Natalya (8 page)

* * *

Clinging to its hillsides, the village of St. Briac-sur-Loire overlooked a dawdling bend in the river. This morning, merchants arranged their wares or swept the rain-washed stone steps in front of their shops and chatted amiably about the weather. Dogs chased one another up and down the crooked tangle of streets, and wives carried baskets over their arms as they chose bread, meat, cheese, fruit, and vegetables for the day's meals. Then, when they were done, they gossiped and sometimes indulged in tiny tarts or cream-filled pastries that tempted them from the window of the
patisserie.

Le Chat Bleu, perched on the edge of the village, was quiet so early in the day. Brogard, the tavernkeeper, was standing outside replacing a broken shutter hinge when two men on horseback rode up.

"
Bonjour
, m'sieur," said the first. A few locks of his red hair blew free from under his cap. "We have returned to find out if the fellow you described to us last night has come back."

Brogard shook his white head. "No, I have seen no one. Did you not find him at the chateau?"

"Oddly enough, no."

"Perhaps he was refused entrance, or he might have changed his mind," the old man said, with a shrug, turning back to the broken shutter. "Or more probably, I was mistaken. I told you that I was unsure...."

"Somehow, I doubt that you were unsure, or that St. James changed his mind." The redhead looked toward his thin-faced companion with indecision. "What do you think?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know, Auteuil. If he was here in this village, I doubt that he's stayed. The question is, which way should we go? Where did you say Wellington was last sighted?"

They were distracted by the sound of a rickety wagon making its way precariously down the cobbled lane next to the tavern. All three men looked over in curiosity, their eyes widening at the sight of the wagon's bizarre occupants.

"Ah,
bonjour
, messieurs," the man driving cackled, grinning to display stained teeth. His powdered hair, caught back in a sloppy queue, was covered by a huge tricorn hat that came down to his eyebrows. In flawless French he continued, "I was just saying to my beautiful wife that I have rarely seen a finer morning."

"Do I know you, m'sieur?" Brogard inquired, squinting in the sunlight.

"I do not believe you have had the pleasure of an introduction, my good fellow. I am Maurice Galabru, and this is my wife, Antoinette. We are simply passing through en route to visit our daughter in Malestroit."

While Grey extracted his snuffbox and took a pinch, Natalya peeked at the trio of men from under her mobcap. "This village is one of the most charming I have ever seen. Is this your tavern, m'sieur?"

"I am Brogard, madame, the proprietor of Le Chat Bleu. Perhaps you and M'sieur Galabru would care for—"

"Attendez!"
Auteuil interrupted, dismounting and walking over to the wagon for a closer look. "What are you doing with this wine barrel?"

"It is filled with wine from the chateau." Grey pointed over his shoulder toward the white castle on the hill above them. "We paused there to greet our cousin, who is a milkmaid for the Beauvisage cows, and the seigneur gave us this wine. A fine and generous man."

"Have you not heard?" Auteuil sneered. "There are no more seigneurs in France!" He jabbed a finger at Grey's chest but avoided touching the dingy green jacket and pink waistcoat. "I demand that you open that barrel for us, old man. There is an enemy of the emperor at large, and you and your wife strike me as the sort who would be ripe for a
bribe.
How much did he pay you to carry him out of town, secreted in that barrel?"

Natalya gasped loudly, while Grey grumbled, "You insult us, m'sieur. We will take our leave now."

"I think
not."
Auteuil produced a large pistol and aimed it at them. "Poujouly, open the barrel!"

The sharp-faced man dismounted, then heaved himself into the back of the wagon. "How very shrewd you are
,"
he said to the warden approvingly. "Nothing escapes your notice." Then, pulling a knife from his boot, he set about prying the top from the barrel.

"This is outrageous," Grey cried. "You have no right! M'sieur Brogard, you must stop them. We are poor, simple people, undeserving of such treatment."

An evil smile spread over Auteuil's face. "Frightened, hmm? I can't say as I blame you. The emperor does not deal lightly with traitors."

A heavy silence fell over the group as Poujouly forced the nails out of the barrel one by one. Brogard came over to watch, feeling sympathetic toward the eccentric-looking old couple. "See here, my good fellows, must you harass these poor people?"

Auteuil's eyes flashed as he looked back to snarl, "Stay out of matters that do not concern you! The emperor does not favor those who obstruct justice."

At that moment Poujouly pried out the last nail and gave a grunt of triumph.

Auteuil craned his neck. "Well?"

His companion's face fell. "There's nothing in here but wine. Just as the old man said."

