Mary Blayney (2 page)

Gabe was about to ask a third time when the nun raised a hand to his mouth, laying her fingers against his lips.
Oh my.
The softness of her fingers, the feel of them against his lips was like a gift from an erotic gamester.

Her expression was as hard as her fingers were soft. “If you are a nun, then I am the Prince of Wales.” He spoke in a whisper, ignoring the surge of lust that undermined his concentration.

“We will leave and then we will talk, monsieur.”

Leave? They were going to leave?
Even as he wondered if he had understood her correctly, it came to him. He had not heard the jailer turn the key when he left the cell. The door was unlocked.

He didn’t need their help.

He could escape on his own.

2

B
ROTHER
G
EORGES BLOCKED
his way before Gabriel had taken three steps to the door.

“Come away from there, you fool.” The nun came closer to him, her dark eyes sparked with anger. “You are
not
the one in charge. I have every intention of taking you from here, but we will do it on my terms.”

“I think not,” Gabe said, grabbing her, pulling her in front of him. Not the wisest move, but he was the one in control now.

Her back was pressed to his chest. He felt the warmth of her, the scent of lavender and spice even through the head covering and coarse linen of her habit. He spoke as he pressed the point of his blade against the sweet-smelling flesh at her throat. “You call me a fool and I may be, but I can slash your neck before your friend here could reach me with his knife. Tell him to move from the door.”

The man did move away, but toward him with his knife raised.

“No, Georges.” Her voice was unruffled. “We will give him a moment to calm his foolish temper and listen.”

Gabriel felt her heartbeat where he held her tight against him. She must have ice in her veins, for it was not racing nearly as fast as his.

After a long moment, Georges nodded.

The woman moved a bit, leaning into the point of the knife. Gabriel did not ease the pressure. “I will kill. Do not doubt it.” Did he sound as desperate as he felt? “I trust no one, madame. Least of all two people pretending to be something they are not. I
will
escape. With you as a hostage.”

“You cannot leave here without my help.” She spoke softly, as though he were a wild animal. Which was not far from the truth. “At the moment you are making my work needlessly difficult. Do as I say and we will walk out of here with the guard’s blessing.” She moved against the knife again, and this time he eased the pressure. “You can cooperate with us
or
you can die attempting it on your own, my lord.”

Gabriel froze at the use of his title. “Why do you address me so? No one here knows me as anything but ‘English pig.’”

“Release me,” she insisted coolly, as though she were bargaining for a new bonnet and not her life. “I will say no more until you do.”

Gabriel considered. “Tell Georges to drop his knife and kick it to me.” He had no idea how many more weapons the man carried, but at least Georges would have one less and he would have one more.

“
S’il vous plait,
Georges.”

He nodded and tossed the knife to the floor. It landed behind Gabriel.

“
Merci,
Georges,” she said.

“Il n’y a pas de quoi toujours, ma soeur.”

So Georges could speak. Was the man a servant or a friend? Her husband?

Gabriel released her. She stepped away, but not far. Not more than a foot.

“Before I go anywhere with you, Madame Nun,” he said, making the title an insult, “tell me who you are, who sent you and what your plan is.”

“I will tell you nothing but this: You will change clothes with Georges and you will trade places. First he must trim your hair and cut off some of your beard.” She smiled, cynical and unfriendly. “Or everyone will think you are a prisoner trying to escape.”

“He will take my place? Then he is more fool than I am.” He turned to the man. “Why are you willing to do this?”

“For money.”

“Of course. Why else. May you live to enjoy it.” Gabriel still held his weapon at the ready as an insidious hope edged aside his doubt. “Where do we go once we are away?”

“The less you know, the better.”

For whom,
he thought, but did not ask again. Gabriel leaned close so he was breathing into her ear. She barely responded, but he saw her throat work as she swallowed. “I demand this. Tell me the name of the woman who thinks to save me.”

