Falcon and the Sparrow

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Come now, monsieur.” Dominique pursed her lips. “Do you think we would run away with your precious documents? Where would we go?”

  The Frenchman cocked a brow toward Marcel and snorted. “You said she was meek.” He shot his beady gaze back to her and shrugged. “Très bien. Allez... go.” He flicked his fingers out in front of him.

  Marcel walked cautiously toward her, glancing back at his captors, then hastened to her side. He opened his arms, and Dominique flew into them, laying her head upon his shoulder. He seemed to have grown during their separation, taller, more muscular. Drawing a whiff of his musky scent, she listened to his strong heartbeat and silently thanked the Lord. She took a step back and wiped the tears from her face. “You look well, my brother.”

  “They have been good to me, Dominique.” He nodded then furrowed his brow. “But you have been so very brave.”

  “I could not lose you.” Emotion burned in her throat as she gazed into his ocean blue eyes and ran her fingers through his dark curls, the strong features of his face reminding her so much of their father. “I will not lose you,” she said with more determination.

  “Assez, assez,” the Frenchman barked as he approached them. “Maintenant, les documents.”

  Opening her valise, Dominique grabbed the bundle and shoved them toward him. Taking Marcel’s hand in hers, she pulled him beside her and took a step back while the man perused them. He fingered his oily mustache, sifting through the pages, his eyes alight with cruel excitement.

  “Excellent.”

  Dominique squeezed Marcel’s hand, relishing the feel of him beside her. She had saved him, after all. She cast a quick glance his way just to ensure he was not a dream, a vision. He did not look her way but kept his gaze forward.

  Dominique’s palms grew sweaty, and her hand almost slipped from Marcel’s. “Now you have what you asked for. Let us go,” she demanded with all the authority she could muster.

  Marcel stiffened beside her.

  The Frenchman handed the documents to the man behind him then folded his arms over his silk coat and studied her.

  Dominique shifted her boots in the dirt, still moist inside from the seawater, and tried to meet his imperious gaze. Wind howled through the trees surrounding them, sending the branches fluttering and initiating the eerie hoot of night owls. Yet he said not a word. One of the soldiers shifted.

  Something was amiss. Every nerve within Dominique pricked to attention. All she wanted to do was grab Marcel and run.

  “But no. I fear we cannot do that,” the Frenchman finally said with a sneer.

  The infantrymen raised their bayonets.

  Dominique’s heart crashed into her ribs then crumbled into a heap in her sodden boots.

  “What of your bargain, monsieur?”

  “We do not bargain with Englishwomen.”

  Marcel turned Dominique to face him. “It will be all right, Dominique. Their cause is a good one.”

  Every fiber in Dominique went suddenly numb. “I do not understand, Marcel. What are you saying?”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as it always did when he got caught at something. He shot a glance at the Frenchman before facing her again. Still he said nothing as his eyes searched hers.

  Her gaze wandered to the Frenchman. An evil grin twisted his lips.

  She faced Marcel. “You were with them….” Dominique uttered the words that her mind still refused to admit. “All this time.”

  “It is not what you think, Domi. You were never in any danger from them.” He gripped her shoulders.

  “Danger?” Anger raged through her. She snapped from his grasp and pounded his chest. “Do you know what I have been through? I could have been hung for treason!”

  Marcel grabbed her wrists. “They never would have let that happen.”

  “You stupid boy.” Dominique dropped her hands to her sides and felt her heart sink further into a deep mire.

  “Uncle Lucien has taught me much.” Marcel gave her a pleading look. “He cares for me, and I am sure he will care for you, too. He has been like a father to me, Domi.”

  “You have a father, Marcel. Or have you forgotten him already?”

  Marcel lowered his gaze. “That is not fair.” He kicked his boot in the sand. “I told you I would take care of you. Uncle Lucien can provide for us, give us a name. He has great plans to ensure our futures.” Marcel’s eyes glittered with excitement. “I have met Napoleon. He intends to make me one of his elite Guarde des Consuls. His Imperial Guard. Can you believe it?”

