Rendezvous (9781301288946)

RENDEZVOUS

By Susan Carroll

Copyright 2012 Susan Carroll

Smashwords Edition

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CHAPTER ONE

Escape was impossible. The carriage
careened through the ruts of the dirt road at a bone-shattering
pace, the slope of the French countryside flashing by in a blur of
green. But the sounds of pursuit could be heard clearly. The shouts
of the soldiers and the thunder of their horses resounded above the
rattle of the coach windows, the clatter of the iron-rimmed
wheels.

Within moments the carriage would be
overtaken. The four occupants of the berline realized this even
before the coach began to slow. They knew the exhausted team
pulling the heavy vehicle could no longer maintain such a pace.
Late afternoon sun glinted through the windows, casting shadows
upon the apprehensive faces of a slender seventeen-year-old boy and
the careworn woman clutching a little girl close to her side. When
the sound of a musket shot cracked through the air, the child
buried her face in her mother's skirts. Outside, the whipping mane
of the lead soldier's mount edged into view. The rider hurled abuse
at the coachman and the postboy, then bellowed out a command to
halt.

Madame Coterin's arms tightened about
little Sophie and she exchanged a frightened glance with her son,
Phillipe. Both of them looked instinctively toward their companion,
who was seated upon the leather seat opposite—a tall woman garbed
in a high-waisted gown of black silk, her features obscured by a
veil.

Even though her expression was masked,
Isabelle Varens conveyed to the Coterin family an appearance of
calm and collected wits.

"It will be all right," she said in
unmistakably English accents, her voice as cool and silvery as a
clear mountain stream. "The important thing is to allow me to do
the talking and not to panic."

Isabelle reached with seeming
casualness for a miniver muff stowed beside her upon the seat. Only
she knew with what tension her fingers crooked around the pearly
handle of the pistol strapped within the fur's depths. The familiar
rush that she always felt at the scent of danger coursed through
her: part fear and part exhilaration at the thought of confronting
the enemy, besting him.

Another shot rang out and the coach
lurched to a stop, which nearly tumbled them all from their seats.
The French soldiers surrounded the berline in a swirl of dust and
bluecoats, sweating horses and glinting sabers. Belle could hear
the postboy's terrified cry. One of the militia cursed her
coachman, and Feydeau answered back with Gallic fervor.

Young Phillipe shifted his brown frock
coat and groped for the hilt of his sword. Stretching out her hand,
Belle stayed him with a warning shake of her head just as the coach
door was wrenched open. The beefy shoulders of a soldier filled the
opening, the sword he brandished forcing Belle back against the
faded velvet squabs.

"Be still," he growled. "Don't any of
you make any sudden moves.”

Madame Coterin shrank deeper into her
corner, her sobs mingling with her daughter's. Phillipe's face
paled. Using his thin frame, he attempted to shield his mother and
sister.

"What seems to be the trouble,
monsieur?" Belle asked. Her voice sounded slow and even, completely
out of tempo with the quickening of her blood. She undid the
leather strap that held the pistol and readjusted the muff so that
she could level her unseen weapon at the man's stomach.

"The trouble is, my fine lady, Sergeant
Emile Lefranc does not take kindly to having his orders disobeyed."
The soldier puffed out his chest and thumped it with his fist.
"When an officer of the Elboeuf militia demands a carriage draw
rein, that command had best be obeyed double quick."

"What right have you—" Phillipe managed
to choke out before Belle cut him off.

"Indeed, sir, we intended no
disrespect." Behind the curtain of her veil, she assessed the burly
man, resplendent in his royal-blue coat with scarlet facings and
yellow epaulettes, the silver galoons of a sergeant upon his
sleeve. Probably recently enlisted and fiercely proud of it, likely
to be overzealous, was Belle's conclusion. And beyond him, although
she could not see to count them, Belle reckoned that the sergeant
must have at least a half-dozen men at his call. She relaxed her
grip on the pistol. The threat of force was not the answer to
wangling her way out of this one. Her safety and that of the
Coterins would depend entirely on her wits. She was not even sure
as yet what these soldiers wanted.

Playing for time, she pretended to
shudder "Surely, sir, you can have no reason for terrifying
innocent women and children."

She noted Phillipe stiffened with
indignation, but any gallant action he might be contemplating was
hindered by his mother, who now clung to him as well as his little
sister.

The sergeant's sword wavered as he
retrieved a crumpled sheet of parchment from his pocket and flashed
it at her with an air of swaggering importance. "My orders are to
stop any suspicious-looking vehicle and search it."

Belle tried to read the document, but
glimpsed little beyond the date before the sergeant snatched it
back. Fructidor, the Year XI or, Belle thought, September 1802 to
the sane world outside of revolutionary France.

"We shall be only too happy to
cooperate," Belle said in her sweetest tones. With slow
deliberation she raised her veil. The sergeant froze, his eyes
widening, his lips nearly pursing into an appreciative whistle.
Belle had no difficulty imagining what he was seeing: the eyes,
melting blue, seductive; the cheeks, high, fine-boned; the
ringlets, golden, the complexion, creamy, subtly shaded with rose;
the lips, carnellian, tempting. She had oft studied her reflection
in the mirror, not out of any vanity, but more in dispassionate
evaluation of the beauty Fate had seen fit to bestow upon her, a
weapon that could prove more effective than the pistol she
carried.