When she turned to answer, her mouth was almost on his. “Not save you, my lord, only rescue you.”

Her skin was lovely, her lips even lovelier. He moved a fraction closer, drawn by the scent of her, the invitation in her eyes irresistible. As she said her name, “Charlotte. Charlotte Parnell,” her lips touched his. The feather touch of her mouth was like a magnet, and for a second his entire being melded with hers. She stepped back and now there was no temptation in her, only impatience.

Charlotte Parnell.
Her name was not much of a concession, but this pyrrhic victory was all she would allow. He saw that by the way she turned and headed for the door.

“Decide, my lord. I will have no qualms about leaving you to the guillotine.”

“I will go. If someone is paying you, then who am I to deny you your prize?”

“Very good, monsieur,” she said, as though it had been a difficult choice.

Gabriel nodded and moved into the light so Georges could trim his hair and beard. The man worked with confidence and speed. Was he a barber when he was not playing at theatrics? And what were they to each other? he wondered again. Lovers? Gabriel shifted his gaze to Charlotte, standing to his right, holding the lantern.

No. Georges worked for her, not the other way around. They were not intimate. He was sure of it. Her eyes were fixed on his face, not on the barber’s.

They stared at each other, and Gabriel hoped he was half as good as she was at hiding his thoughts. “You are either a consummate actress or a little mad.”

She nodded, not unpleased with his comment, and lowered the lantern. Georges had finished with his barbering.

Georges undressed and Gabriel followed suit. He looked from one to the other as he worked his collar buttons, half expecting an attack of some kind. Nothing happened. Georges continued undressing. Charlotte Parnell watched.

Tugging his shirt out of his breeches, Gabriel pulled it over his head and let it fall to the floor. His cravat was long gone and his jacket used now as a blanket.

With some calculation he turned from them as he began on the front closure of his breeches.

“Stop,” she commanded.

He did, because it was exactly what he had hoped for.

“They did this to you? Why?”

Holding still, he felt her fingers trace the still-sore lines on his back. Her touch was comfort and pleasure, too much pleasure after months without.

He faced her, and now that he was not entrapped by her touch, tried to decide how to use this sympathy to his advantage. Honesty. It would confuse her. Besides, it came naturally. “I was fool enough to try to escape.”

She shrugged as though she had already lost interest. “Your breeches.”

As he pulled them off, she was the one who moved away to gather up the clothes Georges had let fall.

They made quick work of the exchange. Georges wore a regular set of men’s clothes beneath his religious garb. As he put on Gabriel’s shirt he stopped and inhaled. God help him, it still smelled of the sun.

He took the pantaloons the French bourgeoisie now favored and handed Georges his breeches. He tucked his weapon into the pocket and looked around, moving his eyes only, for the knife Georges had kicked away. On the floor nearby and just out of reach.

When Gabriel sat on the floor to exchange shoes, he sat as close to the knife as he could manage, almost had it in hand when a pair of slippers came into view.

“You would not deny Georges protection, would you, my lord? You have your knife. You will leave him his.”

She nudged the knife to her partner, who picked it up without a word.

“Where is your weapon, madame?”

“Where you can never reach it.”

Her complete confidence was her undoing. “Do not be so sure that your mind and body are beyond compromise, madame. Arrogance is the first step to failure. I speak from experience.”

She turned from him with an abrupt, graceless step, and he counted this proof that some part of her was vulnerable

He took Georges’s shoes and left the man barefoot. “Georges,” he whispered, “this trade of clean for filthy, shoes for bare feet is too generous. Almost as puzzling as your willingness to stay behind. Who is paying you to risk your life so?”

Gabe looked from one to the other. Charlotte shook her head. With some effort he did not demand an answer. But he would have an explanation later.

By the time Charlotte Parnell was satisfied that his new clothes were as they should be, with the brown robe covering all, Georges was in the spot Gabriel had made his own, on his knees, his head lowered almost to the floor, as if praying a penance.

