Closer To Sin (22 page)

Sinclair moved to the other side of the bench and leaned across to hold her still and croon words of comfort. ‘Steady,
mon fleur
, Henri Lyon is tending your wound. We just need to get you cleaned up.’ He reached for a cloth and gently cleaned her face, wiping away the smears of dirt. Tears slowly trickled out of the corners of her eyes.

‘Sin, it hurts.’

‘I know,
sweet
. Be brave, we need to see whether the bullet is still there.’

‘
Monsieur
,’ interrupted Lyon. ‘I think I feel it, just under her skin. It’s sitting close to a rib, but I don’t think it’s caused any significant damage.’

‘Liliane,’ Sinclair sat her up slightly. ‘Drink some of this. It’ll help you to feel better.’ He held the bottle of brandy to her lips until she started to swallow. The fire of the liquid sliding down her throat caused her to choke and cough. ‘Careful, just little sips.’ Liliane took another sip and turned her head away.

‘No more.’

‘Hold her tight,’ Lyon instructed. ‘This will hurt, but I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Liliane pulled against Sinclair, trying to move away from the pain. He pulled her head to him and held her close, her muffled scream stifled against his chest cutting straight to his heart.

‘Please, just get it out—’ The string of cursing that followed would have turned a sailor’s ears blue. Sinclair couldn’t help but be impressed.

‘It’s out,’ Lyon confirmed a minute later. ‘Just hold still now while I stitch you up. This will hurt for a few days, but I’ve done as much as I can. All you can do now is pray infection does not set in.’

Sinclair let out a pent up breath as he felt Liliane relax in his arms. He’d seen grown men pass out from less. ‘That’s some pretty impressive cursing you’ve got there,’ he whispered against her temple, desperate to distract her from the pain.

‘My uncle was a bit of handful when he was young. He used to think it was fun to teach me how to curse.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I never thought it would come in handy until today.’ She looked over at Lyon, flinching as he plied the needle to her wound.

‘Thank you,
Monsieur
.’ She held out a shaky hand to him. ‘I’m sorry about your nephew. I’m sorry I couldn’t warn him soon enough.’

Sinclair encouraged her to drink another quantity of brandy before settling her back down on the table. Despite her words, she was struggling to remain conscious.

Lyon nodded, his movement taciturn. ‘You did what you could, Madame St Clair. And for that I will always be grateful.’ He looked to Sinclair. ‘I assume you also had something to do with the explosions that have awoken half the countryside and set the town in an uproar?’

Liliane’s eyes briefly fluttered open, her voice slurred. ‘-jusht a shmall matter of ‘poleon’s ar’ments dishcharging prem … prem … early.’

Lyon jerked upright, knocking the bottle of brandy to the floor. Brandy and shards of glass exploded across the room. ‘She blew up the armaments warehouse?’

Sinclair shot an arm out and arrested Lyon’s movement. ‘It was a stroke of genius. We’ve been waiting for an opportunity to destroy some of those weapons stockpiles—Liliane’s actions not only did that, but she also created the distraction that enabled us to get away from the docks.’

Lyon wrenched out of Sinclair’s grasp. ‘Maybe so, but they’ll turn this town upside down to find you now.’

With jerky movements he grabbed at a nearby broom and began to sweep up the floor. ‘You must understand, it’s too risky for you to stay here now. Once they realise who Michel is, this will be one of the first places they will look for you.’

Hurriedly he gathered together the bloodied cloths and bandages and fed them into the fire. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that you’re going to have to leave here. Tonight.’

Sinclair turned to look at Liliane critically. She lay on the table, unconscious. If infection from the ball that had grazed her ribs didn’t kill her, surely dragging her out into the night would. ‘I fear you’re right, but look at her, man, she’s in no condition to travel. I daren’t risk moving her too far at the moment for fear of rupturing those stitches.’

Lyon shrugged. ‘I’ve done all I can to help you. It’s either that or the firing squad—because that’s all I can guarantee if we are all found here together.’

Sinclair leaned over Liliane and placed a hand against her forehead. No fever—yet. But Lyon was right, there really was no other alternative. ‘I’ll prepare the horses. But if you could extend yourself for just one more kindness, there are a few things I will need for the journey.’

Once Sinclair outlined his requirements, Lyon nodded and left to see what he could find. After a quick look at Liliane, Sinclair moved to tend the horses, taking care to adjust their saddles and ensure they’d been sufficiently fed and watered. It would be a long night for them.

