He pressed the cold barrel to Dominique’s forehead. “I should kill you right here.”

  Thunder shook the sky. The hard metal seemed to burn a circle into her skin. He cocked the pistol with a grin, and she knew from the look in his eye he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. In fact, he might even enjoy it.

  She could not die. Not here. Not now. Not like this. And not with so much at stake.

  She opened her mouth to speak but could not stop her lips from quivering. Finally, she blurted out, “I promise I have not deceived you. I do not know who follows me. I swear. Please. Please.” She started to shake uncontrollably, and the tears she had been so successful at holding back now filled her eyes. “If you give me Marcel, I will take you to what you want.” God, help me. Give me strength, she prayed silently. Then a thought came to her. “Unless he is dead. Perhaps he is dead,” she uttered in a caustic tone that belied her terror. “Then you can forget ever seeing the rest of the documents, monsieur.”

  The Frenchman lowered the pistol with a huff and dragged her to the edge of dock. “Here is your precious brother, mademoiselle.”

  “Francois,” he yelled, and instantly a bulky man appeared on the deck of the ship, holding a lantern in one hand and towing a smaller man behind him. Carefully he navigated past the rigging to the bow of the ship. When he raised the light above them, Marcel’s boyish face emerged like a beacon of hope in the darkness. Though he struggled in the man’s grip, he smiled at her. He looked well.

  Unharmed.

  “Marcel! Marcel!” Dominique cried then broke into sobs of relief.

  “Dominique!” he shouted in return. “Do what they say, ma chérie.“

  Wrenching her arm from the Frenchman’s grasp, Dominique dashed down the dirt street toward the Thames, everything blurring before her. Desperation overcame fear—overcame reason.

  Lightning etched a jagged spike across the sky, and someone pushed Dominique from behind. She stumbled and plunged to the hard wood of a small jetty at the edge of the water where a jollyboat tottered over the waves. Splinters pierced through her gloves into the delicate skin of her palms. She gasped. Thunder growled, sending a ripple over the black water of the Thames. Two men hauled her to her feet, nearly tearing her arms from their sockets.

  Ignoring the pain, she glanced up at Marcel. His Adam’s apple bobbed beneath an anguished swallow.

  “I will save you, Marcel. Do not fear,” she sobbed.

&nb
sp; “I know.” Marcel started toward her, but the burly man clamped his arm around the boy’s neck and dragged him, coughing, back to the boat.

  She watched as he sank down into the bowels of the ship and felt her heart sink with him.

  The men lifted her off her feet and plopped her back down by the Frenchman.

  “So you see?” He raised a brow in her direction.

  “Give him to me.” Dominique choked on her own words, no longer trying to mask her terror or her agony behind a facade of strength. “And I will give you what you want.”

  “There is not time, Vicomte.“The fat man shook his head at the Frenchman, then cast an anxious glance over his shoulder. His fat fingers gripped the hilt of a sword strapped to his side. “Unless you wish to have your throat stretched by a British rope.”

  The Frenchman followed his companion’s gaze down the dark street then turned toward Dominique. “I will give you one more chance. The isle of Lihou, off Guernsey, do you know it?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. She had heard of it. It sat just off the coast of France.

  “Two weeks hence. Meet me there. We will exchange your brother for the documents. If you do not have all the papers we want”—he narrowed his eyes and grabbed one of her hands, squeezing it until she winced in pain—“in these dainty hands of yours, you will watch your brother die.” He brushed a coarse, smelly finger over her cheek. “And then I will kill you myself. Comprendez-vous?“He nodded for the men to board the ship.

  Dominique swallowed. “Oui, I understand. I will be there.”

  The fetid trio dropped into the jollyboat and rowed to the ship. As they made sail and sped off under the stormy breeze, Dominique melted to the ground, unable to control her tears anymore. One by one they dropped onto the already moist dirt, quickly soaked up as if they never existed, as if no one cared. Why, God. Why? How could things have gone so wrong when she had tried to do everything so right? She must pull herself together. She must get going. Wiping her face, she slowly rose and took a deep breath. A light mist began to fall.

  Picking up her valise and lifting her skirts, she dashed down the street, eyeing the man in black who remained by the side of the road.

  A lot of help he had been.

  “You are still alive, beloved. As is Marcel.”

  The voice came from within Dominique and was so gentle, so loving, she knew it was God. Forgive me, Lord. I know You must have a plan. I just wish You would inform me of it.

  Thunder boomed, shaking the buildings around her. Dominique darted down the street, across the Strand, and onto Andrews. No one was in sight. Why did the Frenchmen believe she had been followed? She glanced to her left, knowing before she saw him that the man in black followed her. The sense of control and power that surrounded him eased over her. Why had he not helped her? Oh Lord, I do not understand. No matter. She must retrieve the documents and return to the Randal home—one more time.

  A million questions bombarded her. How would she procure passage aboard a ship? How could she convince the captain to stop at the Isle of Lihou? Fear sent her thoughts into a whirlwind. She would have to worry about those things later.

  Marcel was alive!

  At least she could hold on to that. Thank You, Lord. The vision of him standing on the dock flowed over her like a ray of warm sunshine, his curly dark hair blowing in the stormy breeze, the spark in his blue eyes as bright and genuine as his smile. Yes, his smile, even in the midst of captivity and in the face of death. But that was Marcel. Like their father, always the brave one.

  Turning down Chandois, Dominique quickly found the large tree, knelt beside it, and uncovered the bundle of papers. Without bothering to stuff them in her valise, she dashed down the street. She must return to the Randal home before she was missed.

