Falcon and the Sparrow

by Marylu Tyndall

  Groaning, the vicomte rolled on his side.

  Chase rushed to Marcel. Dominique knelt beside him as he lifted the blood-soaked coat and checked the wound. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. Dominique could tell from the stiff lines on his face that it was serious.

  He hoisted the moaning boy over his shoulder without effort. “We need to get him to my ship immediately. I have a surgeon on board.”

  “Will he live?” She clung to his sleeve. “Tell me he will live.”

  “You must pray, Dominique.” He gave her an earnest look, his eyes filled with uncertainty.

  Nodding, she grabbed the lantern and followed him down the same narrow pathway she had climbed when she had first arrived. Only this time, she did not concern herself with tripping or scratching her palms. She was not worried about the French. This time, Marcel’s curly dark hair swayed before her as his head fell limp over Chase’s shoulder. This time, she was consumed with the terrifying thought that her brother would die. Lord, You could not have brought me this far only to watch him die. Please, Lord.

  Her prayers fell silent, drowned out by the crash of the waves and the fear that choked the breath in her throat and jumbled the thoughts in her head. Instead, she concentrated simply on following Chase.

  They scrambled over the jumbled labyrinth of boulders and reached the white fan of the beach. Before them, a sea of ebony stretched to the horizon, interrupted only by the moon’s reflection off the pearly froth atop the waves. Chase turned right, and Dominique followed him along the shoreline, their boots sloshing through the waves that clawed at their feet.

  A bright flash lit up sea, followed by a thunderous boom. Dominique shot her gaze upon the dark waters where another flash of white revealed the dark silhouette of a ship before it faded into darkness.

  Boom!

  The roar pounded in her ears and sent a quiver through the water.

  Chase halted, and she came up beside him. “What is it?”

  “Apparently my ship has encountered the French,” he said matter-of-factly. “We cannot return yet.” He glanced over the dark, jagged bluffs bordering the shore. “We must hide. This way.”

  Chase strode toward the cliffs with a confidence that helped ease Dominique’s fear. In the face of so much danger and uncertainty, he never complained, never showed any fear, and never faltered in making a quick decision. She supposed that was why he was an admiral. Yet she had rarely seen this side of him at his home. There on land, amidst the shrill tongue of his sister and the comical badgering of Mr. Atherton, he had seemed naught but a fish out of water.

  Still holding Marcel over his shoulder with one hand, he grabbed hers with the other and assisted her as they wove through the massive boulders littering the beach, dove around an uneven rock wall, and came upon a shadowy opening in the base of the cliff. Taking the lantern from her, he held it before him then ducked and entered a small cave.

  He gently placed Marcel on the soft sand toward the back and put the lantern beside him.

  “Stay here. I will alert my men and make sure the light cannot be seen from shore.”

  A massive red blotch stained the shoulder of his blue waistcoat and seeped onto his shirt. Dominique knew it was not his blood.

  He must have seen the terror in her eyes, for he stopped and lifted her hand, placing a kiss upon it. “Be brave for just a little while longer. It will be all right.”

  When he left, Dominique felt anything but brave. Marcel groaned. “Dominique.” Dropping by his side, she squeezed his hand.

  “Marcel.” She brushed the dark curls from his face, noting how white he had become. “I need you. Be strong, Marcel.”

  Lifting the coat, she winced at the oozing pool of blood. Quickly she pressed the coat back upon the wound, willing the flow to stop, praying with all her might that it would. Marcel did not even moan. Oh God. Her breath came in rapid spurts. The eerie, craggy walls of the cave began to spin around her.

  “Dominique.” Marcel’s voice was weak, as if he spoke to her from the end of a long tunnel.

  “Do not try to talk, Marcel. We will soon be on the ship.” She glanced at the dark entrance to the cave. “The surgeon will save you.” The surgeon must save him. Oh Lord. Her throat suddenly went dry. She began to tremble.

  “Dominique.” He opened his eyes, so blue, but the clarity had dissipated, leaving only a hazy sheen.

  She pressed a finger to his lips, unable to speak for the lump in her throat.