With the horses ready, Sinclair returned inside to find Liliane dozing. Gently, he peeled back her dress and wrapped several more layers of bandage around her midriff. The more tightly she was bound, the less likely the wound would be to tear. Other than a slight murmur of protest, she didn’t move. She was brave beyond measure and Sinclair felt humbled by the sacrifices she had made that night to ensure his safety.

Lyon bustled back into the room with a bundle of clothing in his arms. ‘The trousers may be a little big, same for the coat, but she’ll be warm in them.’

‘Thank you. I will see to getting her dressed and meet you outside shortly.’ Sinclair made to move away. ‘Ah. There is one more thing. My wife said she has something of yours, something that once belonged to her grandfather.’ He lifted the fob chain that lay about her neck. ‘A pocket watch.’

Before him, Lyon paled significantly. ‘Who did you say your wife is?’

Lyon’s hands were shaking as he wrung them together. Sinclair studied him for several long moments. ‘Liliane,’ he answered. ‘Liliane Beaumont. She’s Solange Beaumont’s cousin.’

Lyon didn’t move. ‘Beaumont, you say. Are you sure?’

Something about Lyon’s question prickled Sinclair’s skin. ‘Yes, Beaumont. Why do you ask?’ Why the hell was the man questioning Liliane’s identity?

‘Because her grandfather’s name was Desailly, Renaud Desailly.’

Sinclair looked down at Liliane. Where the bloody hell had he heard that name before? It had the ring of familiarity, but he couldn’t place it. But then, he’d been briefed on so many revolutionary identities over the years, Renaud Desailly was more than likely one of those whose names had cropped up along the way. Curious that Liliane had never mentioned the different surname though, but then, perhaps it may not have occurred to her. Perhaps, it held no significance whatsoever. ‘She never mentioned her grandfather’s surname. But I can personally vouch that she’s Solange Beaumont’s cousin. It was Solange who introduced us.’

Lyon held out a trembling hand and took the watch. ‘I’ll meet you outside by the horses.’

Sinclair rolled his shoulders. There was more going on than he could put a finger to right now, but he would have to wait for a better time to work out what that may be.

He picked up the articles of clothing Lyon had so generously provided. With some difficulty he slid the trousers up under Liliane’s skirt and fastened them about her hips. Then, balancing her against him, he sat her up and carefully dressed her in the coat. It wasn’t the height of Bond Street fashion, but it would protect her from the biting cold. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he lifted her into his arms and carried her into the yard where Lyon awaited them.

He passed Liliane into Lyon’s arms and swung up upon Vulcan. To his surprise, Lyon gently kissed Liliane on the forehead and whispered something into her ear before lifting her up to Sinclair. Careful not to tear her stitches, Sinclair took her into his arms and settled her across the saddle before him. She was deeply unconscious.

Lyon pulled a waterproof pouch from his pocket and held it in his hands for several long moments. He looked up and held it out to Sinclair. ‘Please tell Liliane that I will honour Renaud Desailly’s wishes, but I wish for her to keep the watch—in memory of her Grandpère.’

Sinclair looked down at Henri and nodded his thanks. ‘I’ll tell her. And, be assured, Allard did not die in vain, he died bravely.’ Not waiting for Lyon’s reply, Sinclair nudged his horse forward. The woman before him didn’t stir.

***

Sinclair flexed his toes, desperate to get some blood flow back into his legs. His backside was numb from the seemingly interminable hours spent on horseback with Liliane, a dead weight, across his lap. The only times they’d stopped was for him to change horses, but the logistics of transferring Liliane between the two mounts had been a challenge he didn’t want to repeat too many times.

He cast a look at the sky, judging from the placement of the sun it was now late afternoon and they’d been on the run since before midnight last night. The horses had done well to get them this far, but he wouldn’t want to push them much further.

At least he and Liliane had succeeded in getting out of Boulogne undetected. As soon as they’d left Lyon’s house, he’d headed inland before turning north. It had been essential to put as much distance as he could between them and the coastal towns and villages teaming with soldiers, although give it another day or so and Hussar would be scouring the country in every direction in search of them. For now, there was nothing around other than farmland dotted with grazing sheep and dairy cattle. Provided their luck held out, they should reach Gaston’s farm by late afternoon.