  No, she could not believe it. Dominique shook her head, wanting to cover her ears with her hands and stop this nonsense. How could her brother betray her?

  “I did it for us, Dominique,” he continued in a pleading tone. “This is our chance, chérie. I told you I would take care of us. Now we will have position, title, and wealth.”

  “No, Marcel. They are using you. Don’t you see?”

  Marcel swiveled his gaze to the Frenchman. “Tell her, Vicomte.”

  The Frenchman smiled—one of those smiles that reminded Dominique of a snake about to devour its prey. “Cheer up, mademoiselle. It works out for everyone, does it not? You and your brother will be cared for. Napoleon will win the victory at sea.” He waved a jeweled hand through the air. “Everyone will be happy.”

  Everyone but her. For she would not serve Napoleon, nor his cause. And she would not allow her innocent brother to be a part of his wicked schemes to rule the world.

  “Shall we go, then?” The vicomte gestured behind him.

  Dominique clutched Marcel’s hand. “This is madness. Come with me, Marcel.”

  “Are you daft? I cannot, Dominique. This is my home. We are related to Napoleon. He will soon be emperor. Think of what that will mean for us.”

  “You see how he treats his relatives. Do not make a pact with the devil, Marcel. ‘What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?’”

  “Assez. We go now,” the Frenchman roared.

  Dominique released her brother’s hand. She could not force him to leave with her. “Go with them, Marcel. But I cannot.”

  The vicomte pivoted on his heels. “I am afraid you have no choice, mademoiselle. My orders are to bring you back, as well.”

  Alarm cinched her heart, but she threw back her shoulders. “I will not go with you.”

  “Then you will die.” With a snap of his fingers, the infantry cocked and pointed their muskets upon her.

  “Die! This was not part of our bargain,” Marcel shouted. “Take her with us. I assure you, she will change her mind later on.”

  “No. She has been nothing but a bother to me, an annoying little gnat, as she will be to His Excellency. I have neither the patience nor the time to deal with her.” He straightened the lace at his cuffs and spun around.

  “Shoot her.”

  Marcel flung himself in front of Dominique, stretching his arms wide. “Then you will have to shoot me, as well.”

  Fear spiked through her. She pushed against Marcel, trying to shove him out of the way, but he was too heavy to move and stood his ground, keeping her behind him with one arm.

  The Frenchman slowly turned around. “Very well. Shoot them both,” he said with the same tone with which he would order a drink.

  Oh Lord, save us. Dominique wrapped her arms around her brother and squeezed her eyes shut.

  CHAPTER 26

  That will not be necessary.”

  Chase marched into the clearing, the pistol in his hand pointed directly at the Frenchman’s chest. Behind him, he heard his seven marines emerge from the shadows of the trees, then the cock of their muskets as they aimed them at their enemies.

  The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed and snapped to Dominique. “You tricked us.”

  Ignoring him, Dominique slowly turned, her amber eyes locking upon Chase’s and widening with both surprise and something else … joy?

  “Chase.”

 
The sweet sound of his Christian name upon her lips seeped through him like soothing balm over an open wound. Egad, but it was good to see her again. He glanced over her shoulder. But not with ten bayonets aimed at her heart. Terror like he had known only once before froze the blood in his veins. He could not lose another woman he loved. He could not.

  Trust Me.

  The voice that he had heard over and over again these past days eased through him—the voice that had answered him when he had cried out in agony, in despair, seeking guidance, seeking answers.

  The initial shock lifting the Frenchman’s features soon faded, replaced once again by a bellicose impudence. “You are outnumbered, Admiral.”

  “It will not matter. My pistol is aimed at you.” The Frenchman spat to the side.

  Marcel, the brother whom Chase had heard betray Dominique, glanced at Chase over his shoulder. No maliciousness stormed in his gaze. Young. So very young. So easily fooled by these men with their vain promises of glory.