  A fierce wind tore across her, lifting her skirts and sending the hood of her cloak pounding against her back. The sense of protection and power disappeared, leaving behind a feeling of foreboding. Dominique glanced over her shoulder for the man in black.

  He was gone.

  She faced forward and ran headfirst into a solid mass of muscle. She bounced off the large man, but his strong arms reached out to grab hers. The scent of brandy and spice sent off warning bells within her. Another man in uniform came up beside him.

  A blast of thunder broke through a heavenly dam, and a torrent of rain suddenly poured from the sky as if somehow trying to obscure the happenings below.

  The first man snatched the roll of papers from her hands.

  Swiping away the rain pooling in her lashes, Dominique slowly raised her gaze to his, knowing before she did whom she would find.

  Admiral Chase Randal.

  CHAPTER 23

  Chase crossed his arms over his bare chest and stared out the window of his chamber. Muted gray shapes formed out of the darkness, their cold, lifeless masses mimicking the numbness that gripped him. ’Twas a new day. Oh, that its light would chase away the night’s events as well as it now did the shadows. Chase released a long sigh, wishing with all his might that last night had been just another of his nightmares, even though both the exhaustion tugging upon his body and the agony wrenching his heart told him otherwise.

  Dominique had betrayed him … had betrayed England. An admiral’s daughter. Chase rubbed his scar. Yet there was no denying the evidence. He glanced at the curled pile of papers on his desk, documents stamped with the emblem of the British Admiralty, the very same documents he had planted in his study—to catch a spy. And the very same documents he had found in her hands.

  Dominique was the French spy the Admiralty had been looking for all along.

  Yet even as he thought it, he found it hard to believe. Her timidity, her innocence, her faith, and even her affection for him, all a charade, all a performance. What an actress she was, better than any he had seen at Drury Lane. He snorted, pushing back a wave of agony, unwilling to express any emotion. Not for a traitor, not for a charlatan, not for a trollop who betrayed her homeland. Why had she done it? For money, no doubt. Chase swallowed hard.

  His sister had been right all along.

  He stormed from the window, every muscle taut, and slammed his fist into the wall. “Augh!” he growled. A dent marred the paneling, but he didn’t care. Shaking his throbbing hand, he cursed under his breath. Now that Admiral Troubridge was recovering, Chase would leave this godforsaken town house, head out to sea, and never return. How could he have been such a half-wit? Perhaps he was not worthy to be hailed as an admiral in His Majesty’s Royal Navy if he could be so easily duped by a simple girl. Egad, he had welcomed her into his home, into William’s life, into his life, as a favor to her father, a gesture of kindness. And thus he was repaid. The French manner of returning a favor, no doubt.

  Chase gripped the back of a chair until blood trickled from the wound on his right hand, feeling like a caged animal. Why? He was not the one locked in his chamber. He should call the marines and have her arrested immediately and thrown behind bars in Newgate. He should. For he well knew that according to the articles of war, he could be hanged for giving shelter and sustenance to the enemy. But for some reason, he could not turn her in, not just yet.

  The half bottle of brandy beckoned him from his desk, glittering like liquid gold in the first rays of the sun shooting through the window. He released the chair. No more. The drink had befuddled his mind, especially when it had come to Miss Dawson.

  Just the thought of her betrayal sent something hard and black slinking over his heart, encasing it once again. This time it would be forever.

  Dominique could not get warm. No amount of pacing, no amount of quilts tossed about her shoulders could drive away the chill that covered her like a morning frost. Flinging the blankets back onto her bed, she rubbed her arms. The smell of the Thames rose from her sodden gown. Oh, my dear Marcel. What have I done? I have failed you. Agony constricted her throat. Oh God, I told You I could not do this.

  Darkness clung to her chamber, defiantly refusing to gi
ve up its hold as a new day dawned outside her window. After she had run into the admiral last night, he had grabbed the documents, immediately turned his back to her, and ordered the man with him to escort her back to her chamber and lock her within. That was nigh five hours ago and she had heard no sound in the house save the pattering of mice and whispers of maids. Why she had not been thrown into the corner of some prison cell, she could not say.

  Dominique sank onto the bed. The fear that had suffocated her all night had dissipated the moment she had looked up into the admiral’s brown eyes, eyes burning with both shock and pain, eyes that tore through her heart like a hot sword.

  Then he had turned away.

  Why was she no longer afraid? Perhaps terror reaches a pinnacle, a place where it can go no further—where it loses consciousness. If that were the case, then either her fear was finally dead or it would come back to life soon enough. But for now, all she felt was emptiness, resignation, much like a prisoner must feel while being led to the gallows.

  All was lost. Marcel would die. And she would be hanged as a spy.

  A jingle of keys, a clank, and her door creaked open to reveal Larena carrying a tray of food. The scent of spicy hot tea and creamy breakfast porridge rose like a tantalizing aroma—the aroma of a last meal.

  A look of horror paled Larena’s face and widened her blue eyes. Even the freckles on her cheeks shrank in fear. “Are you all right, miss?” She set the tray down and scurried to the stove, not waiting for an answer.

  “Where is the admiral?” Dominique asked.

  “In his chamber.” Larena ignited the coals and grabbed the poker, keeping her back toward Dominique.

  “Come over to the stove, miss,” Larena beckoned her. “You will catch your death.”

  Dominique stared at the chambermaid poking at the coals, her red curls springing from underneath her cap. “ ’Tis what I deserve.”

  “Oh, what nonsense is this?” Larena replaced the poker and rushed to Dominique, taking her hands in hers.