“He has survived all this time under my protection, and I protect him still.”
“And you’re able to keep your cover over him against the powers trying to tear it apart?”
She held the infant a little tighter to her. “I shall try. It is all I can do.”
* * *
The Ekta had sustained much damage, including cracked and broken ribs, torn sails, cracks in a mast, bent pipes, two busted fans, and shattered sheaves—which was keeping the rudder from turning properly. Not to mention the rat problem.
The Sea Warriors were able to patch her up a bit using spare parts stored in the hull. Pierce spoke to Chief Sea Wind about sailing to France, which suited the salty sea native just fine, for it was the safest place for the crew to go until they could fully repair the ship.
The long crossing of the Atlantic was not without its trouble. September storms threatened to drag the Ekta to the bottom of the ocean. Thanks to Sees Beyond’s spirits guiding them, they were able to avoid sailing through the thick of it.
Pierce was never more thrilled to see land than on the morning of October 3, when they reached Le Havre. The solid pier that didn’t sway beneath his feet felt almost foreign to him. He stretched his arms and then cracked his spine as if he’d been cooped up inside a box for the past month. In truth, that’s exactly what it felt like.
“What are you going to do?” he asked Nico, who had joined him at the end of the dock.
“A few of my crew wish to remain on land and make their way home.”
“Are you planning on returning to Amsterdam?”
Nico shook his head. “I don’t think I’m ready. To tell the truth, I’m not sure if I ever want to go back.”
Remembering the sort of arsehole François Joubert was, Pierce understood the lad’s reluctance to return home—unless Nico wanted his life lived out for him. The lad’s father was happy to trap him into running a chain of hotels.
“I’ve requested to travel with Captain Sea Wind and his crew,” Nico went on. “They planned to bring you home to the islands anyway before returning to their reservation in Mexico. Perhaps I’ll visit California after all, non?”
“Sounds good, lad.”
“Are you going to travel to your friend, Robert?”
“Aye. I’m leaving right now.”
“What do you expect to find when you arrive?”
Pierce hoped not a bullet in the balls, which he’d been promised during his last visit to see Robert.
“Dunno. If the vision about him is as true as the one about the Sea Warriors, then I’ve arrived exactly when I needed to in order to save him.”
“What about that witch?”
Pierce snorted. “One problem at a time. Right now, I’m playing this all by ear. Once I make sure Robert is safe, I’ll find out what happens next. No worries.”
No worries, his arse. So far, Freya had gotten everything she’d wanted in getting him to this bloody continent. With any luck, Grandmother Fey’s protection over him would hold strong until he was able to make his way home. He had no real plan on how to deal with a witch. What could he do against her? Who could he turn to for help?
“See you soon,” Pierce told his cousin, walking away.
Pierce went to the city’s stables to rent a horse. On the way, he spied many posters on a wall that read “L’emploi est un droit fondamental!”
“Employment is a fundamental right?” he recited to himself. “Curious.”
Standing beside him, reading the same poster, was a woman dressed in a blue and black day gown. Her hair was done up fashionably high in big, golden curls, and she was wearing clock gear earrings. Her overbust corset was threaded tightly—a little too tightly, Pierce thought. It gave her a stiff hourglass figure. Hanging from her black lace collar was a cameo of a cat, and around her wrist was a copper bracelet with a ticking clock resting in it. Pinned to the lapel of her velvet short coat was a beetle brooch made of silver with a sparkly jewel—probably glass—imbedded in its body.
When he spoke, she looked at him queerly, stuck up her nose, and walked away.
The industrial clothing style had certainly blossomed over the years. More and more people seemed to have had adopted the trend.
Aside from the fashion, Le Havre had changed little since his last visit. There were many more steam stacks on ships then sail masts, but the buildings were more or less the same, the cobbled streets still needed repairs, and the small seaside alehouse where Archie Norwich had ambushed him was still standing.
Pierce snarled at the building and then shrugged it off. All in the past. Besides, if that nasty business hadn’t occurred, Pierce would have simply fled Europe like the fugitive he was. He would have lost out on finding his parents, meeting Taisia, receiving a Royal pardon, and making amends with his brother, Joaquin.
Pierce arrived at a rental stable called the Cherry Blossom Stable.
In the late 1830’s, some stables began renting out their horses once they learned the revenue farmers were making by doing the same during bad harvest seasons. It wasn’t without its risks, however. Leasing sometimes meant losing, which was why many requested some form of collateral of the same value or more as the animal.
A young woman, dressed in a black vest and white blouse, sat behind a counter. The small lobby smelled of woodchips. Despite the chiming of the tiny bell above the entrance, she refused to look away from the La Mode magazine she was reading.
“Welcome to the Cherry Blossom Stable, monsieur,” she greeted him in a lackluster tone. “How can I help you?”
Pierce stopped at the counter. “I want to rent a horse for the day.”
“The stables close at sunset, monsieur,” the charming girl informed him, reluctant to remove her eyes from whatever drivel she was reading. “Will you have it returned by then?”
Pierce thought not. If he found Robert safe and sound, he’d warn him about the vision he’d had of him being shot down by bounty hunters, and then perhaps spend time catching up with his old mate.