  “I have a better plan.” Chase glared at the Frenchman. “Give me the documents and allow myself, Miss Dawson, and her brother to go free. Then you may scurry back to the hole where Napoleon hides himself and tell him he will never defeat His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

  The Frenchman’s face became a bloating mass of scarlet. He glanced over his shoulder as if searching for someone then snapped his gaze forward again. With a snort, he puffed out his chest. “On the contrary, monsieur. We will keep these documents and promptly kill all of you and your men.” Keeping his gaze fixed upon Chase, he slowly retreated.

  In all his years in command, Chase had learned the scent of fear on a man, and the stench coming from the Frenchman overwhelmed him. “I am afraid I find your terms most disagreeable.” Chase gave the man a sardonic grin. “Surely you cannot expect me to abide by them.”

  “Non,” the Frenchman retorted. “I expect you to die.” He snapped his fingers.

  A musket fired.

  Chase ducked and fired his weapon as a shot zipped past his right ear. Its ominous buzz echoed through his head. Far too close.

  “Fire!” he yelled to his marines. Drawing his other pistol, he shoved Dominique behind him, pushing her to the ground.

  Gunfire cracked like feral whips all around him.

  Waving aside the smoke, Chase aimed his pistol toward the Frenchman.

  But the viper had already disappeared into the forest.

  Dominique. Dropping behind a boulder, Chase peered through the acrid haze, coughing. Finally, he saw her. She and her brother had sped into the trees for cover.

  Confident they were safe for now, Chase fired at one of the French soldiers. The man clutched his shoulder and dropped to the ground.

  More shots thundered through the clearing. Then the firing ceased. Nothing but the coughs of the living and moans of the wounded filled the air. Chase knew he must not give his enemy time to reload.

  “Swords!” he shouted, and the swish of blades against scabbards bounced through the dissipating smoke.

  Plucking out his own blade, Chase sliced through the thick vapor and forged toward the infantry, taking on the first man he came upon. Blade against blade they parried, the clang of their swords echoing through the night air. Sidestepping the Frenchman’s lunge, Chase brought his sword about and ploughed it into the man’s arm. With a shriek, his opponent clutched the wound before flinging the tip of his blade toward Chase in a whirlwind of steel. Chase countered the attack with an ease born of practicing his swordplay until exhaustion relieved the tension of his unrequited affections for Miss Dawson.

  A look of dread cast the poor Frenchman’s face in gray as no doubt the realization hit him that he was outmatched. As Chase drew up his sword for another charge, the man simply dropped his blade, turned, and fled into the night.

  With a shrug, Chase scanned the area for another enemy but found that either his men had dispatched them or the rest had run away.

  He stormed across the clearing. “Grab the lanterns. Gather the wounded and ready the boat,” he ordered the men, kneeling to check on one of the marines who had been shot. Still alive, thank God.

  Dominique. Oh Lord, let her be safe. A wave of terror struck him.

  Grabbing a lantern, he dove into the forest, frantically brushing aside branches. Then he saw her, crouched behind a bush with Marcel.

  “Chase.” She raced into his arms, and he swallowed her up in his embrace, taking in a deep breath of her and finding it the best scent he had ever smelled.

  “You came for me. After what I did,” she sobbed, looking up at him, her eyes glassy pools of wonder.

  He brushed a curl from her face and eased it behind her ear, but he could not find the words to tell her how he felt.

  Over her shoulder he saw Marcel rise to his feet.

  Dominique’s gaze shot down to Chase’s arm. “You are hurt,” she gasped, peeling back the fabric of his shirt.

  Following her gaze, he saw a red stain marring the white linen. He had not even felt it. “It is nothing. We must go. I am sure there are more Frenchmen about.”

  Marcel laid a hand on Dominique’s shoulder. “I am so sorry, Dominique.” He dropped his gaze to the ground. “What have I done?”

  “Never mind that now.” She brushed her fingers over his cheek.

  Chase took Dominique’s hand and led the way, holding the lantern before them. They had only to get to the cliffs then climb down to the shore, where not twenty yards to the north, his longboat awaited.

  As they emerged from the trees onto the top of the embankment, a blast of salty air struck him. He took a deep breath, hurrying Dominique and her brother along as fast as he could over the rocks and thorns.

  Almost there.

  He squeezed her hand and said a prayer of thanks to God for saving her.

