Moonlight Surrender (Moonlight Book 3) (33 page)

Duncan looked around. A little ways beyond, they could hear the collective roar of the mob as it swelled, its number ever growing. He shook his head as he looked at Beth.

“I wish I hadn’t brought you here.” The mood of a
mob was difficult to gauge, and like cows and sheep that
could stampede with the slightest noise, he knew that a mob could easily turn on any one of its number.

And they were in its number.

“You forget,” Beth reminded him in a stilled voice, struggling to keep her fear from resounding clearly, “ ’Tis I who brought you.”

There was no time to debate the merits of their opposing points of view. He wanted to get them in and out
quickly. With luck, they would learn something useful.
Perhaps what those thieves had testified to was true. The Bastille was to fall during this hot July day. It would certainly seem so, by the looks of the mob.

Once again, Duncan looked about the streets. At least for the moment, they stood away from the focal point of the mob.

“We need to safeguard the horses somewhere before they are stolen from us. There’s a high premium on horseflesh these days, both for riding and for eating.”

He saw the horror register on Jacob’s face. It was better the lad was aware of the extent of things, Duncan thought grimly.

“There!” Duncan pointed to an alley.

The next moment, he hurried toward it, the others fol
lowing in his wake. The path into the alley was heavily littered with rotting vegetables and meats that had been

cast there. It was almost thigh deep, but that made it so much the better for their purposes, Duncan thought. People would not be drawn to meander here. Jacob would be safe for the time they required.

“The stench will give them a moment’s pause before they enter,” Duncan assured Jacob, hastily bringing his horse to the rear of the narrow passageway.

There was but one way out: the way they had entered. A wall of mortar and stone blocked the forging of any other route.

Duncan thrust his reins into Jacob’s hand, as did Beth. “Jacob, I need not tell you how important these horses are to us.”

Jacob wound all the reins about his large hand. “I’ll guard them with my life,” he swore solemnly.

Duncan clasped a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “No, you are more important to me than they.” Duncan began to back out of the alleyway. “See that it doesn’t come down to that. If you are not here when we return,” he called over his shoulder, his words hanging in the air moist, hot air, “we’ll search for you.”

“I’ll be here,” Jacob promised, with the surety of the simple of heart.

He waved before he sank down on his haunches to wait out the time. His eyes, ever alert, remained on the alley entrance.

It was but a few moments before Duncan and Beth found themselves increasingly surrounded by peasants. The crowd seemed to multiply. Tired-faced people whose eyes glittered with purpose, hope, and something far more deadly swelled the ranks all around them.

“Stay close,” Duncan instructed Beth, as he took her hand in his.

She walked quickly, matching her gait to his. “I was about to say the same to you. Remember, you don’t know the language.”

Duncan slanted a look at a group of men hurrying not far from him. He had seen pirates with a gentler look about them. “And you have no idea what men like this can be like.”

He took her arm instead now, grateful once more that she had thought to take Tommy’s clothing with her rather than her own. Upon a cursory examination, Beth looked like a young boy.

But anything closer would yield the truth.

Duncan hoped that there were too many people upon the streets for any to take proper notice. Every variation from the norm now roused deep suspicion, and if some in the mob thought Beth to be disguised, they would want to know to what purpose.

It would not be a difficult matter to guess.

The swell of the crowd took them almost against their
wills. Duncan held tightly to Beth’s arm, thinking that if they but followed, they would arrive at the source of the excitement.

And perhaps have their questions answered.

It was not long before they found themselves in the center of the city, before a dark fortress that was imposing and awesome in its solemnity. The history of the structure was fearsome and bloody. It was not one to be thought of with pride.

By now the crowd seemed to be roaring about them, shouting encouragements and cheering the men that stood before the towering building of stone.

Beth recognized the fortress as the Bastille. The fear in her heart grew.

Duncan inclined his head toward Beth. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” He whispered the question, afraid that someone might overhear his native tongue and realize that it was different from theirs.

The very breath within her breast had halted, trapped
there by fear.

“What those thieves told me is true.” Her head ached from the very thought of it. “Look, look!” she hissed in his ear urgently.

She pointed with disbelief as the gates of the Bastille were suddenly thrown open like the rusty jaws of hell. Her view abruptly obscured, Beth began to push and shove, but to no avail.

Beth turned toward him. “Duncan, I must see. Please,” she implored.

He nodded and began to push his way forward, careful to continue holding tightly to her hand. He managed to gain several yards.

Though still at a distance, Beth could see all plainly now.

A human wave of people surged through the newly parted gates, prisoners escaping their doom as they fled from the Bastille. Cries of greeting and thanksgiving littered the air.

The army that was to have guarded the Bastille were now all prisoners of the mob and the mob’s leaders.

The cheers of the mob became deafening.

And then, the man at the center of the hurricane leaped atop a cart and raised his hands for silence. As if by magic, the noise abated, like the tide going out, leaving the shore.

Robespierre commanded respect from the beast he had helped create and unleash. As yet, it obeyed. The time when it outgrew its master had not yet come.

There was pride in his face and an arrogance that was frightening to all who looked upon it. None, Beth thought, would cross this man or disobey him.

And his madness would destroy them all.

“And now, my brothers, we have freed the last of ours.” Cheers greeted the words. Again he called for silence. “In their place will go the real criminals and thieves, the real rapists of our land, our women and children.” He beckoned to his second in command as regally as any of the kings he’d denounced. “Bring them forth.”

Beth’s grip on Duncan’s hand grew so tight, she nearly cleaved it in two. The very blood left her fingers, as well as her face. Her eyes were frozen on the sight of the men and women who were being brought before the mob in chains, so many clustered to a cart like animals marked for slaughter.