  He brushed it aside. “Let me speak, ma chérie.” He coughed and winced. A trickle of blood spilled from his lips. “I was a fool. Taken in by Lucien, by Napoleon. I thought they cared for me.”

  Dominique wiped the tear that slipped from his eye. His face had gone ghostly white. Beads of sweat crested his hairline. The realization of what was happening sailed through Dominique’s mind, but she refused to allow it a place to anchor.

  “I only wanted to be a part of something important,” he continued, his voice cracking. “To be somebody important. To make you and Mother and Father proud.”

  The blast of cannons thundered in the distance.

  “But we are so proud of you. We always have been.”

  “It was all so exciting, you know.” He squeezed his eyes and moaned.

  “I know. Let us not speak of it now,” Dominique said. “When you are well, I will give you a good spanking, rest assured.” She forced a chuckle that faltered on her lips.

  A brief smile flitted across his lips, which had now turned purple.

  Dominique heard footsteps behind her.

  Marcel gave her hand a weak squeeze. “I have caused you so much pain.”

  “Pain? You saved me, Marcel.” Tears flowed down her cheeks as her heart shrank into a black hole. “You saved my life. I would be dead if not for you.”

  He opened his mouth, but only a gurgling sound emerged.

  “You cannot leave me,” Dominique wailed and clutched his shoulders. “I will not allow it, do you hear? I need you!”

  “You do not need me any longer, chère soeur.“His voice was a mere whisper now. “Look how strong you have become.” He tried to smile. “I am proud of you.”

  Dominique shook her head. “No, I do need you.”

  He reached up and touched her cheek. “It grows dark, I am afraid.”

  Dominique grabbed both of his hands. “Cling to Jesus, Marcel. Trust in Him now more than ever.”

  He nodded, his breath ragged, his chest heaving.

  His blue gaze darted to her. Then the look of love that filled his eyes went completely blank.

  Dominique fell into a heap upon him. “No! Marcel … No,” she sobbed. “Oh Lord! No, no, no! Why have You done this? Why?”

  Strong arms grabbed her shoulders and lifted her from her brother’s body then turned her around. She fell against Chase’s chest. He held her until the sobs that raked over her quieted to tiny ripples.

  She clung to his waistcoat. “He is gone.”

  “I know.”

  “I cannot believe it. I do not understand why God allowed this. I did everything He wanted.”

  Chase sifted his fingers through her hair then kissed the top of her head. “This is not your fault.”

  The crunch of sand sounded behind them. Chase spun around, hand on the hilt of his sword. Dominique rose and stared aghast at the man who stood at the entrance to the cave. He fingered a jewel embedded in his richly embroidered black waistcoat, out of which bounded a flurry of lace from his shirt beneath. A gust of wind blew in behind him, swinging the ends of a white sash that hung around his waist and fluttering his purple velvet cape fastened around his chest by a gold-tasseled braid. A high, stiff collar that reminded Dominique of the cliffs along the beach guarded the back of his neck. Short dark hair sat in waves on his head while thick, bushy sideburns forested half his narrow cheeks. Standing with the regal authority of a prince, he placed one hand on his hip and smiled at her.

  What remained of Dominique’s hope melted into th
e sand beneath her feet.

  “Are you not going to introduce me?”

  Dominique wiped the tears from her face and took a deep breath. “Chase … Admiral Randal, my cousin. Lucien Bonaparte.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Dominique grabbed Chase’s hand, knowing these might be her last moments with him. He squeezed hers in return but quickly released it as he took a step toward Lucien.

  With a snap of his jeweled fingers, Lucien summoned three French infantrymen, who stormed in behind him and leveled their bayonets upon Chase.

  The admiral snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. He slid in front of Dominique.

  “Ah, so vaillant, Admiral.” Lucien eased a hand into a side pocket. His eyes sparkled with cruel intelligence. “But what would I expect from so fine a British officer?”

  Lucien’s dark gaze shot over the tiny enclosure. “Where is Marcel?” He peered toward the back of the cave. A frown wrinkled his brow. Suddenly he charged past them, nearly toppling Dominique before he knelt beside the lifeless boy. For a moment, Lucien simply stared at him. Uttering a deep sigh, he dropped his head into his hands.