She handed Gabriel Georges’s hat and the lantern. “Carry the light low,” she whispered, “as though we need it to see our way. Keep your head down,” she insisted, “and say nothing.”

Pushing the heavy cell door open, the two of them began to walk toward the light at the end of the stone corridor. Gabriel’s escape attempts had never won him freedom beyond this length of corridor. His previous failures dogged him as he concentrated on walking in Georges’s too large shoes. He knew the spot where his first attempt had ended. There was still dried blood on the stone floor. The second and third were more vague in his memory.

The light seemed a hundred miles away as they began walking toward it. As they moved closer, elation mingled with the fear that had his hands shaking.

He concentrated on the woman next to him, dispelling the possibility of failure. Her hands were tucked in her sleeves. Even her walk was decorous. Despite that, he was sure that if the guard took one good look at that face he would know she was acting.

As they were about to step into the lighted entry, he paused, then stopped completely, frozen to the spot, two or three steps from the light.

She turned to him and nodded, her expression sympathetic for the first time. “It is the next step. This is not freedom, only the path to it.”

He shook his head, doing his best to dispel the sense of disaster looming. What jail had she been in that she could understand his insane wish to stay precisely where he was, to risk no more than this?

He followed her and she made escape look easy, pausing at the guard’s desk, murmuring something about prayers for his health. The man responded with another gut-churning cough and a wave toward the door. Gabriel’s surprise became suspicion. Had she bribed everyone? Not with prayers, he was sure of that. With money? Her body?

As they began to move away from the guard, there was a bellow from down the hall. Every swear word he ever learned tumbled through his brain, even as the jailer reached for his weapon. It was not where he first looked. By the time the jailer gave up and grabbed a club, the roar was joined by shouting.

As Gabriel was readying himself for a fight, certain they had been discovered, the jailer insisted they leave. “They will drop the gate and it will be hours before they open it again.”

Charlotte hurried him from the entry, not that he needed any encouragement. They crossed the courtyard, walked under the old-fashioned portcullis, where, as predicted, two men were wrestling with the turning mechanism.

“It’s rusted open,” one guard announced to the other. “Call for the soldiers!”

Gabriel followed Charlotte. They made their way down the narrow street, which emptied into a wider one. As they reached it, a handful of men in uniform hurried past. Charlotte stopped to watch them. Gabriel tugged at her arm.

“No,” she said, “they will wonder if we do not appear curious.”

“What about Georges? Is he in danger? What will happen to him?” He did not want to be responsible for another dead man.

When she did not answer him right away, he turned from the parade of racing soldiers to see what else had caught her attention. “How interesting that you should care, my lord,” she said, considering him with curiosity. “I would wonder what kind of man you are if I did not already know.” She looked back to the prison. “Georges knows precisely what to expect.”

There was nothing soft about her, Gabriel realized, except for her body, which he suspected she used as coldly as she used Georges. Her feather-light kiss when she spoke her name had been as calculated as the disguise. He had not known it then but would not forget again.

“Keep your head up. Look interested.”

“I am,” he said, wondering what it would take to ruffle her. Nothing as simple as a kiss.

He crossed himself and tried to look religious, nodding at the comments of the crowd gathering around them. Speculation on the possibility of a prison riot. The toll the prisoners would pay for attempting it. The likelihood the guillotine would be busy tomorrow.

Sweat popped out on his brow despite the coolness in the air. Each man who looked their way was a jailer about to seize him. He kept his head down and his hat pulled low, and mumbled the Latin names for the roses his mother had treasured. His family. Was he any closer to seeing them?

Eventually a few in the crowd moved toward the prison, but the rest drifted in the direction of the boulevard. Charlotte followed them.

Moments before they reached the avenue, she took the lantern from him, doused the light and stepped into an alleyway. It was dark and smelled worse than the prison. Gabriel wondered at her sanity. Unless they
were
being followed and this was a further means to escape.