The Peacock Throne (20 page)

Lydia surveyed the rutted track. At least the greenery did not press so closely. She swiped away trickling perspiration with her handkerchief. The ox she walked next to flicked its tail, smacking her in the back of the head. With her walking stick she tapped the ox's haunch.

Birds chattered about them, screeching at the interlopers for disturbing their midday nap. Even next to the noisome ox, she occasionally caught the scent of an exotic blossom. A slip of a waterfall trickled down the side of the mountain, tempting her beyond bearing. Again Lydia lagged behind a little. What harm could it do to get a cool drink and wash her face?

“'Allo!”

Lydia jumped back from the splashing water. Stumbling over her own feet, she sat down hard on the dirt path. The men raised their weapons, each swinging about to face the sound.

Lydia offered up a sigh of relief as Danielle Long came into view, hurrying down the trail.

“Wait for me,” the Frenchwoman called, waving at them. Having captured their attention, Danielle's progress slowed.

Lydia tapped her foot. After a long moment, she turned back to the water. At least she could take advantage of the delay to wash her face and neck. It would be heaven to remove her boots and let the cool water splash over her feet. She settled for cupping her hands and gathering a refreshing draught.

Breathless, Danielle rushed up to Lord Danbury's side, clasping his hands in hers. Lydia narrowed her eyes. She really did not care for that woman.

“You 'ave made good progress,” Danielle said when she could speak. “Better than I would 'ave thought.” A flood of words washed away her habitual sullen silence. “Is that the throne? It must be
très grand
. The crate is huge. It is heavy, no? What will you do if it rains?”

Danielle directed the hail of questions at Lord Danbury. While he was trying to decide which of her ridiculous questions to answer, Lydia interjected a query of her own. “Where is Mr Long?”

Danielle glanced at Lydia and sniffed. “He shows the captain how to get around the island. He sends me back to help and tell you that your ship is coming.”

“But how did you find us?”

“Will they be able to rendezvous tomorrow morning?” Danbury asked at the same moment.

The Frenchwoman ignored Lydia in favour of his Lordship. “
Oui
. Yes. I think so—Mahe is a small island.”

The young woman's colour was high. Her eyes shone bright with some emotion, and she fluttered her hands as she spoke. Lydia shot a glance at the gentlemen. Neither seemed to have marked the change in her manner. Perhaps it was due to Jeremiah's absence. No doubt she felt freer without his presence. Whatever the reason, she was chattering like a magpie.

Danbury gave a nod to the crew and the trek resumed.

The hours ground away tediously. It seemed they were making no progress at all. Surely, Lydia had been staring at the same clump of ferns for nearly an hour.

Danielle had affixed herself to Lord Danbury's side. She trotted along merrily, as if there were no threat hanging over them and it weren't hotter than Hades. Lydia heartily wished Danielle would revert to her tight-lipped demeanour.

Danielle shrieked. Lost in reverie, Lydia jumped as if she had been scalded. Danbury pitched forward, thudding against the side of the ox he guided. His head struck the side of the cart and he slid to the ground beneath the oncoming wheels of the vehicle. Lydia yelped. She grabbed her ox's ear, tugging hard. Startled by the commotion, the oxen stopped in confusion.

Danbury had just enough time to roll away from the advancing wheels. Heart thudding in her chest, Lydia rushed around the animals to make sure he was not harmed. She found him sitting up and rubbing his head. She dropped to his side. Danielle stood apart, wringing her hands.

“Monsieur, I am so sorry. You are all right? You might 'ave been crushed. Please, you 'ave not hurt?” Agitation thickened her French accent and shortened her grasp on English syntax. “
Mon Dieu, mon Dieu
,” she moaned pitifully.

The others clustered near, all exclamations and questions.

“I am fine, Mrs Long. No harm done.” Lord Danbury stood and held out his arms to demonstrate his unscathed condition.

“
Dieu merci
.” Danielle sat on the ground with a thump. “I… I trip, I fall.” She gestured helplessly.

“Mrs Long stumbled and fell into me. Unfortunately it was just as I was stepping over that boulder, and I was off balance,” Lord Danbury said. “As I said, no harm's been done—” He bent down at Danielle's side. “Are you quite well, Mrs Long?”