Liliane struggled in his arms, trying to sit up. ‘Hush,
mon fleur
, you’ll fall off the horse.’

‘I’m going to vomit.’ Her voice was hoarse and her skin had turned a mottled grey.

Not needing any further encouragement, Sinclair reined his horse to a halt and swung down. Hell, his legs had the consistency of custard. He wasted little time in stamping some feeling back into them, but quickly lifted Liliane down. He held her listless body upright as she retched out her meagre stomach contents onto the grass before them. As the spasms passed she started shivering uncontrollably.

‘I’m so cold. I want to go home.’

Sinclair touched a hand to her cheek. It didn’t feel like she had a fever, but he worried nonetheless. ‘Here,’ he took his greatcoat off and wrapped at about her shoulders before lowering her to the grass and encouraging her to take a few sips of water from the canteen.

So much for that, he thought, as she promptly cast up her accounts once again before collapsing in a boneless heap before him. ‘Come on, back up you go, we’ve still got a few miles to go yet.’ He lifted her listless body back upon the horse and remounted behind her.

‘De Bois?’ she questioned.

‘There’s been no sign of anyone,’ he reassured her. ‘I think the munitions warehouse caused such a commotion that it’ll be at least another day before they get around to searching for us.’

‘Tha’s good,’ she mumbled before falling back into unconsciousness.

***

Two hours later the horizon glowed red with light from the setting sun. Sinclair manoeuvred the horses through a set of farmyard gates and proceeded towards the cottage surrounded by several old oak trees. Chickens scattered from his path while on the porch a little dog started to yap frantically.

‘Be quiet, Coco. I’ve told you not to bark at the chickens,’ a voice scolded from within the cottage. A petite dark-haired angel emerged from the doorway and stopped short.

Sinclair felt the knot that had sat clenched tight in his stomach slowly start to unravel.
Anais
. There was no one else he would trust to handle the care of Liliane.

Anais turned and called back into the house. ‘Gaston, Gaston, quickly—it’s Sin, he needs our help.’ Her voice was frantic with concern. ‘Come quickly.’

As Sinclair drew Vulcan to a halt, Gaston raced onto the porch, wiping soap from his face. He hastily passed the towel to Anais. ‘Mon Dieu, what has happened?’ He reached up and took Liliane from Sinclair, allowing him to dismount from his horse. Anais hovered close by, anxious to help.

‘Liliane was shot late last night. The bullet has been extracted, but other than that,’ he raised his hands in despair, ‘I don’t know how she is. I need Anais to take a look at her.’

Gaston turned and headed into the house with Sinclair hastening behind. ‘Let’s get her somewhere comfortable.’

Anais grabbed Sinclair by the arm and turned him to face her. ‘She was shot? Sin, how could you allow such a thing to happen?’

Sinclair placed a kiss on Anais’s forehead before he embraced her in a warm hug. ‘I know you think I’m omnipotent, Anais, but Liliane has other ideas. She seems to believe my safety is her responsibility—and let me tell you, her determination would try the patience of a saint.’

‘And we all know you’re no saint, Sin,’ Anais snorted. ‘But you can tell me more after I examine her. Come, let’s lay her down and I’ll check her wound. Do you know if it’s still bleeding?’

‘I haven’t checked it for a couple of hours, but there’s very little blood on the bandage. We made a pretty hasty departure from Boulogne, and we’ve been riding since before midnight last night.’

Gaston laid Liliane upon the bed in the guest room and ushered Sinclair back out. ‘Let Anais tend to her. You look like you could do with some coffee, and a few hours’ sleep. I’m going outside to stable your horses. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.’

In the kitchen Gaston poured Sinclair a steaming mug of fragrant coffee and urged him to take a seat at the wooden table. After the first sip Sinclair closed his eyes and let out a sigh. He didn’t want to have to go through another day like this one ever again. He felt like hell warmed over, but there was no point in trying to disguise that from Gaston; he’d see straight through him within a minute. ‘I guess you’re waiting to hear what happened.’ Damn, even his voice sounded like it had taken a beating.

‘It’s not like you to bring trouble to our door, Sin.’ Gaston held up a staying hand as Sinclair went to arise from the table. ‘Sit down, I’m not saying you’re not welcome here. You know you are, whatever the circumstances. Anais and I would do anything for you, but in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never asked. So tell me, what happened?’