  “Qu’est-ce qui se passé? What happened?” His voice that only a moment ago brimmed with pompous authority now clogged with emotion. He shot a fiery glare at Dominique as if she were the cause of the travesty before him, then returned his gaze to Marcel, taking the boy’s hand in his.

  “He is dead, monsieur.” Dominique fired the words at him like a cannonball, hoping to wound him, but in the end, saying them aloud only sliced a larger hole in her own heart. “Your man, the vicomte, shot him.”

  Lucien shook his head and kept his gaze upon Marcel, rubbing his hand as if the gentle action would somehow bring the boy back.

  Dominique watched him curiously. Gentle sobs rippled down his back. Were they real? Or rather was his display of affection some sort of ruse? Had he really cared for Marcel?

  “Non, mais non! I did not mean for this to happen,” he finally said, his voice cracked and hollow. “Oh, my sweet boy. Marcel.”

  Dominique knelt on the other side of her brother, peering at Lucien, but his face was lost to her in the shadows. “What do you expect when you use a boy as a pawn in your heinous game of power?” she hissed, anger and agony seething in her voice.

  She knew Lucien Bonaparte was unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a manner. But she no longer cared. Marcel was dead. They were trapped. It was all over.

  Oh Lord, bring us home quickly—she brushed a finger over her brother’s pasty white cheek—to join Marcel.

  Swiping the back of his hand against his nose, Lucien slowly rose. He turned his back to them and faced the wall of the cave. Dominique cast a quick glance at Chase and saw the same astonishment in his eyes that she experienced in light of the brutal Frenchman’s emotional display.

  Flinging his cape over his shoulder, Lucien spun around, his face set in stone. Only the moisture glistening in his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil.

  “I will kill Vicomte D’Aubigne for this.”

  “More deaths will solve nothing,” Chase said.

  “Death comes to us all, Admiral.” Lucien sneered then stole a glance at Marcel. He swallowed. “And to some, far too soon.” He seemed to choke on the words.

  Dominique rose and joined Chase, still overcome by the sudden change in her cousin. Perhaps Marcel had been right and Lucien had become like a father to him.

  “You have your documents. What do you want with us?” Chase demanded.

  Lucien fingered the jewel-encrusted broach fastened to his cape and shifted his gaze between Chase and Dominique. The sorrow of Marcel’s death seemed to have shrunk him in stature while deflating his bloated superiority. He opened his thin lips to speak but snapped them shut and looked away.

  “Let the girl go,” Chase ordered him as if Lucien were one of the sailors on his ship. “She did what you requested. She is of no further use to you.”

  Dominique gripped his arm. “No, Chase.”

  Her heart swelled with both pride and fear for the man who stood so bravely in her defense. Cakes of mud smeared his white breeches; torn and bloodstained, his shirt hung in shreds around his thick chest; and the gold buttons that once adorned his blue waistcoat were either missing or dangling by threads. A moist blotch of dark purple marred his shoulder where locks of dark brown hair had escaped his queue and hung about him wildly. Despite the threat of death hanging over her, despite the agony in her heart, Dominique thought him the handsomest man she had ever seen.

  “Never fear, Miss Dawson is of little consequence to me.” Lucien waved at her as if she were naught but an annoying bug. “But I had thought to keep you, Admiral.” His sunken eyes barely grazed over Chase before they fixated on the void of the cave. “An admiral in His Majesty’s fleet would be très important for us, your knowledge, your skill.” The tone of his voice sank lower with each word, draining all the threat from his statement.

  Chase cast a calm glance at Dominique. “Then take me and let her be.”

  Fear once again drained the strength from Dominique’s legs, causing them to wobble. “No. I will not lose you. Not because of me.”

  Lucien pursed his lips and gazed toward the mouth of the cave where three of his men still aimed their weapons upon Chase and Dominique.

  Outside, the blast of cannons had ceased, and only the rhythmic crash of waves echoed through the narrow cave. A cold breeze swirled the cape at Lucien’s feet and sent a chill over Dominique.