Danielle lowered her eyes. “It is nothing—only my ankle. It will be fine. I will be more careful.” She made as if to stand, but collapsed back to the ground with a squeak.

Lydia knelt to examine the injured ankle. Danielle groaned as she probed the area gently. Lydia bit the inside of her lip, but forbore to roll her eyes. Kindness, she reminded herself. Her father had always taught that—longsuffering, gentleness, love.

“It's not broken. Nor is there any swelling I can discern. Perhaps it's sprained.” Lydia retrieved some rolled bandages from the medicine chest and bound the ankle tightly.

“Now we'll see if you can walk on it.” She took Danielle's hand to help her to her feet.

Mr Harting supported her other arm. She tentatively put weight on her injured limb. When she did not swoon, someone produced a sturdy branch for her to use as a cane, and with its aid Danielle hobbled a few steps.

The excitement over, everyone fell back in line and they resumed the journey. The pace lagged even slower to accommodate the injured woman. Danielle did not resume her place by Danbury. Instead she straggled behind, until coming abreast of Harting. Judging from the woman's breathless flutter of exclamations at the tragic thing that had nearly happened, she seemed to have overcome any consternation she may have felt. It proved the opening salvo in another bombardment of words.

Lydia looked back to see Harting politely inclined towards the young woman. Her hand rested on his arm as he assisted her along the path. Despite his apparent attendance to her chatter, Lydia saw the quick movements of his eyes and the frequent turning of his
head. He remained vigilant for any sign of threat from the French. Sighing, Lydia returned her attention to her own footing. The last thing they needed was further delay.

Lord Danbury didn't call an end to the day's exertions until darkness had edged in close enough to touch. They had reached the base of the mountain. The worst of the terrain lay behind them. Emmanuel reckoned they had another half a mile to go.

From their impatient movements and short tempers Lydia guessed that Danbury and Harting would have liked to press on. But common sense prevailed. The cloak of night made further travel with the throne madness. An unseen hole or rock could send the cart over, and the throne with it. The danger was too great to chance, so the men hurried about the routine of setting up camp for one last night.

Rather than erecting a separate tent for Danielle, Lydia offered to share hers. They prepared for bed in silence, a marked contrast to Danielle's talkativeness throughout the day.

The heat and humidity were oppressive. No stray breeze penetrated the jungle at the base of the mountain. Restless and perspiring, Lydia woke in the middle of the night. She tried to go back to sleep, but the thick, motionless air defeated her. In silence she picked up her boots, settling down outside the tent to put them on. This done, she straightened and sought out the guards so they would not be startled into shooting her later if they came upon her unexpectedly.

She had spoken to two of the guard and was looking for the third, Anthony's valet, James, when she heard a rustling nearby. Instantly alert, she stopped and called out softly to the darkness. “James?” She waited in vain for a response. Cautiously she crept towards the noise. “James, is that you?”

Again she heard no response. Heart in her throat, Lydia stole towards the rustling. Stooping to pick up a heavy branch, she continued to advance. A low moan caught her ear, sending a shiver up her spine. The darkness hung as thick and heavy as a curtain,
hiding the source of the sound from her view. Mustering her courage, Lydia called again in the sternest voice she could manage.

“Who is it? Show yourself!”

The underbrush rustled again, and she caught sight of a figure on the ground. Another moan came from the dark mound, and then a raspy whisper.

“Miss… help me.”

Lydia dropped her club and ran to the speaker. “Sophie? Sophie, what's wrong?” She knelt in the brush beside the slave girl.

The girl rasped something unintelligible. A slight nod of her head directed Lydia's attention to her side, which she clutched tightly.

Lydia gasped at the dark, sticky smear down the girl's dress. Blood, and quite a lot of it. Sophie's head lolled back. Lydia pulled her up.

“Let's get you to some light so I can look at this wound.”

She half carried Sophie to the campfire. In obvious agony, the girl moved haltingly. Lydia tried to be gentle, but Sophie was insensible when they collapsed together near the fire. Fetching a cup of water, Lydia lifted it to Sophie's dry lips. Somewhat revived, the girl spoke feebly.

“Miss, de French is comin'. I saw dem talkin'.” Her words trailed off in a wince as Lydia gently probed her wound.

