Friends and Foes (21 page)

Had Philip come for her? What relief she felt quickly subsided. What if he drew near only to be shot?

Bélanger’s lips thinned. His forehead creased deeply in thought. “The rest of those English rats will be watching the roads.”

“And will likely send for others,” Le Fontaine said.

Bélanger let forth a string of French curses. His knife hand lowered ever so slightly. Sorrel still could not be at ease. He was distracted for the moment, but she doubted it would last. She hadn’t the swiftness nor agility to make an escape and had absolutely no weapon to wield in her defense.

Le Fontaine’s footsteps drew nearer from behind. “Dispatch her quickly,” he said. “We haven’t time to waste.” He walked past them toward the corridor leading to the back of the house.

Bélanger kept still. Though his blade no longer touched her flesh, she felt far from safe.

“She may be of use to us yet,” he said. “Suppose we run into one of those rats. They’re less likely to fire on us when we’re holding a hostage.”

“They care nothing for the lower classes.” Le Fontaine spat on the ground. “Pigs,” he said in disgust.

“Ah, but she is a highborn lady.” Bélanger’s sinister smile returned. “I understand that is still worth something in England.”

Le Fontaine stood at the far end of the room, watching them. He seemed to contemplate the idea of using Sorrel as insurance against capture. Though she hated the idea of going with them, doing so would keep her alive. She’d have a chance to find a way of escaping.

“What about her leg?” Le Fontaine asked. “She couldn’t have feigned that injury. If she can’t even walk, she’ll slow us down.”

Bélanger lightly tapped her nose with his knife in a mockingly playful manner. She could see a small dot of red on its tip. “Then, for her sake, I hope
la petite fille
knows where we can find a couple of horses.” He eyed her expectantly.

Honesty seemed the best approach at the moment. “There is one just outside the back door. But only one.”

Something changed in his face. His gaze grew more intent, his expression less indifferent. “You have a very fine voice when you are not trying to sound unrefined,
ma chère.
I like it very much i
ndeed.”

Sorrel shuddered. His was not the tone of one offering an honorable compliment.

“Time to go.” He sheathed his knife at his side once more. Sorrel dabbed at the spot where his blade had pricked her and came away with a swath of red on her fingers. She wiped her fingers on her skirts, the arm of the chair she sat on, anything to relieve herself of the sight of her own blood.

“Come,” he said to Le Fontaine. “You must carry her. I cannot with this bullet lodged in my arm.”

Le Fontaine did not argue with that. Bélanger took up the lantern while his partner scooped Sorrel up off the chair. She held herself stiffly, trying to keep her mind off the fact that this vile murderer had his arms around her.

They moved swiftly down the corridor and out the back door into the cold. Sorrel was grateful she’d not taken off her coat. She tried to make out shapes in the darkness of night but had little success. Philip had intended to come for her through the back. If he’d been one of the two they saw, he might come into view any moment.

How she prayed he’d do so carefully. If he were hurt or worse because of her, she’d never forgive herself.

Le Fontaine set her on the back of the same horse she’d ridden to the cottage not more than thirty minutes earlier. This time, however, Bélanger held the reins, walking in front of the animal. Sorrel grasped the saddle, adjusting her balance with each sway of its back.

She resisted the urge to look back as they moved quietly into the cover of trees a few yards distant from the cottage. Her captives watched her too closely for the movement to go unnoticed. They’d know she was expecting someone and might stay around just long enough to dispose of her would-be rescuer.

Philip would look for her. She knew he would. And she had every intention of being alive when he found her. That meant devising a means of escape, or at the very least ensuring her own survival.

The task felt monumental, the odds insurmountable. But, then, had she not lived through an injury the doctors all had declared fatal? Had she not refused to succumb to countless fevers and infections? She’d spent her entire life proving her mettle, first to her father then, after her accident, to the doctors, her family, and everyone else who refused to believe her capable of anything.

Except Philip. He believed in her.

Sorrel set her mind to it. She’d find a way to escape. She swore she would.

