Part 9 (1/2)
It was rather sweet of Grey to want her to find a companion for her old age, but also a sign of how young he was in some ways. Though he'd been born a couple of years earlier than she, most of his adult life had been spent in captivity. She'd crammed several lifetimes of experience into her twenty-nine years, while he'd had one very bad experience over and over for ten years.
That made her feel as old as her gray hair claimed she was. But the vast differences between them didn't mean they couldn't be lovers until their paths parted.
Peace disintegrated when they came out of the hills and turned onto the road north. Though traffic was light, the back of Grey's neck crawled whenever he heard hoofbeats coming toward them. Surely it was too soon for Durand to have organized a pursuit, but reason had nothing to do with his primitive fear. He wouldn't feel safe until he was back in England.
Though he couldn't make the fear and anger go away, he could at least pretend to be sane and normal. He found that it helped to concentrate on the countryside around him. Even in late winter, it was beautiful beyond belief. Dormant trees contained an infinity of subtle colors, and the wind carried intoxicating scents of life.
And he could always watch Ca.s.sie, and wait for the night.
Chapter 18.
After Durand finished cursing his incompetent servants for letting the prisoners escape, he formulated plans for recapturing them. The feeble old priest should be easy. He would stay close to his old haunts, so he could be traced through friends and family.
But Wyndham would flee the country as fast as possible, so Durand must move quickly. Thank G.o.d he had the many and varied resources of the police at his disposal. There were detachments of the gendarmerie in all towns of any size. All he had to do was claim he was after English spies to mobilize them.
He would have flyers printed and send them out by the fast military couriers. The gendarmes could distribute the flyers to inns and villages along routes the fugitives might follow. A description and a reward for information would set hundreds of civilians watching any strangers who pa.s.sed by.
The problem with flyers was coming up with descriptions. The only one of the raiders who had been seen was the old lady, who left no impression at all. Gray hair. Average height. Average weight. No distinguis.h.i.+ng features. Perhaps sixty years old.
Wyndham and the priest weren't much easier. Durand knew what they'd looked like originally, but years in prison had resulted in emaciated bodies and savage beards. Coats could be padded and beards could be trimmed to change their appearances.
He had to settle for approximating the heights of the prisoners and saying that one was a feeble old man, one a young man with light hair. He added that the three people being sought might be traveling together, or separately, or with other unknown men. Very unsatisfactory.
There was also the question of which way they went. It would be clever of them to head south to Spain or east into the Low Countries or Germany, but clever was probably trumped by the fact that north to the channel was by far the fastest route to England. So Durand sent flyers in all directions, but concentrated on the roads north.
For himself, he headed to Calais. His hunter's instinct told him that area was most likely for him to find his prey. When and if he caught up with Wyndham, he'd waste no more time on imprisonment.
This time he'd just kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.
Ca.s.sie frowned as they followed the narrow road that ran straight through the center of a small town. Until now, they'd pa.s.sed through nothing larger than a hamlet and they'd slept in empty barns, but they couldn't avoid people forever. ”It must be market day. Everyone in the district is in the square ready to buy, sell, and gossip.”
She felt Grey tense beside her. Sharing a bed with a man made one extrasensitive to his emotions. ”Is it possible to go around?” he asked.
”I don't see any streets leading off, and if we try to circle through the countryside, we could lose half a day or more getting lost in muddy farm lanes.”
”I suppose you're right.” He scowled at the crowded square ahead.
”Think of this as good practice for London,” she said encouragingly. ”It will take only a few minutes to pa.s.s through the market and then we'll be in the country again.”
He drew a deep breath, then halted his horse and dismounted. ”You're right. There's no reason for me to go berserk.”
Ca.s.sie swung down from Thistle. In a crowd like the one they were about to enter, it was safer to lead their mounts. ”I'll buy bread if I see a baker's stall, but otherwise we walk straight through. I'll call you Gregoire if a name is needed.”
He nodded, tense but controlled. ”What should I call you?”
”Maman,” she said promptly. ”Keep your eyes down and pretend to be not very intelligent. I'm your old mother and I take care of business for both of us.”