“I’ll return the animal by morning,” he reiterated.
“The amount is sixty francs, with an additional thirty francs down payment, and we require a photo taken of you.”
“Why?”
“To put in the papers to list as a horse thief in case you steal it, monsieur.”
Shite. Now a photograph was needed? The art of photographic technology had certainly evolved. Things had also gotten mighty pricey and stricter since he’d left, too. It would be cheaper and less of a headache to ride in a carriage.
“And there’s a five sou charge for the photograph,” the lass added, finally putting down the magazine to look up at him. When she did, her face flushed with shock. “Sacré bleu!” she exclaimed, shooting up from her seat.
Pierce leaped away, startled by her abrupt behavior.
“Quoi?” he said, reaching for his pistol while scanning the small room for danger.
She pointed at him. “You’re Pierce Landcross!”
He thought about darting out of the building. Being an ex-outlaw, the last thing he wanted was to be recognized. He was unsure if his Royal pardon would stand up in France, where he had also accumulated a sordid reputation. Yet, that was ages ago, and this girl must have been no more than a tyke the last time he was in France, so how the hell could she know about . . .?
“I have read all the books about you!” she blurted out.
. . . him? Of course. It was those bloody books.
“Oh,” he said, still unsure if he should run or not.
She swung open the door behind her and called out, “Bernard, come out here!”
“Que se passe t’il? Je suis occupé,” snapped a man’s voice as the smell of horse dung and fresh cut hay wafted in.
Moments later, a young man dressed in regular stable hand garb entered. “What is it, Agatha?” he demanded, pulling off his work gloves.
“It’s Pierce Landcross, brother,” she announced excitedly.
Bernard
turned his focus on Pierce, who was inching toward the exit. The lad studied him for a few beats before his own eyes went wide.
“It is you!”
Bernard came around the counter with his hand outstretched. He certainly proved that the hours working in the stables had granted him physical might when he nearly dislocated Pierce’s shoulder as he shook his hand.
“It’s an honor, monsieur,” said the youth. “My sister and I have read every book written about you.”
“So she tells me,” Pierce said, pulling away from the strapping young lad before the boy tore his arm clean off.
“Did you really rescue your parents from Newgate Prison while disguised as a guard?” Bernard asked.
Pierce grinned at the memory and chuckled. “Oh, aye. That was me, for sure,” he admitted in English, which, judging by the siblings’ confused expressions, they did not understand. “Uh, oui.”
The siblings looked at each other with giddy delight. “I heard you set the building on fire,” Agatha put in.
“Eh? I didn’t set it on fire.”
He didn’t recall reading about pulling an arson bit on the prison. It had been Fan and her fireworks. Then he remembered the day after the escape, when he stood at the bakery with people discussing the jailbreak. Pierce had been posing as a Frenchman, Gabriel Fay, and had mentioned that Pierce Landcross had been at the prison. From there, the rumor mill must’ve busily spun all sorts of stories.
“Listen, I only came in to rent a horse,” Pierce stated, hoping their favoritism toward him could work to his benefit.
The lad’s smile dropped, and he suddenly became very businesslike. “We need sixty francs, plus—”
“Thirty for a down payment and a photograph that’ll be five sou,” Pierce finished. “Here’s the thing. I have a grand total of twenty francs, and if it’s all the same, I’d rather pass on the photograph.”
The distrust on the youth’s face was disheartening. Undoubtedly, Pierce’s thieving past wasn’t doing anything to work in his favor.
“I understand,” he said, turning on his heel to leave. “Merci, anyway.”
“Wait!” called the young woman. “We’ll accept what you have as well as your signature.”
“Pardon? My signature?”
The lass reached behind the counter and brought out her pocketbook. She turned it upside down and out tumbled a cluster of items, including a couple of books. “Would you?”
He approached and saw the title The Adventures of Pierce Landcross on the cover.
“I’m not the author,” he clarified.
“They’re about you,” she pressed, taking a fountain pen from its stand and handing it to him. “S’il vous plait?”
“Agatha,” her brother spoke up. “We cannot accept that as collateral.”
“I’ll return your mount,” Pierce promised, taking the pen.
“And if he doesn’t,” Agatha continued, “we can honestly claim that Pierce Landcross stole from us. Just imagine the publicity!”
That seemed to win Bernard over. Pierce added nothing to that. He could give a toss if they lied and claimed he’d stolen the animal even after he’d returned it, so long as he had some form of transportation to get him to Berck.
He wasn’t able to talk his way out of the photograph. Agatha waved the five sou fee on the condition that she was in the shot with him.
With that business done, Pierce rode out of Le Havre and followed the road alongside the coast.
The years he’d gone without riding wore on Pierce. By the time he reached Robert’s château, his legs and lower spine ached horribly.
He came to the gate and groaned as he dismounted. No footmen stood guard. The unlocked gate struck him as odd. The iron gate swung inward with a loud, ear-piercing squeak. He led the horse over the long dirt lane toward the château that looked as dreary and cold as it had before Robert took it over after he altered Edgardo José’s will.