The sergeant had already forgotten
himself enough to lower his sword. His manner was somewhat less
blustering as he said, "Forgive me, madame. But I must ask to see
your passport."

"Certainly," she murmured. As Belle
withdrew the paper from the purse tied to the belt of her gown,
Madame Coterin sucked in her breath, but the sergeant took no
notice. His eyes remained fixed upon Belle. She forced herself to
remain unperturbed as she handed over the passport.

The sergeant unfolded the paper.
Stroking his chin, he made great show of examining the document. As
the seconds ticked by, Phillipe drummed his fingers upon his knee.
Belle sought to give him a reassuring smile. After all, the
passport was one of the best forgeries English pound notes could
buy.

But her own anxiety heightened when the
sergeant stepped back and summoned one of his men. The two soldiers
drew a few steps from the coach, their heads together in earnest
consultation.

"
Mon
dieu
," Madame Coterin wept. "They know!
They have discovered-"

"Hush!" Belle whispered. Her neck
muscles tensed as she strained to hear.

"Madame Gordon, sir," the second
soldier was saying, "traveling with her daughter and two
servants."

"Oh. Oh, of course." The sergeant
harumphed, then muttered something about the sun having been in his
eyes.

Belle stifled an urge to laugh as she
realized what had been wrong. "Nothing is amiss," she whispered to
Phillipe and his mother. "Only that the sergeant cannot
read."

But they had no chance to relax before
the sergeant returned to the coach door. "You are Madame Gordon?"
he asked, his eyes making a more thorough inspection of Belle,
lingering on the bodice of her gown.

"That is so, sir," Belle
lied.

"An English lady traveling alone?" His
voice held a faint note of censure.

"Alas, sir, I am recently widowed.
Since your great general Napoleon has been so gracious as to
declare a peace between our two nations, I thought to visit France
as so many of my countrymen are doing. In the gaiety of Paris, I
might forget the good husband I have lost."

"But you are heading away from Paris,
madame."

"True." Belle permitted her gaze to
rake over the sergeant's bulky form with just the right combination
of shyness and bold admiration. "I have done enough
forgetting."

The sergeant's cheeks waxed red. He
returned the passport, removed his cockaded hat, attempted to
smooth his coarse windblown hair, then straightened the hat upon
his head again. While he was so flustered, Belle pressed home her
advantage. Resting her hand upon his sleeve, she looked him full in
the face and coaxed, "Perhaps, Capitain—"

"Sergeant, madame. Sergeant Lefranc of
the Elboeuf militia."

"My dear Sergeant Lefranc, perhaps if
you would tell me exactly what you are searching for, I could be of
some help to you.”

The sergeant's arm quivered beneath her
touch. "Deserters, madame. Deserters from the army."

Deserters? Not a certain royalist spy
who most often went by the name of Isabelle Varens? Not the family
of the Chevalier Coterin, the agent recently caught pilfering
Consul Napoleon Bonaparte's private dispatches?

Phillipe gave an audible sigh, and if
Sergeant Lefranc had been gazing at Madame Coterin, he would have
seen the relief she could not disguise. But the soldier's stare
never wavered from Belle, and she schooled her features most
carefully.

"Dear me!" she said. "Deserters! How
very dreadful."

"Indeed it is, madame. But you would be
astonished at how oft the country folk protect such rogues. That is
why we need to stop every coach to be certain no one is hiding
them."

"As if I would do such a thing." Belle
heaved a tremulous breath. The sergeant's interested gaze followed
the rise and fall of her breasts. "I despise such cowards who slink
away, leaving brave men like you to face all the
danger."

Sergeant Lefranc shuffled his feet, an
embarrassed smirk on his face. "Well, 1 can see I made a mistake.
Please accept my apologies, madame. Although it was most
suspicious—the way you attempted to avoid being
stopped."

"Not at all, sir. You see, I have heard
horrible tales of your deserters, how they prey upon the
countryside like marauding brigands. When I saw the blue coats, I
had no notion who might be after me, and being but a defenseless
female . . ."

Belle allowed her lashes to drift
downward, all the while watching covertly for any sign the sergeant
might disbelieve her.

But the man was only too eager to
agree. "Of course, Madame Gordon. Such journeys are indeed
hazardous for a lady with no male protector."

It was fortunate, Belle thought, that
the sergeant did not see the way Phillipe flushed and glowered at
him.

"Perhaps," Sergeant Lefranc continued,
moistening his lips, considering there are these deserters prowling
about, my men and I should provide you an escort to your
destination."

Although Belle greeted the suggestion
with concealed dismay, a spirit of mischief also stirred inside
her. Ever since the Revolution had first swept through France, she
had had more than one occasion to escape to the coast, but she had
never done so decorously escorted by a contingent of the
Revolutionary Army. Yet when she caught a glimpse of Madame
Coterin's face sick with apprehension, Belle suppressed the
devilish impulse to make even more a fool of Sergeant Lefranc than
she already had.

She graciously refused his offer,
assuring him that she did not mean to travel much farther that day.
When he continued to press her, she silenced him by saying, "And I
have no wish to get you into difficulties, sir, by drawing you so
far away from your garrison."