Philip didn’t even stop to catch his breath. They’d stormed the spies’ meeting without warning and managed to apprehend all but two. Rob’s men had their captives well in hand. Philip traded out his expended pistol for a freshly loaded one. He sheathed the knife he kept in his boot during these altercations.

“Goin’ after them two on yer own?” Rob asked.

Philip paused only long enough to say a simple no before beginning his trek.

Rob kept pace with him. “Yer off to the cottage. Those two rogues are loose out there, and yer sweetheart’s alone.”

Without Sorrel identifying the man she’d seen in Ipswich, they couldn’t have acted as quickly as they had. Still, Philip had second-guessed his decision to allow her to come along ever since watching her ride off into the darkness. Now with two of the criminals unaccounted for, he could not be easy. He’d not join the manhunt until he saw Sorrel safely inside Kinnley.

“Slow and cautious, there, Daffodil.” Rob only knew Philip by the false name given him by the Foreign Office. “Ye’ll not do yer lady friend a bit o’ good making a heap o’ noise and getting yerself shot.”

The man had a point. Philip checked his pace. They moved carefully in the direction of the land agent’s cottage. Philip kept a wary eye out but saw no movement in the bushes nearby.

Far in the distance he saw a twinkle of light precisely where he knew the cottage to be. Had Sorrel lit a lantern? He’d cautioned her not to do so near a window. If
he
could see the light, so could anyone else.

It wasn’t like Sorrel to be reckless. She was stubborn, yes, but not stupid.

A few more times he spotted a brief flicker of light. He moved more swiftly, still keeping watch over his surroundings.

Put out the light, Sorrel.

“I’m sure them two are well past here by now. They’ll not’ve seen that light.” Rob’s tone was not at all convincing. The fact that he’d had the same thought as Philip only made Philip more concerned.

As he closed the distance to the cabin, Philip didn’t see the light again. Perhaps she’d settled in and extinguished the flame for good. Even that didn’t dispel his sense of urgency.

He reached the back of the house and stopped short. The horse was not tied up under the tree as it was supposed to be. Perhaps she’d forgotten to tie it up and the beast had wandered off. Or maybe she hadn’t been able to find the cottage and simply kept going the rest of the way to the house.

“Them’s women’s boots,” Rob whispered from near the back door.

Philip turned to look. Sure enough, boots that could easily be Sorrel’s sat beside the door. “I have a key,” he said, fishing through his pocket for it.

“’Taint necessary. Door’s unlocked.”

Unlocked?
The knot in his stomach tightened. She had to have come. Crispin checked the cottage earlier that day, and all the doors were bolted. Had she been so careless as to leave the door unlocked? Lud, he was going to throttle her!

Philip stepped inside, Rob at his back. He could barely make out the dim interior. A small swath of moonlight spilled in through the door they left open behind them.

He motioned with his head in the direction of the first door off the corridor. Rob understood and cautiously looked inside. Philip checked the next door, which hung slightly ajar. The window let in enough light for him to make out a bed. The coverlet was thrown haphazardly back as though someone had only just gotten out from under it.

The land agent was a full county away. But, Philip reasoned, the man was a bachelor. He had no one about to insist he straighten his bedcovers.

Rob joined him in the doorway. “She weren’t in the kitchen,” he said. “But I found this by the back door.”

He held up an ivory-tipped ebony walking stick. Philip pushed down a sudden surge of panic. Sorrel was there, she had to be. So why hadn’t they found her yet? The cottage was extremely small. Only the sitting room remained.

He moved immediately toward it. She had to be in that room. He stepped inside, telling himself all the while that he’d find her there.

The room sat empty. Empty and cold, as if a window had been left open. It wasn’t a window, but the door. It didn’t close properly. The wood was splintered violently around the lock. The hinges were bent. Someone had forced it open.

He knew, then, without a doubt, that Sorrel was in danger.

“Sorrel!”

No answer.

“Sorrel!”

“Found a lantern out back,” Rob said, bringing the light with him.

Philip could see more of the room. A man’s jacket, one arm soaked in blood, sat discarded near two chairs arranged next to each other. Someone had forced his way inside—a man who’d been bleeding. It was not at all outside the realm of possibility that one of the spies who’d escaped had been shot in the exchange of fire.

