Part 7 (1/2)
Sleeping in a chair by the kitchen fire had the advantage of letting Grey exercise choice, and the disadvantage that the kitchen became active early. When Viole Boyer bustled in, whistling, Grey came awake groggily, apologized to his hostess for being in the way, and headed off to the pallet made up in Pere Laurent's room.
There he slept for hours longer, waking near noon to suns.h.i.+ne reflecting brilliantly off the snow. The farm occupied a lovely little valley surrounded by hills and felt safe, remote, and prosperous. Laurent was gone, and Grey's dried garments had been stacked neatly beside him.
Reveling in his freedom, he dressed and made his way to the kitchen, which bubbled with noisy life. The whole household was there, everyone happily eating and talking and celebrating the miraculous return of Uncle Laurent. Grey's pulse began hammering and he wanted to run out into the empty countryside.
”Do you wish breakfast or luncheon, monsieur?” Viole called gaily.
”Coffee and bread to take outside would be ideal,” he said, managing to control his desire to bolt. ”The open sky calls to me.”
Viole nodded and prepared a tall mug of coffee made with honey and hot milk, and a half loaf of bread split and filled with raspberry preserves. ”There will be more when you return to warmth.”
Grateful she didn't try to persuade him to stay indoors, he donned a cloak and hat offered by the young son of the house and headed outside. The day was as bitterly cold as it was beautiful, and for long minutes he just stood in the yard and studied the colors and textures that surrounded him.
He didn't think he'd ever seen a sky more intensely blue. A grove of dark, graceful evergreens rose up the hillside left of the barn, the needles rustling in the wind. Flurries of snow danced silently over the smooth whiteness that covered the land.
And the tastes! The hot milky coffee warmed him, and the delicious tang of the raspberry preserves reminded him of how very good food could be. He would never take the pleasures of food and drink for granted again.
Since he was wearing the guard's boots, it was easy to plow through the snow to the pond. He cleared a place on the log that served as a bench and settled down, drinking in the scents and sounds of the countryside along with his coffee.
A hawk glided effortlessly overhead. Though he had taken great pleasure in the small birds that visited his cell, he'd missed the sweeping power of a hawk's flight.
The world was a feast, a dizzying tumult of colors, sounds, movements, and scents, and he was a beggar who didn't know what to do with such riches. He finished his coffee and bread, but felt no inclination to go inside again.
He heard the crunch of footsteps in the snow behind him and guessed who was coming even before Ca.s.sie joined him on the log, sitting a safe yard away. He tensed, but she didn't speak, and gradually he relaxed again. She was as peaceful as the frozen pond and the sculptured drifts of snow.
She drank tea, and the herbal scent was heavenly. One of so many things he'd never appreciated when he was living a luxurious life.
Her presence was soothing, not stressful like the exuberant Boyers. Eventually, Grey felt moved to say, ”Strange. I longed for company and having Pere Laurent imprisoned in the next cell was the greatest blessing I've ever known. Yet now that I'm free, I find myself uncomfortable around a handful of people.”
”We are social creatures. Being deprived of companions.h.i.+p is one of the greatest torments imaginable.” She sipped at her tea. ”For you to survive so many years alone required great resources of will and endurance that took you far beyond normal life. Returning will take time.”
”Great resources of will and endurance?” He smiled humorlessly. ”No one who knew me before would imagine me capable of either.”
”Kirkland had his doubts,” Ca.s.sie said with a half smile. ”But that didn't mean he thought he should give up on you. Imagine the pleasure of returning to your friends and family and amazing them with your strength of character.”
His crack of laughter was rusty. He and Laurent had enjoyed rich discussions, but laughter was rare. ”That does sound rather appealing.” He finished his coffee, wis.h.i.+ng there was more but not wanting to go inside for it. ”My wise Lady Fox, will I ever be close to normal again? Or have all the years in prison changed me into a different, unrecognizable person?”
She shook her head. ”We never know our full potential until circ.u.mstances force us to meet unexpected challenges. Different circ.u.mstances would have drawn forth other aspects of your nature.”
”I would have enjoyed different circ.u.mstances infinitely more,” he said dryly.
”No doubt.” She glanced at him for the first time. ”But if you'd continued to live the life of carefree luxury, would you now find such intense pleasure in simple things? Would the sky be as beautiful, the raspberries so exquisite, if they had always been available to you?”
His brows arched. ”No, but I paid a very high price for my new appreciation.”
Her smile was fleeting. ”Higher than anyone would wish to pay. But at least there are some compensations for what you endured.” She drank more tea. ”They help balance the anger.”
