The Spymaster's Lady (3 page)

She'd be supremely useful to British intelligence. Besides, he wouldn't leave a rabid hyena to Leblanc.

The peephole went bright as Henri held the lantern up. His heavy, florid face pressed to the grill. “Leblanc is furious with you.”

“Please.” The girl wilted visibly, leaning on the table for support, a sweet, succulent curve of entrapped femininity. “Oh, please.” The drab blue of her dress and the crude cut of the garment marked her as a servant and accessible. Somehow her disheveled hair, falling forward over her face, had become sensuality itself. “This is all a mistake. A mistake. I swear…”

Henri laced fingers through the bars. “You'll talk to him in the end, Annique. You'll beg to talk. You know what he'll do to you.”

There was a sniffle. “Leblanc…He does not believe me. He will hurt me terribly. Tell him I know nothing more. Please, Henri. Tell him.” Her voice had changed completely. She sounded younger, subtly less refined, and very frightened. It was a masterful performance.

“He'll hurt you no matter what I tell him.” Henri gloated.

The girl's face sank into her upturned palm. Her hair spilled in dark rivers through her fingers. “I cannot bear it. He will use me…like a grunting animal. I am not meant to be used by peasants.”

Clever. Clever. He saw what she was doing. Henri's voice marked him as Parisian, a man of the city streets. Leblanc, for all his surface polish, was the son of a pig farmer. And Henri worked for Leblanc.

Henri's spite snaked out into the cell. “You were always Vauban's pet—Vauban and his elite cadre. Vauban and his important missions. You were too good for the rest of us. But tonight the so-special Annique that nobody could touch becomes a blind puppet for Leblanc to play with. If you'd been kind to me before, maybe I'd help you now.”

“Leblanc has become Fouché's favorite. With the head of the Secret Police behind him, he can do anything. You cannot help me. You would not dare defy him.” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I will do whatever he wishes. I have no choice.”

“I'll have you when he's through with you.”

She went on speaking. She might not have heard Henri. “He will make me oil my body and do the Gypsy dances I learned when I was a child. I will dance in the firelight for him with nothing but a thin bit of silken cloth upon me. Red silk. He…he prefers red. He has told me.”

Grey wrapped the chain around his hand, gripping tight, seized by the image of a slim body writhing naked, silhouetted in the golden glow of fire. He wasn't the only one. Henri gripped the crossed bars of the grill and pressed his face close, salivating.

Annique, eyes downcast, swayed as if she were already undulating in the sensual dance she described. “I will draw the crimson silk from my body and caress him with it. The silk will be warm and damp with the heat of the dance. With my heat.” Her left hand stroked down her body, intimately.

Grey ached from a dozen beatings, thirst was a torment every second, and he knew exactly what she was doing. He still went hard as a rock. He was helpless to stop it. God, but she was good.

Huskily, dreamily, she continued. “He will lie upon his bed and call me to him. At first, only to touch. Then to put my mouth upon him, wherever he directs. I have been trained to be skillful with my mouth. I will have no choice, you see, but to do as he demands of me.”

Henri clanked and fumbled with the lock. In a great hurry, was Henri. If the Frenchman was half as aroused by Annique's little act as Grey was, it was a wonder he could get the door open at all.

The door banged back against the stone wall. “You must not come in here, Henri,” she said softly, not moving, “or touch me in any way without the permission of Leblanc.”

“Damn Leblanc.” Henri slapped the lantern down and cornered her against the table. His fist twisted into her skirt and pulled it up. He grabbed the white shift beneath.

“You should not…You must not…” She struggled, pushing futilely at his hands with no more strength than a tiny, captured bird.

“No.” He threw himself at Henri. And jerked short on his iron leash. The circle of pain at his wrist brought him back to reality. He couldn't get to her. He couldn't fight Henri for her. There wasn't a bloody thing he could do but watch.

“Do not…” Her flailing arm hit the lantern. It tilted and skidded off the table and clattered to the floor and extinguished. Darkness was instant and absolute.