Lydia glanced up from her examination. “Who did you see?”

“Madame Long and a Frenchman. They don' know I'm close by. Miss, I think she kill Mister Jeremiah.”

Lydia rocked back on her heels. Her lungs felt like a broken bellows, unable to inflate properly.

Gasping and grimacing, Sophie continued. “I's taking laundry to the waterfall. An' I hear. She tell him 'bout the plan to move the ship.”

She groaned as Lydia swabbed the wound and applied a padding of folded handkerchiefs. It was rough, but it would have to do for the moment. All the while her mind worked furiously.

“I start to run 'way. The man heard me an' shot, but I—” Sophie's breathing grew reedy with the effort of speech and she gasped to a stop.

Danielle must have been trying to delay them in a bid to allow the French ship time to catch
Legacy
and cut off their escape.

Lydia stroked the girl's brow and her eyes fluttered open. Bending low, Lydia hissed into her ear. “Sophie, be very quiet and still. Danielle rejoined us. I think she may have even tried to kill Lord Danbury.”

Sophie's eyes turned fearful at the news.

“She is in my tent. We will try to take her unaware. Stay here where you will be out of danger.” She placed the girl's hand over the padding on her wound. “Hold this in place. You've bled a great deal, and you must try to staunch the flow. I cannot imagine how you managed to come so far.”

Not waiting for a response, Lydia jumped to her feet. She had to find Danielle before that traitor suspected her plot was uncovered.
Lydia considered going to Harting and Danbury, but they would have to be roused, booted, and armed. Instead she located the guards and briefly explained.

Stealthily they approached the tent. Lydia lifted the flap, and ducked in. A glance revealed that Danielle no longer lay curled on her blanket. Lydia left one of the guards to watch the tent and capture Danielle should she return. She sent the other guard to scout in one direction—she took the opposite.

She was still reluctant to rouse the camp. It would put the Frenchwoman on guard and she might escape or try something desperate.

The stifling darkness limited her vision. Frustration flared. This was wrong, all wrong. She couldn't waste time wandering aimlessly. Haste was of the utmost importance. Every sense strained to pierce the gloom, to catch a hint of where the woman could be. What was she doing? What would cause them the greatest delay?

With a flash of insight she realized where Danielle would go. The throne. Abandoning her cautious circling of the camp, Lydia hastened silently to where the cart and its precious burden had been secured.

A figure crouched at the side of the cart. Lydia threw herself forward. Danielle turned as Lydia wrenched her away from the cart. The Frenchwoman clutched a knife in her hand.

Lydia gasped. The woman was diabolical. Heedless of those who might have been hurt, Danielle had been fraying the ropes securing the throne to the cart. At some point in the morning it would have tumbled to the ground.

The knife glinted wickedly as Danielle lunged at her. Lydia grabbed the arcing hand before the blade could bury itself in her flesh. But Danielle's rush toppled them both over. Rolling on the ground they grappled for the weapon. Struggling beneath the other woman's weight, Lydia held Danielle's arm with all her might. The sharp metal dipped again and again, like a snake seeking to destroy her.

With a desperate shove, Lydia was free of her attacker for an instant. Now she was on top and had the upper hand. She pushed hard at
Danielle, trying to force the knife from the woman's grasp. She almost had it—almost. The Frenchwoman bucked violently. With a twist of her wrist the knife jabbed at Lydia again. She cried out. A scarlet thread blossomed and spread across her bicep, turning into a stream that washed down her arm and onto the face of the woman beneath her.

From somewhere seemingly far away, Lydia heard a shout. She could pay it no heed. Danielle's whitened fingers were talons gripping the knife. They were on their sides in the dirt again, wrestling for their lives. It took every bit of strength Lydia possessed to keep the knife from striking again.

Men poured from their tents forming a jagged circle around the combatants. Cries pierced the night. Someone produced a torch. The light reached Danielle. She blinked and dropped the knife, which tumbled to the ground. She went limp in Lydia's grasp. Strong arms reached in to separate them.

Harting assisted Lydia to her feet. He took her arm in gentle hands and examined the wound. She panted, unable for the moment to catch her breath. She locked her knees to keep from collapsing. Her teeth began to chatter. With her free hand she swiped at hair that hung in her face, shoving it behind her ear. Numb fingers could not seem to stop trembling.