Grey felt as if she'd struck him a physical blow. He'd been so euphoric at regaining his freedom that he hadn't really recognized the anger that seethed just below the surface of his new happiness. Now that Ca.s.sie had named it, he realized that deep, fierce anger burned inside him. Anger that was so volatile that he might do ... anything if it was released.
Rage had consumed him when he snapped Gaspard's neck. He barely remembered doing it, apart from the vicious pleasure he'd felt in killing the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He would have killed the guard if Ca.s.sie hadn't asked him to restrain himself.
Her calm request to refrain from killing had cleared his mind enough to recall that Pere Laurent had benefited from small acts of kindness by one or more of the guards. Because that kindness might have saved Laurent's life, Grey had let the guard live.
Recognition of his anger was followed by two more insights. One was that his discomfort around the Boyers was not just the panic of being with too many people, but a deep fear that he might lose control and hurt one of them. Or worse.
The other insight ... He blurted out, ”You have also been a prisoner, yes?”
Ca.s.sie became very still, her gaze fixed on the dark open water where he'd bathed the night before. ”For less than two years. Nothing like so severe as your imprisonment.”
”Still a very long time,” he said softly. ”Solitary confinement?”
She nodded. ”At first I was grateful not to be packed into a cell so crowded there was barely room to lie down. Within the month, I would have given everything I owned and my hope of heaven to share a cell with even a filthy, furious harridan.”
”No wonder you understand what it is to be deprived of companions.h.i.+p. Of touch.” He reached out and covered her left hand, where it rested on the log. Her fingers twitched, then clasped his. ”You were eventually released?”
”I found my own way to freedom,” she said in a tone that refused all questions. ”Like you, I discovered potentials in myself I had never imagined.” Her hand tightened on his. ”Even all these years later, sometimes the craving for touch is overpowering.”
Since he felt the same, he slid along the log and wrapped an arm around her. Not for warmth, but for mutual need. She relaxed against him, her arm going around his waist. He wondered again how old she was. Once more he felt shame at his l.u.s.tful thoughts.
At least he knew better than to act on those thoughts. Or to ask a lady her age. ”What work do you do for Kirkland? If you spend much of your time traveling through France, you're alone again.”
She sighed, her breath a white puff in the cold air. ”I'm a courier, collecting information and getting it back to Kirkland. Sometimes I escort people from France, as I'm doing with you. My peddler disguise allows me to go almost anywhere. Spying is a lonely trade when I'm in France, but I return to London two or three times a year. I have a home of sorts and friends there.”
Though she had the satisfaction of working against Napoleon, her life sounded bleak. ”Will you return to England with me, or hand me over to one of your smugglers?” His arm tightened involuntarily. He wanted her with him all the way home. With Ca.s.sie he could relax because she could flatten him if his anger erupted dangerously.
”I'll return. I have other matters of business in London.” She made a face. ”I need to go inside before I freeze solid. Are you considering another bath?”
”Next time I bathe will be in a tub of steaming water.” He removed his arm from around her and ran stiff fingers through his beard. ”I need to go inside, too. I'm hoping Romain will lend me his razor. I want to see what I look like under this thatch.”
”Don't shave the beard off yet,” Ca.s.sie said firmly. ”We must travel inconspicuously. No one notices or remembers me, and your appearance needs to be equally drab. I have coloring to disguise your hair, and keeping a beard will add to the appearance of an undistinguished peasant.”
He grimaced. ”Now that a clean-shaven face is within reach, I find that I crave it, but I will defer to your judgment. Have you talked to Romain about a horse?”
”He has a decent, unmemorable hack that he'll trade for the cart,” she replied. ”We also discussed a route. There's an old woodsmen's track over the hills. It will be a rough climb, but once we're on the other side, pursuers will be less likely to find us.”
”You really think Durand will send men after us?” Grey asked, his skin crawling at the prospect.
”I don't know the man, but my instincts say yes.” She got to her feet. ”We foxes survive through slyness and instinct.”
He guessed she'd chosen the name Fox just as she'd picked Ca.s.sandra: because the names suited her. He wondered what her real name was. ”Will Pere Laurent be safe here?”
She frowned. ”Reasonably so. This farm is remote, and since Madame Boyer married outside her native village, she will be hard to trace as one of his relations. Pere Laurent will stay here under the guise of an elderly cousin of Romain's, recently widowed and too feeble to care for himself. He'll also keep his beard.”
”That should work,” Grey agreed. ”Locked in that cell, no one has seen him in years, so he won't be readily recognized.”