“Stupid bitch,” Henri snarled. “You…”

There was a small squashed thud. Henri yelped in pain. More thuds—one, two, three. The table scraped sideways. Something large and soft fell.

No movement. He heard Annique breathing hard, the smallness of it and the contralto gasps uniquely hers.

Planned. She'd planned it all. He crouched, tense as stretched cord, and acknowledged how well he'd been fooled. She'd planned this from start to finish. She'd manipulated both of them with that damned act of hers.

There was a long silence, broken by intriguing rustling sounds and Annique grunting from time to time. Her footsteps, when she walked toward him, were sure and unhesitating. She came in a straight line across the cell as if it were not dark as a tomb.

“What did you do to Henri?” The issue, he thought, had never really been in doubt.

“I hit him upon the head with a sock full of rocks.” She seemed to think it over while she sat down beside him. “At least I am almost sure I hit his head once. I hit him many places. Anyway, he is quiet.”

“Dead?”

“He is breathing. But one can never tell with head wounds. I may have yet another complicated explanation to make to God when I show up at his doorstep, which, considering all things, may be at any moment. I hope I have not killed him, quite, though he undoubtedly deserves it. I will leave that to someone else to do, another day. There are many people who would enjoy killing him. Several dozen I can call to mind at once.”

She baffled him. There was ruthlessness there, but it was a kind of blithe toughness, clean as a fresh wind. He didn't catch a whiff of the evil that killed men in cold blood, from ambush. He had to keep reminding himself what she was. “You did more than knock him over the head. What was the rest of it, afterwards?”

“You desire the whole report?” She sounded amused. “But you are a spymaster, I think, Englishman. No one else asks such questions so calmly, as if by right. Very well, I shall report to you the whole report—that I have tied Henri up and helped myself to his money. There was an interesting packet of papers in a pocket he may have thought was secret. You may have them if you like. Me, I am no longer in the business of collecting secret papers.”

Her hands patted over him lightly. “I have also found a so-handy stickpin, and if you will lift your pretty iron cuff here. Yes. Just so. Now hold still. I am not a fishwife that I can filet this silly lock while you wriggle about. You will make me regret that I am being noble and saving your life if you do not behave sensibly.”

“I am at your disposal.” He offered his chained wrist. At the same time he reached out and touched her hair, ready to grab her if she tried to leave without freeing him.

She put herself right in his power—a man twice her size, twice her strength, and an enemy. She had to know what her writhing and whispering did to a man. Revenge and anger and lust churned in his body like molten iron. The wonder was it didn't burn through his skin and set this soft hair on fire.

“Ah. We proceed,” she said in the darkness. “This lock is not so complicated as it pretends to be. We are discussing matters.”

She edged closer and shifted the manacle to a different angle, brushing against his thigh. With every accidental contact, his groin tightened and throbbed. All he could think of was her soft voice saying, “I will oil my body and dance in the firelight.” He was no Henri. He wasn't going to touch her. But how did he get a picture like that out of his head?

“And…it is done.” The lock fell open.

She made it seem easy. It wasn't. He rubbed his wrist. “I thank you.”

He stood and stretched to his full height, welcoming the pain of muscles uncramping. Free. Savage exultation flooded him. He was free. He bunched and unbunched his fists, glorying in the surge of power that swept him. He felt like he could take these stones apart with his bare hands. It was dark as the pit of hell and they were twenty feet under a stronghold of the French Secret Police. But the door hung open. He'd get them out of here—Adrian and this remarkable, treacherous woman—or die trying. If they didn't escape, it would be better for all of them to die in the attempt.

While that woman worked on Adrian's manacle, he groped his way across the cell to Henri, who was, as she had said, breathing. The Frenchman was tied, hand and foot, with his stockings and gagged with his own cravat. A thorough woman. Checking the bonds was an academic exercise. There was indeed a secret pocket in the jacket. He helped himself to the papers, then tugged Henri's pants down to his ankles, leaving him half naked.

“What do you busy yourself with?” She'd heard him shifting Henri about. “I find myself inquisitive this evening.”