He gave a short nod and started forward. Satisfied, she led Thistle toward the market square. This was Grey's first test among strangers, but she was confident that he could manage. At night in private, he was as amusing as he was pa.s.sionate. It was clear why everyone adored him in his youth.
Though restless anger still seethed under his lighthearted charm, it was slowly dissipating, she thought. This quiet journey was gradually bringing him in tune with the world again. By the time they reached London, he should be almost normal. A new normal that was a blend of what he'd been and what he'd experienced.
At this season the market contained little produce beyond wrinkled apples and tired-looking root vegetables, but there were baked goods and cheeses and charcuterie, as well as stalls with old clothes and utensils. If she'd had her cart, she'd set up shop.
Instead she moved through the crowd as quickly as she could without shoving and drawing attention. People were particularly jammed up around the fountain in the center of the square. Even over the noisy chatter, she could hear Grey's harsh breathing, but he kept his eyes down and moved doggedly onward.
She didn't want to stop in the middle of the market, but as they came out on the other side and the crowd thinned, she saw a bakery stall. ”Hold a moment, lad, and take my reins,” she said in a country accent. ”I need to buy us a loaf.”
”Oui, Maman.” He took Thistle's reins so Ca.s.sie could approach the stall. She bought bread and several tarts made from dried fruits. She liked offering new tastes to please Grey's long-neglected palate. His enthusiastic appet.i.te was endearing.
She had just handed over her coins when shouting broke out behind her. She whipped around and saw a skinny dog running from the opposite stall with a smoked sausage in its mouth and a furious, red-faced merchant in pursuit. An onlooker called out cheerfully, ”Looks like that little b.i.t.c.h is faster than you, Morlaix!”
”Shut your mouth, d.a.m.n you!” Swearing, Morlaix cornered the dog, s.n.a.t.c.hed back the sausage, and began kicking the cowering beast, which was trapped between a wall and a cart.
Grey said roughly, ”Eh, sir, you shouldn't be beating the poor brute!”
He took the merchant's shoulder to pull him away from the dog. The man pivoted and swung a meaty fist at Grey's jaw. Grey dodged, but his control splintered and he pulled his fist back to strike a furious blow.
Fearing he'd injure or kill the merchant, Ca.s.sie grabbed his arm before he could throw the punch. ”Steady, lad!” she cried. ”Don't be hittin' the gentleman!”
She used her grip to surrept.i.tiously jab a point above his elbow that numbed his right forearm. He swung on her, eyes wild and his body shaking.
”Steady, Gregoire!” she snapped. ”Steady!”
For an instant she thought he might swing on her and she prepared to duck. Then his rage faded enough that he lowered his fist and gave her a short nod to rea.s.sure her that he'd mastered himself.
Ca.s.sie turned to the angry merchant, who smelled of beer and raw onions. Bobbing her head, she said contritely, ”Dreadful sorry, Monsieur Morlaix. My boy isn't quite right in the head. He's fond of dogs and can't bear to see 'em hurt. Here, let me pay for that sausage and you can just let the poor beast go.”
She pressed a generous payment into the merchant's pudgy palm. ”I'll get my Gregoire out of town now, sir. 'E gets confused around so many people.”
Morlaix took the money with a growl. ”Get both of those beasts away from me!”
”I shall, sir,” she said meekly. ”Come along now, lad.”
”Sausage,” he said in a dull voice that supported her claim that he wasn't quite right. ”You gave 'im money for the sausage, so it's ours.”
Ca.s.sie took the damaged sausage from the merchant and gave it to Grey. He fed the meat to the skinny dog, who wolfed it down voraciously.
Swiftly Ca.s.sie collected her bread and tarts and the reins Grey had dropped when he became involved in the altercation. Lucky the horses were placid beasts that hadn't seized the chance to run off. ”Leave the dog, Gregoire, we need to be on our way.”
He got to his feet and took Achille's reins again. ”Oui, Maman.” His voice was submissive, but she sensed seething anger just below the surface.
The small crowd that had gathered to watch a fight drifted off, disappointed that there was no blood. Ca.s.sie headed away from the market at a brisk pace, shepherding Grey and his horse in front of her.