Philip crossed closer to the chairs. Something dark lay on the ground.

“Bring the lantern over here.”

As Rob complied, Philip bent down and picked up the heap. A single black stocking. Philip’s insides clenched in growing fear. Sorrel had been wearing black stockings. Her shoes were there. Her walking stick was there. But Sorrel was not.

“On the chair.” Rob motioned with his chin.

Philip’s heart stopped at what he saw. Streaks of red in the shape of four slender fingers marred the arm of the chair. Small fingers from a small hand, though too large for a child’s. He knew, somehow, it was Sorrel’s blood.

In the five years he’d worked for the Foreign Office, Philip had never once lost his head during a mission. But standing there looking at the bloodied handprint of the woman he loved almost desperately, he couldn’t form a single coherent thought. He could not formulate a plan, a course of action. No one associated with Le Fontaine would bat an eye at killing a woman. Sorrel was in the hands of a murderer.

Think, man. Think.

“Obviously the men we’re looking for came here,” he reasoned out loud. “And they’ve taken her with them.” Hearing those words spoken drove new fear into his heart. “But why?”

“Hostages can be useful, Daff.”

“Only until they aren’t needed any longer.” Lud, he had to find her quickly. “Where would they have gone?”

“A couple of foreigners? They’ll make for a port first thing.” Rob nodded decisively.

Of course. “They have a ship waiting at an abandoned dock south of here. We’d best head in that direction.”

Rob seemed hesitant. “If they’ve a horse and we’re on foot . . .”

“Three adults can’t ride the same horse,” Philip said. “At least one of them has to be on foot. They won’t be any faster than we are.”

“But they’ve a head start.”

Philip touched his fingertips to the red streaks Sorrel left behind. The stain proved wet to the touch. His fear gave way to anger and an iron-clad determination. The blood hadn’t even had time to dry.

“They haven’t been gone long.”

As he clenched his fists, the blood on his fingertips felt wet against his palm, a reminder of the danger Sorrel faced. He refused to waste another moment.

Philip strode from the room down the corridor. Rob came as well.

“Send any available men southward,” he instructed. “But with all possible caution. A lady’s life is on the line.”

“Understood.”

“Make certain the gentleman serving as guide to the other group returns and secures his home.” Philip would not have Crispin in mortal peril as well.

“Will do.”

They stepped out into the night once more. The air had grown colder in the few short minutes they’d been inside. Sorrel hadn’t any shoes. At least one of her feet was completely bare. Her captors weren’t likely to have allowed her to bring a blanket. She was somewhere in the dark of night, cold and bleeding. And it was his fault.

“Daff?”

Philip turned toward Rob’s voice. The man offered him his firearm.

“I’m not taking your weapon.”

“I’m returning to our men,” Rob said. “Ye’re chasing after two murderers. I’d say ye need it more than I do.”

So Philip took it. The more shots he had, the better.

Rob moved swiftly in the direction of the coast. Philip set himself to studying the muddle of foot- and hoofprints in the thin layer of snow. He’d never make sense of the human tracks but wanted to know which direction the horse had gone.

He’d never been more grateful for a full moon. Leaving the lantern lit posed too great a risk. But there was enough natural light to make out the horse’s prints through the snow.

The animal had gone around the back of the house, toward the south. Philip would wager they’d not walk too near the beach. The men would assume they were being hunted and would keep as hidden as possible. Philip knew well how to keep out of sight.

With a combination of speed and stealth he’d honed over years of covert undertakings, Philip made his way in the direction he knew they’d gone. He’d never be able to guess their exact route, but he knew he was on the right track.

Through the underbrush and around trees Philip moved. His eyes constantly scanned the area, picking out the occasional broken tree limb or light print in the snow, though he didn’t see his quarry. He only hoped he was shortening their lead.

The wind picked up, nipping at his face and ungloved hands. Onward he pushed, thoughts of Sorrel pressing heavy on his mind and heart. He had every reason to believe she was injured already, perhaps badly so. Once they reached their waiting ship, the men would no longer need her as collateral against capture. They’d kill her without hesitation.