“I'm giving Henri something to discuss with Leblanc when they next meet.” It might buy them ten minutes while Henri explained his plans for the girl. “I may eventually regret leaving him alive.”

“If we are very lucky, you will have an eventually in which to do so.” There was a final, small, decisive click. “That is your Adrian's lock open. He cannot walk from here, you know.”

“I'll carry him. Do you have a plan for getting out of the chateau with an unconscious man and no weapons and half the Secret Police of France upstairs?”

“But certainly. We will not discuss it here, though. Bring your friend and come, please, if you are fond of living.”

He put an arm under Adrian's good shoulder and hauled him upright. The boy couldn't stand without help, but he could walk when held up. He was conversing with unseen people in a variety of languages.

“Don't die on me now, Hawker,” he said. “Don't you dare die on me.”

“M
E,
I
SHOULD NOT BE PLAYING NURSEMAID TO
a couple of English.” The woman shifted to take more of Adrian's weight. “We go left here, English, if you are set upon coming to this place.”

“It's the closest church?”

“It is indeed. There is the Church of St. Cloud midway down the hill, of course, which is a more proper church—in daylight you could see the steeple—but the chapel in the orphanage is by far closer, if you do not mind that it is ruined, which I suppose is a matter wholly indifferent to you. It was burned in the Terror. They are all gone now, the nuns and the orphans, to God alone knows where.”

“If it's the closest church, there'll be a message.” If he were lucky, his friend Doyle would be waiting for him.

“The English spies in Italy had a similar arrangement. I am all comprehension.”

Night stretched unbroken on every side, lightless, but decent and clean after that cell. He took a deep breath. The possibilities seemed endless, under this sky, breathing this pure, empty chill. They'd come this far. He'd get them all to safety. He'd find a way.

“I do not know why I am helping you. It is an example of disinterested benevolence, this.” He could imagine the resigned shrug. Already he knew her that well. “And therefore doubtless unwise. Ah, we have removed ourselves from the road slightly. We shall edge back. Yes. Thusly. Take care.”

They supported Adrian between them while Annique tapped the path ahead with the broomstick she'd picked up in the chateau garden. She'd saved his life again and again tonight. It was Annique who'd counted out the steps of a complicated route through the maze of the chateau cellars. She'd known the secret of the door hidden in the back of a storage closet. In utter blackness, with assurance a cat would envy, she'd threaded a way past the unseen hazards of the gardens. She found water caught under leaves in a deep stone basin. As long as he lived he'd remember that water. He'd remember Annique cupping water in her hand and holding it to Adrian's lips before she took a drink herself.

He could never have lifted Adrian over that last wall alone. It had been an endless, agonizing ordeal, accomplished in uncanny silence, while fifty yards away guests came and went on the front steps of the chateau and music of unearthly purity hung in the air like crystal.

Now she led them forward and whispered encouragement and direction and caustic complaint. “The ruts are deep because wagons turn to go into the back gate of the chateau.” “The wall on the right is abundant with sharp stones. Avoid it.” “Ah. That is a low branch. You will come to it in a moment.” He could see her walking into hell saying, “On the right, take note of the chained demon. Take care to walk around him.” His respect for her, and his wariness, grew with every step. He'd take every care, capturing her.

She said, “It is not far, the gate to the orphanage.”

On the other side of the River Seine, a line of pinprick lights marked the city of Paris. A few streets away, a single bright window hung in the night. Other than that, it was black as the belly of a cow. “How the devil can you tell?”

She laughed in the darkness. She was another one glad to be out of that cellar. “I walked this road many times when there was daylight for me. My memory is most excellent.” Joy lilted in her voice, like singing. It was strange to hear her sound so young, like a brave child, instead of the coiled serpent he knew her to be. “This tree we stand beneath,” she banged the stick against bark, “which naturally you have not been introduced to and cannot see anyway, is a beautiful cherry which was old already when I first came here. I have climbed it and stolen many cherries in my time. The whole corner smells of the fruit that fell a few weeks ago. The road you seek, the driveway to the Sisters of the Orphans, is opposite. There.” She touched his shoulder lightly, showing where she meant.