  “Baissez vos armes.” Lucien gestured toward his men, who quickly lowered their weapons and stood at attention.

  A twinge of hope flickered within Dominique, a spark she dared not allow to grow, for she knew the guile of these Bonapartes. Beside her, a slight motion caught her eye, and she glanced down to see Chase fingering the hilt of a knife housed on the side of his belt. Her heart restricted. It would be suicide to attack Lucien Bonaparte.

  Lucien rubbed the back of his neck and stared down at Marcel. “I have seen enough death for one night.”

  Without so much as a glance at them, he sauntered past Chase and Dominique. The admiral began to lift his knife, but Dominique pressed upon his arm and shook her head. She knew Lucien well enough to know something was amiss—something that might end up in their favor.

  Lucien ordered his men to leave the cave; then he faced Dominique and Chase with a somber look. “I have come to oppose many of my brother’s imperial ideas.” The lines at the corners of his mouth tightened. “I currently find myself in his disfavor.” He threw back his shoulders as if he had just made a grand decision. “I am thinking of moving to Rome.”

  Dominique gaped at him in disbelief.

  “I fear my brother has gone—how do you say?—fou… mad,” he continued with a sigh. “He will declare himself emperor soon. And you should also know that he intends to bring most of Europe under his domination.”

  Chase shifted his stance, his brow wrinkling. “Why are you telling us this?”

  “Because I am setting you free.”

  The words drifted through the air, bouncing off the cold walls of the cave but never seeming to form into any sensible pattern. “You release us?” Dominique asked.

  “Unless you prefer imprisonment? That can certainly be arranged.” Lucien grinned—a wide, spurious grin that quickly snapped back into a frown. “Non, you may go.” He waved them forward.

  Chase remained frozen in place. “Do you take us for fools? We will not fall for your trickery again.”

  Lucien frowned. “I assure you, I am quite sane and quite serious.” He raised his brows then poked his head around the front of the cave and blasted a string of French commands to his men—words Dominique recognized as orders not to shoot them and to allow them to leave.

  Lucien faced them again. “Allez, allez. Your boat awaits. My men have not harmed your marines.”

  Dominique glanced at Chase. Mistrust glittered from his gaze.

  “Why do you wait?” Lucien bark
ed.

  “You Frenchmen have a habit of shooting people in the back,” Chase responded.

  “Do not test my patience, monsieur,” Lucien stormed, his eyes simmering. “Leave now, or I may change my mind.”

  Dominique glanced back at Marcel. “I will not leave my brother.” She shook her head and swallowed a lump of pain. “Not to rot alone in this cave.”

  “I will give him a proper burial.” Lucien’s expression sank as he glanced at Marcel.

  “Non. He will not be buried in France, not by you—not by those who caused his death.”

  Chase’s gaze took in Marcel then landed on Dominique. A glimmer of concern pierced the imperious glare she knew he must maintain in the face of so many enemies. He lightly touched her arm. “We will take him with us.”

  Dominique glanced at the still form of her brother and wiped another tear sliding down her face. He looked so peaceful. “We will bury him at sea. Father would have liked that.”

  Dominique stood at the bow of the brigantine and wrapped her arms about her chest as she stared upon a sea as dark and thick as ink. A half moon flung sparkling dust upon the tips of choice waves as it made its way across the sky. The smell of the sea—salt, fish, and freedom—wafted about her, tousling her loose hair and ruffling her skirts. Taking in a deep breath of it, she praised her Father in heaven and found it surprising that she could still do so.

  Only an hour ago, she had buried her brother. Sewn into a burlap sack, he had slid into the sea from a plank around which stood the admiral and his crew. The mighty Word of God had been read, and then, just like that, Marcel had slipped away from her, out of her sight, out of her life, and into eternity. Now he rested at the bottom of the deep, alongside countless heroes before him. Despite his betrayal, he was and always would be a hero to her.

  The strong one.

  The boy who had become a man on the streets of Paris.

  “And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged every man according to their works. And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.“