How could I have been such a fool? I should never have allowed her to come.

Sorrel, of course, would have insisted. Still, he could have locked her up somewhere safe. She’d have chewed him up for weeks on end over it, but he’d have gladly endured that rather than the torture of chasing after her, praying she’d be alive when he found her.

He heard a horse neigh in the distance, though how far ahead he couldn’t say. Philip wasn’t terribly familiar with the area. He did not think he was still on Crispin’s land. Yet, if memory served, the coastline was more or less devoid of dwellings. The sound likely hadn’t come from a stable.

If only the horse would neigh again. Philip listened but heard nothing.

Get the animal to make a sound, dear.
Philip needed to know just which way to go. He wanted some idea of how far ahead of him they were.
Anything, Sorrel. A simple sound.

The night hung in frustrating silence.

He moved ever more cautiously. He had no intention of being caught off guard by them, and he knew better than to startle them into rash action. Every noise jumped out at him, unnaturally loud in the still of night. Each of his footsteps seemed to echo, though his rational mind knew he hardly made a sound. He would not even be heard over the wind rustling the bare tree branches.

A rumbling of voices stopped him. Philip listened more intently. The voices were low, decidedly male, though he couldn’t make out their words. He took careful steps in the direction of the sound. Each movement was intentional, smooth. He did everything in his power not to draw attention to himself.

The voices grew more distinct.

“We’re almost to the boat. We don’t need her now—she’s only slowing us down.”

“Imbécile!”

Two men, one a Frenchman, speaking of a woman in their company and a boat. He’d found them. Philip fought the urge to rush to Sorrel’s side. Foolishness could cost them both their lives. He moved slower than ever. While carefully choosing each step, he pulled his pistol, holding it at the ready.

“You think because we have come this far that the English rats have given up their chase?
Crétin!
They knew of our meeting, the where and the when. They likely guard our dock as well.”

Philip knew otherwise. There hadn’t been sufficient time to gather the men needed to guard both possible meeting places as well as the abandoned port. Still, these men didn’t know that, and their ignorance meant Sorrel had more time.

“She can’t even stay seated,” the first man said. “We cannot keep stopping so she can regain her balance.”

Stopping? Philip had ridden with Sorrel not many days past. Though she’d not been ready for a gallop, she hadn’t halted their ride repeatedly. Was she purposely slowing them down, then?

Well done, Sorrel.

Now. How to approach? Philip kept to a small stand of trees, not more than three, but growing close enough together to provide some concealment. From behind their trunks, he glanced into the very small clearing ahead.

His heart lurched at what he saw. Two men stood near the very horse Philip had sent Sorrel off on. One of the men held the reins. Seated atop it was Sorrel. Her hair whipped about in the bitingly cold wind. The moon illuminated her pale features. He saw no signs of panic in her face, only sheer determination. Her eyes darted between the men and her immediate vicinity.

She’d told Philip in no uncertain terms that she did not surrender. He was infinitely grateful for that. So long as she didn’t give up, they had a chance.

“You planned everything about this night,” the Frenchman spat at his partner, “and everything has gone wrong.”

The men were distracted. But how to get Sorrel away? Philip knew she couldn’t dismount with any degree of speed or subtlety. If he moved closer, he might have a clear shot at her captors. But even if he felled one of the men, the other would have ample time to retaliate.

Philip had never been one for giving the Almighty ultimatums, but he manufactured a few in that moment. If only he could get his Sorrel back, whole and safe, he’d never ask another thing. He’d attend services every Sunday. He’d do any number of things—the heavens had only to make a list. He would gladly accept a trade, his life for hers, if that was what fate demanded.

The thought gave him pause. His life for hers. He’d worried about making a move lest the men turn on Sorrel. What if he could draw their fire? Surely she would know enough to make good her escape. It might very well be the only possible approach.

For the first time since setting out to find Sorrel, Philip felt no uncertainty about his chosen course of action. He’d second-guessed nearly every step, wondered again and again if he’d taken a wrong turn. That feeling, however, had vanished. He knew exactly what he had to do.