Her night vision was extraordinary. “I can't see a thing.”

“Stop trying to see, English. Listen instead. The night is telling stories all around you. The Rue Bérenger lies ahead…oh…fifty paces perhaps. The baker on the corner is even now making bread. One can smell that. Rue Bérenger runs east toward the bridge, to Paris, where men of your profession likely have friends. Or go uphill to the west, and you will come after a time to England, where you have even more friends, beyond doubt. The little wind in our face—feel it—is blowing from the northeast, from the Bois de Boulogne.”

He closed his eyes and tried to sense the currents of the night as she did. She was right. It was easier listening and feeling the wind on his skin, not straining to see. “You're good at this. You've done your share of sneaking around in the dark.”

“More than I would like, certainly.”

“Did you learn all that working for Vauban? You were one of his people, weren't you?”

“You ask many questions. Have I told you that? Now pay attention and I will teach you secrets. When you face the wind you will always know where you are. It is the direction of the river scent.” He heard her swallow. “The smell of the water.”

And with that, he'd found the bait to lure her in. Her voice gave her away. The catch basin in the garden held barely enough to wet their mouths. She was thirsty. Hurting with it.

He chose his words carefully. “I'll be glad to get to the chapel. I hope there's water.” He felt her attention quiver. Good.

“It is most likely.”

He picked a few more insidious words. “There should be a well. Do you think we'll find a bucket or something to draw the water up?”

“You will doubtless discover. It is not far, as I said.” Her voice had thickened and he heard her swallow again. “I shall leave you to your so-secret rendezvous. Me, I have business elsewhere. I am not anxious to enlarge my acquaintance with the English spy community of Paris.” But her voice said she was thinking about water.

“Probably nobody's there. I can't manage Adrian alone. And you can show me that well.”

“Do not nag at me, monsieur.” He heard her stick grind the dirt of the road. “It is not an attractive trait.”

“He needs your help. What is it, a hundred steps?”

She snorted, a delicate, French snort of exasperation. “I do not know how it is the English have the reputation for being stoic, for you are not in the least.” She gathered Adrian closer to her. “Come then. We will find your water that obsesses you so. Most certainly we will stop loitering here in the roadway, chatting, for anyone and his cat to remark upon. This is the gate.”

The broomstick clicked angrily along the iron railings as they went through.

“I go as far as the steps of the main house. Not beyond that,” she said. “Not one inch. Not if you have a dozen young spies upon your hands, all wounded horribly. It is thoroughly illogical that you should ask it of me.” Their feet crunched on gravel and the way led steeply downhill. “I have had little to do with the English before this. I see now that was wise, though there are doubtless many sorts of Englishmen who are more reasonable than you. Perhaps I will reserve judgment.”

He could detect no trace of a human presence ahead. But then, he wouldn't. Not if it was Will Doyle waiting there.

A few steps forward and she stopped. “I do not like this.” And right she was. She had excellent instincts. “No. I will not go farther. Take the boy…”

Adrian, even half-conscious, must have been listening. He played his part then. He moaned and sagged against her.

She staggered and held him up. “Your friend has fainted again. We must…”

At his side, close enough to touch, Doyle said, “It's about time you showed up.” A burly presence coalesced from the night. “I was getting ready to storm the place.”

Doyle. Thank God. Two tons of worry rolled off his shoulders. “Adrian's hurt.”

The instant she heard Doyle's voice, the girl pushed free of Adrian and backed away into the woods. She stilled, out of reach.

“Give him to me.” Doyle was a big man. He picked Adrian up bodily and carried him. “I heard he went and got himself shot. We've been wondering how bad it was. I stole a coach just in case. It's down the drive.”

“Good.” He turned his head to one side and the other, listening, locating the girl. There. The whisper of her breath betrayed her.
Feel safe in the darkness, Annique. You just do that.
“I need water for my guide,” he called after Doyle.

He could swear Doyle read his mind. “There's a couple flasks in the coach, nice and cold. I'll fetch it down. Good clean water.” They were the right words, offhanded and calm.