In front of the house was a horse-drawn buggy, with old luggage trunks in the bed of it. Pierce reached the door of the château and knocked using the brass knocker. The loud, hollow bangs echoed within the grand entrance hall beyond. He wondered if anyone lived at the place anymore. In his vision, Robert was gunned down in a field, but that could be anywhere.
The hinges creaked as a fancily dressed, middle-aged man holding a rather large luggage trunk by the handles opened the door.
“Ah, bonne journée, monsieur. Pouriez-vous m’aider, s’il vous plait,” the doorman greeted him, handing the trunk over to Pierce.
Pierce had little choice but to grab it before it fell on his feet. The bloke shut the door and began heading for the buggy.
“Put it in the cart,” he commanded.
“Bonjour,” Pierce said, anxious to find out what was going on. “I am looking for Rob . . . er—” It took him a beat to remember Robert’s alias. “For Anatolie Hagi. Does he still reside here?”
“Oui,” he answered. “Who may I ask is searching for him? Not that it concerns me any longer.”
“I’m an old friend of his. Is he here?”
“He is out hunting just south of here, monsieur,” the man explained, climbing onto the buggy and taking the whip. “You should find him there.”
“Merci,” he said, placing the luggage trunk in the cart.
“When you find Mr. Hagi, tell him that I, Noel, thinks he’s a very bad man for letting me go. I am a good servant.”
Is he the help? Pushy bastard. No wonder Rob cut him loose.
With a crack of his whip, the horse began pulling the buggy down the lane.
Pierce mounted his horse and headed off.
* * *
The woods weren’t far. Pierce followed a path that cut straight through the forest for a while until he came across another horse hitched to a tree. Pierce dismounted and went over to the animal. He couldn’t tell if it was Robert’s or not, but he reckoned it was a start.
“Robert?” he called out.
The moment he did, a crack of gunfire blasted and echoed throughout the area. The barking of dogs soon followed.
“Shite,” he cursed, rushing deeper into the forest.
He ran like mad through the woods until the trees broke away to a wide-open space. Pierce stopped and scanned the field until the sound of dogs drew his attention to the other side. In the distance, a man was running. Pierce knew it was Robert. Dogs and two men on horseback were chasing him.
“No!” he shouted, racing toward them.
The dogs brought Robert down—just like in his vision.
This time, the horsemen heard Pierce shouting and saw him coming. They opened fire on him instead of Robert, forcing Pierce to crouch. Pierce stood up and aimed his pistol. The men had already dismounted and were lifting Robert up.
He was alive! They hadn’t shot him down as Pierce had seen in his vision. They forced Robert to mount one of the horses and began to flee. Pierce kept his aim yet refrained from pulling the trigger. The horsemen rode off in the other direction and vanished into the thicket with the dogs running after them, barking as they went.
It wasn’t too late.
Chapter Twelve
You’re Bloody Joking
Robert was alive! There was hope.
Pierce hurried into the forest for his horse. He reached the path and mounted up. The horsemen had a good head start, but they were likely heading for the main thoroughfare. Remembering the direction the men had taken, Pierce circled the area and tried to cut them off.
As he rode alongside the forest’s edge, he worried he’d lose them. He then spotted an old barn where dog cages were stacked in the bed of a wagon. Pierce counted five horses, not including the wagon horses. One of the mounts he recognized from the field.
Quickly, before someone spotted him, Pierce steered his mount behind the trees and dismounted. He hurried on, using the trees as cover as he traveled to the rear of the barn. Taking a breath, Pierce broke cover and dashed to the double doors that had been left ajar. He he
ard voices before he looked inside.
“You promised us four hundred, monsieur,” growled a man with his back turned.
Pierce peered through the small opening between the doors. There were five men standing about, three dressed in footmen uniforms. There were a couple of stalls, and strangely, a camera sitting on a tall tripod. Smoke drifted into the air from the camera’s flash lamp. Aside from that, he was unable to see a whole lot of anything else.
The man whom Pierce reckoned had taken Robert spoke to a pudgy gent in a slick blue tailcoat and matching bowler hat.
“You gave me three,” the kidnapper added. “Do I need to remind you of what will happen if you don’t pay up, or if you try to dispose of me? My partner is waiting for me, and if I fail to arrive, he’s ordered to report everything to the authorities.”
Pierce cringed when he realized that the other shooter at the field was still out there. It forced him to scan behind him to make sure someone wasn’t sneaking up on him.
“Prison is a steep price for simply not offering up the last hundred, non?” the man pointed out to the pudgy cocker.
“No need for threats,” yielded the fancily dressed Frenchman nervously. He looked over at one of his footmen. “Tomas.”
The footmen reached into his coat pocket, brought out a red velvet coin purse, and handed it over.
“Merci, monsieur,” the kidnapper said. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”
“What about the body?” the fancy but nervous man demanded.
“There are many places to bury it in these woods. I’ll take care of it. Come, let me show you out.” He began leading them toward the front doors. “Do not fret, monsieur. The imposter shall never bother you again.”
Everyone left the barn, and the moment the coast was clear, Pierce pushed a door open and slipped inside. His eyes searched for potential hiding places in case someone had reentered, including a stall where Robert’s body lay.
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