  The cock of a pistol, ever so quiet, clicked behind them.

  Before Chase could turn around, Marcel uttered a loud “No!” and flung himself in front of Dominique. The crack of the weapon reverberated through the night air.

  Marcel crumpled to the ground.

  Dominique screamed and dropped beside him.

  When Chase looked up, he saw the Frenchman’s wicked grin leering at them from the trees to their right. “I was aiming for the girl, but killing the traitorous whelp will suffice.”

  Chase set down the lantern and drew his sword. “You have proven you can shoot an unarmed boy. Now let us see how you fare blade to blade against a man.”

  The momentary twinge of fear that crossed the Frenchman’s distorted features soon tightened into resolve as he swept his sword from its scabbard and held it out before him. “I warn you, monsieur, I have won many honors with my sword and beaten men far more skilled than you.”

  “ ’Twill be a shame, then, for you to die at the hand of an Englishman.” Chase advanced over the rocky ground, a grim smile stretching his mouth.

  Dominique’s stomach convulsed then tightened into a knot. She removed Marcel’s coat and pressed it upon the burgeoning circle of blood on his chest. “Marcel,” she cried. “Oh Lord, please do not take my brother.”

  Marcel’s lids fluttered open, and he moaned. “Domi …” His breath grew ragged. The sharp scent of blood stung her nose.

  “Rest now. We will get a doctor. You will be all right.” She kissed his forehead even as the ringing of swords behind her tore away the hope of her words.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Chase swooped down upon the Frenchman, slashing a path before him as his foe jumped back in quick frenzied leaps. Darting to the side, the Frenchman swung around and sliced the tip of his blade across Chase’s chest.

  Dominique shrieked. A line of dark maroon formed on his blue waistcoat.

  Chase stood erect and confidently poised. “Is that your best, monsieur?” he asked, twirling his sword out before him, taunting his enemy.

  The vicomte charged forward, his face the color of a sweaty beet, and once again the two swords clanked hilt to hilt. The men gritted th
eir teeth and ground their swords together. The muscles beneath Chase’s torn shirt bulged under the strain. Fresh blood glistened from his wound.

  Then, as if only waiting for the right moment, he shoved the Frenchman. The man stumbled backward over a boulder. Before he could regain his composure, Chase pummeled him with blow after blow, the man barely fending them off, so quickly they came.

  Dominique had witnessed her father’s swordplay from time to time, but she had never seen anything like this. Chase fought with the skill and confidence of an admiral of the fleet and the ferocity of a savage. Terror sent her heart into a wild, uncontrollable beat. The Frenchman was not without skill himself. What would become of her, of Marcel, if Chase were to die? Glancing down at Marcel, she pressed down upon his wound. He uttered a guttural moan. A tear slid from her face and landed on his chest. Oh Lord, do not let me lose both of them.

  The ringing of swords drew her attention back to the fight, an eerie, ghoulish battle in the flickering light of the lantern. Chase sidestepped an overzealous thrust of his enemy then turned and met his blade from behind. She still could not fathom why he had come to her rescue. To hate her, to despise her, yes, but never to risk his life for her. Not after what she had done.

  With a growl that made Dominique’s skin crawl, the Frenchman charged Chase, knocking him off his feet and tossing him to the ground. Chase’s head hovered over the side of the precipice.

  With a maniacal cackle, the Frenchman raised his sword to plunge it into Chase’s heart.

  Dominique screamed and sprang to her feet, intending to throw herself against the villain.

  Suddenly Chase raised his feet, tangled them around the Frenchman’s legs, and toppled him to the dirt with a thud. Flipping upright, he grabbed his sword, kicked the Frenchman’s aside, then thrust his boot upon the man’s neck. Choking, the man stared at Chase with horror. Chase lifted his sword and pivoted its tip over the man’s chest.

  “No, Chase.” Dominique touched his arm. No matter what the Frenchman had done, killing a defenseless man would not be right.

  As Chase looked at her, the fury melted from his eyes. Removing his boot from the Frenchman’s neck, he sheathed his sword then brushed his thumb over her cheek.