He felt a tremor in Annique's waiting silence.
Keep thinking about water, Annique. Keep thinking about how thirsty you are.
“I'll get that flask for you, mademoiselle, with my thanks. That's the very least I owe you.”

She hesitated, an almost inaudible rustle of indecision. She must be desperate for water.

If he grabbed for her and missed, he wouldn't get a second chance. She was too fast in the dark, too comfortable slipping around with that stick of hers. He'd have to tempt her close. “Wait,” he said softly. “I'll bring water.”

The smell of fresh paint led him to the coach and a spiderweb of faint lines leaking from a dark lantern. When he slid the tin sheathing aside, a wedge of light sprang up across the weed-grown courtyard.

Doyle settled Adrian in the coach. “Where'd you catch it, lad? Shoulder? No. More along of the chest. Just the one bullet?”

Adrian said hoarsely, “One's enough…don't you think? Waistcoat's a total loss.”

The coach rocked as Doyle spread a blanket over the boy. “Dunnoh how I'm gonna face yer tailor, knowing that. Here, put some water in you before you faint on us.”

“Set it where I can reach it. Let's get out of here.”

“An' who died and left you in charge, lad? You tell me that sometime.” Doyle swung down from the coach. “He'll do. How many after you?”

“The whole nest of hornets. I'll pay off my guide and we can go. Where's that water?” He swung the lantern around. Yes. Oh, yes. Now he had her. She hung back well beyond the reach of his light, making herself a shadow among shadows, wise and wary. But it was already too late for her to be wary.

Doyle met his eyes. “Of course. Have it down in just a tick, sir.” Doyle climbed the rungs to the top of the coach, hand over hand, with the curious, slow, lumbering grace of a great brown bear. “I got food, too. Big basket here. Bread, cheese, sausages. Some wine.”

Out in the darkness, Annique would be listening. She'd be hungry. Leblanc would have seen to that. “Some bread. But water first. Give me something easy to carry. The water bottle. That one.”

Doyle passed down a water bottle and half a long loaf of bread, still fragrant from the baking. That was all the bait he needed. He had her. It was just sliding the trap closed.

“Mademoiselle?”

She'd backed farther into the dark. Careful. Nervous. When he walked closer, he could see she had her eyes shut against the lantern light to preserve that remarkable night vision of hers. But then, he already knew how clever she was.

She leaned heavily on that old broom handle she'd collected. Her clothes were filthy with dirt and cobwebs, her skin bone-white with fatigue. Alone, exhausted and on foot—how far did she think she'd get before Leblanc ran her down? He was doing her a favor, really, gathering her in. Whatever he did to her it couldn't be worse than what Leblanc had in mind.

He set the lantern down carefully on the gravel, freeing up his hand.

Water sloshed in the bottle. With any luck, that would be enough to nail her to the spot. He strolled toward her, bottle swinging loose between his fingers, the loaf tucked casually under his arm. Simple tricks work best. It was like catching a filly in a field. You go slow and steady and act like you're thinking about something else.

“Do you want cheese, too? I can have him bring some down.” He spoke as if Doyle were still on top of the carriage. He wasn't. Without looking, he could have charted Doyle's course, circling in silence, cutting off the woman's escape. They'd worked together ten years. He knew where Doyle would position himself. He'd be a dozen feet behind the target and to the right of the pathway. “Bread and water doesn't begin to pay the debt I owe you.”

“I do not collect debts from English spies.” She shuffled uneasily. “A debt ties you to people.”

“Water's not much of a debt. A little cool water.” He tossed the word like a looped noose. Let her think about thirst, not about him closing in. He was nearly there.

He could almost hear her instincts screaming for her to run. The intent, listening tilt of her head said it all. How long had Leblanc kept her without water? She must be desperate to take this risk.

One last step, and he clamped an unbreakable grip on her arm. She was his.

She tried to jerk away. “I do not like people touching me, monsieur.”

“This is the best way. You don't have a chance against Leblanc. At least with me—”