“These,” Robespierre cried, “these will finally be made to atone for what they have done to us lo these many, many years.” He looked at the people in the carts contemptuously, the devil about to collect the souls whose signatures he held in his hand. “These will be made to suffer and quake while they wait for Monsieur Guillotine,” his mouth curved malevolently in rapturous anticipation, “to listen to their final pleas and pitiful screams for mercy.”

With each word, the mob became more and more incensed and unruly.

Beth watched as the carts were led, one by one, way into the Bastille. She felt her eyes moisten at the heart-wrenching sight and upbraided herself. She could not allow herself the luxury of crying for these poor souls. If she were seen crying, it would be the end of her.

None could suspect her feelings at this time for the crowd that swelled and swirled around her could easy tear her in half.

“Death, death to them all,” the crowd began to chant, their voices rising and blending as if one. The demand
throbbed like the beat of wild drums.

Duncan tugged on her hand. She looked at him and
saw that his lips were moving, as if he, too, were repeat
ing the words, though he understood them not. His message was clear. To stay undetected, they perforce had to appear to be one with the mob.

Mimicking him, Beth moved her lips, though not a single sound came forth. She could not bear to utter the words, she could not bear to force them from her mouth, even to save her own life.

But to save Duncan’s, for she knew he would die defending her, she pretended to chant the blood lust cries of the crazed mob.

“Death, death to them all.”

And then her heart froze within her breast and she gave up the pretense.

Duncan saw the look of horror that overcame her. He
looked from Beth toward the carts. In the midst of the last one stood a tall, thin man, patrician in appearance, even though his clothes were in tatters. He wore a small, graying beard, and even at this distance, Duncan could see the shape of Beth’s face repeated on the man’s.

“Death! Death to them all!”

Duncan leaned down to be close to Beth’s ear. “Is that—?”

She did not answer him. Instead, her fingers slack
ened within his and suddenly he realized that she had let
go. Duncan knew her intent immediately.

Beth was pushing her way forward, trying to get to the cart.

Damn the woman, did she think she could rescue her
father single-handedly while all the citizens of Paris looked on?

Beth gasped as she felt the strong arm surround her waist and pull her back, lifting her off her feet. The scream she uttered dissolved, unheard, into the mob.

She looked up into Duncan’s face. Before she could say a single word of reproof to him, he clamped his hand over her mouth.

“Not now,” he hissed. “Not here.”

No one within the frenzied mob took any notice of
them. Their eyes were on the symbols of their misery: the
people in the carts.

The people they had condemned to die, if not today, then tomorrow, and the more painfully, the more degradingly, the better.

Chapter Thirty-four

Somehow, though he was not certain how, as incon
spicuously as possible, Duncan managed to get Beth away from the mob. Slowly they made their way back to where they had left Jacob waiting with the horses.

Duncan waited until they were clear of the rabble before he said anything to her. If he waited until his temper cooled, it would have taken too long.

“What possible good did you think you could accom
plish by rushing up there?” Duncan demanded.

Though she struggled, he kept a tight hold around her
waist. He half dragged, half carried her as they hurried from there. He was afraid that if he released her, she would run back.

“I could have let him see me. Let him see that all was not lost,” she insisted.

How could Duncan be so heartless? Couldn’t he empathize with what her father must be experiencing? Didn’t he understand what it was like, to be vilified before a mob, to be degraded? Her father needed to know that there was help for him.

Where was her mind? “It would have been, if he had
seen you. Do you think he would be happy to know his
daughter is in danger? Or if he had been so stripped of
thought that his face lit to see you, do you think that
would have gone unnoticed by that arrogant devil officiating over the whole thing?” An angry cry strangled in
his throat. “You would have been as good as dead.”

She softened, her anger cooling. Duncan had only been thinking of her.

“I couldn’t stand to see him like that, Duncan. In chains.” She pressed her lips together to keep the sob back. “There were bruises. Even at that distance, I saw them. They’ve been beating him.”

He knew what she was feeling, but he had to think on a larger scale than immediate action and reaction. It
would take a plan to free Dr. Beaulieu, not reckless be
havior.

“Bruises will heal, Beth. We will save him, this I promise you. But it will take time. Be patient a little longer.”

Her sigh was ragged. “If he has a little longer,” she murmured under her breath.

As they approached, Jacob started, his hands tightening about the reins he still held in one hand and the pistol he brandished in the other. When he saw that it was them, he sagged against the wall, as if the air had suddenly left his body.

“Thank God it’s you, Duncan.” He straightened again, knowing what was expected of him. He had been too long with Duncan not to. One was never lax in the camp of the enemy. “I don’t like it here. There’s a smell
of death and madness to this city.” When he realized the import of his words, he flushed and looked at Beth apol
ogetically. They were not here to pass the time, but to find her father. “Did you find your father, mistress?”

Beth’s voice was hardly above a whisper. “Aye, we found him.”

Jacob narrowed his eyes as he looked beyond them toward the entrance. “Where is he?”

Beth exchanged looks with Duncan. Everything that Duncan had said was true, but still, she could not help the feeling she had. If there had just been some way she could have sent her father a sign, she knew that both of them would feel better for it.

“Imprisoned in the Bastille,” she answered. Awaiting
execution . ..

The name was familiar to Jacob. He looked at Duncan for confirmation. “That big old castle we saw yesterday?”

Had it really been that short a while? Duncan won
dered. It felt as if a lifetime had gone by since then. So
much had happened to them. To Beth.

“Fortress,” Duncan corrected.

Duncan placed his hand on Beth’s shoulder, afraid to break contact with her even now. He did not know the extent of her emotions, nor how they had affected her. He’d seen women swoon at far less. But then, he had seen Beth kill a man in order to save him, so perhaps she was made of sterner stuff, as he’d believed.

He looked into her eyes and had his answer. Slowly he withdrew his hand.