“Sophie… hurt. By the fire…needs help,” Lydia gasped.

Emmanuel whirled towards the fire. The other men surrounded Danielle. She cursed them all roundly in French.

Brow crumpled, Lord Danbury looked from Lydia to the other woman and back again. “What is all this?”

Chest heaving, Lydia tried to catch her breath and relate Sophie's story at the same time. It seemed to take a long time, though it could only have been a few minutes by the clock. “I believe she meant to fray the ropes, hoping they would break sometime in the morning. She wanted to delay us long enough for the French to cut off our retreat.” Lydia's injured arm burned. Her palm was sticky with her own blood. She wiped it against the already filthy skirt of her dress. There would be no salvaging this gown.

“Someone might have been killed.” Danbury's hands tightened into fists.

“Sophie thinks Danielle may have killed Jeremiah,” Lydia said.

“The accident yesterday…” Shock lit Danbury's face. “Madame Long has much to answer for.”

Two sailors had taken Danielle's arms. She stood silent and petulant when Lord Danbury turned to her.

“What have you to say?”

“It is all lies.” She thrust up her chin in a contemptuous nod at Lydia. “Your trollop doesn't like me because I am prettier, and you were friendly to me. She attacked me and then made up these terrible tales.”

Harting cocked his head and smiled. “Come now, Madame. We all know that is untrue. Miss Garrett is much lovelier than you. That's why you had to settle for an old man like Mr Long.”

Rage flared in Danielle's eyes and she showed her teeth. “There were many men who desired me. Only Long bid on me like a slave.
Bien
, he regrets it now, doesn't he?”

Harting pounced. “So you did kill him.”

Caught by her own boastful pride, Danielle tried to bluster, but with no success. She crumbled in an outburst of vindictiveness. “
Oui
, I killed the old pig.” She turned to Lord Danbury. “And I tried to kill you. Monsieur Bonaparte restores the glory of France. We will defeat your pitiful island, and I shall dance with Le Faucon in Paris.”

Danbury turned ashen, his lips a slash in the granite of his face.

Danielle extended a hand to him, apparently deciding she ought to change tack. “I 'ad to, Monsieur. You do not know what it was like with Jeremiah. So tedious. I met Le Faucon in the village while Jeremiah delivered your message to the ship. All he desire is information. And for this, he swear to take me to France. I did not decide right away.” She said this as if it indicated her virtue. “I try to make Jeremiah to stay in the village, but he would not. I tell him I would make sure you knew the message had been delivered. But
he never listened to me. I did not want to kill the old fool, but he never listened.”

“You killed him because he would not go away?” Harting asked.

“
Oui
. You understand. I did not want to, but he would not stay in the village. Such a stupid old man.” She glanced at the faces surrounding her.

“It sounds as if you had already made up your mind to assist Le Faucon.” Lydia eyed the traitor. She bit her lip to keep from screaming at the woman. Even as she trembled from the effort of their scuffle, she longed to lunge at her and resume the battle. She flexed the fingers of her good hand. She would rip out the woman's hair at the roots.

Danielle slumped. It was obvious she would find no sympathetic ear among this audience. Lydia smirked, but then her heart clenched. Scheming and wicked Danielle might be, but she was also a pitiful dupe.

“
Oui
, I told Monsieur Le Faucon what you search for and also where your ship was being moved. He will stop you.”

Danielle stopped as she caught sight of Emmanuel standing at the edge of the circle of light. Her eyes grew round. The look of disgust on his face seemed to touch her as nothing else.

“You!” She turned to Harting. “This man is dangerous, an escaped slave.”

“And your paramour shot his sister.”

“He wouldn't have had to shoot her if she weren't sly. The stupid girl crept up on us.” An injured note crept into her voice at being so ill-used by Sophie. “
Monsieur
, I beg you, do not let him harm me.”

“
Madame
.” Hauteur oozed from Harting. “He would not descend to your level.”

Danbury nodded and gestured towards Danielle. “Bind her hands and keep a guard on her. We need to hurry. Take only the essentials. Leave the tents and everything not absolutely necessary.”