"Then he's in the straw! Search through the straw, damn you!" Auteuil's face was as red as his hair.

Poujouly obeyed. Reaching the other end of the wagon, he turned and shrugged elaborately. "Nothing."

"Are you satisfied?" Brogard said. "Put down your pistol, m'sieur, and let these innocent people be on their way."

"Oui,
m'sieur," Natalya implored, "do not threaten us further. We are simple folk, and quite unaccustomed to violence."

Scowling, Auteuil acquiesced. "Something about this doesn't smell right." He bent down and looked under the wagon in search of a hiding place. Then, straightening, he fixed Grey with an enraged stare. St. James glanced away instantly and adopted a submissive posture. "
Eh bien,
you may go. But do not forget that I have taken notice of you. If you have any connections to the criminal Grey St. James, I suggest that you sever them if you value your lives!"

Grey hunched over even farther and picked up the reins, while Natalya clung to his arm and whimpered. "
Merci,
m'sieur. We shall not forget. Good day." The bay mare lifted her hooves and started forward. The wagon lurched in response.

Watching them go, Jules Auteuil narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists. "I don't know what it is about that fellow, but I am positive that I have been deceived in some manner."

"Forget about that old popinjay and his painted hag," Poujouly advised. "You're looking for someone to blame, but I've never seen two more unlikely suspects!"

* * *

Leaning back against the splintered barrel, Natalya basked in the spring sunlight as the wagon jogged along. Suddenly she giggled. "I simply cannot recall the last time I had so much fun!"

"There's no need to repeat yourself, my dear," Grey said mildly. "I believed you the first time you said so two hours ago."

It was nearly noon. They had made slow progress on their journey to Angers, where Grey had determined that they would spend the first night. It wasn't far, though any destination seemed distant given their mode of travel, but there was much to be done once they arrived. Grey had friends there who would shelter them and hire a proper carriage to speed them on to St. Malo.

"That awful man was so furious—it was all I could do not to laugh at him," Natalya continued, unfazed by his teasing. "I may have forgotten to congratulate you on the good sense of your plan. If so, please accept my compliments."

"Good sense?" he echoed, silver lights dancing in his eyes. "Don't you mean
brilliance
?" He didn't mention the doubts he had about whether Auteuil had been completely fooled, preferring to reassure himself with the conviction that his old enemy would have torn off his disguise on the spot if he'd even suspected the truth.

"Please," Natalya rejoined, "you know that I would not praise you with undue enthusiasm. It would be very bad for you."

The road they traveled afforded a breathtaking view of the cerulean Loire, meandering dreamily between its golden banks. Curtains of poplars and groves of birch shimmered, as if dancing to celebrate their budding spring leaves. New sights appeared with every bend in the road: ancient villages, mills, vineyards, and hunting lodges, all crowned intermittently by magical chateaus high on the surrounding hills.

"I'm simply ravenous," Natalya exclaimed suddenly, bending over to pull the basket from under the wagon seat. "I was so nervous this morning that I couldn't eat a thing—" She broke off, amending, "Actually I wasn't
nervous
so much as busy. And it was wrenching to bid farewell to everyone at Chateau du Soleil."

"It's perfectly acceptable to be nervous, my dear Miss Beauvisage." Grey turned to give her a kind smile. "For my part, I'm suffering from a desire to get out of these clothes and have a bath in the river. I don't know if I can bear this until evening."

"Well," Natalya said briskly, "you must." She pulled the cork from one of the bottles of excellent Vouvray wine Lisette had packed, lifted the bottle to her lips, and drank deeply. Seeing that Grey regarded her with uplifted brows, Natalya laughed. "I thought I ought to stay in character. It seemed just the sort of thing Antoinette would do, don't you agree? Would you care to partake, Maurice?"

"You're quite a little minx," he remarked, accepting the bottle and following her lead. The white wine was dry and fresh and utterly delicious.

Natalya felt blood rushing to her cheeks in response to his words. "Goodness..." She pressed her hands to her face. "It must be the wine."

A wry smile touched Grey's mouth. "Probably." When she broke a baguette in two and handed half to him, he inhaled deeply and sighed. "I know that this sense of peace won't last, but at this moment I am a happy man. Liberty is sweet indeed...."

With each bite of her baguette, fragments of the thin, crisp crust showered her lap. She smiled at him and nodded vigorously, her outrageously painted face more eloquent than words. From a nearby tree, a tiny gold-and-green willow warbler sang out, as if in acclamation.

"That's right," Grey said, chuckling. "We're going home."'

Chapter 6

March 31, 1814

Moonlight streamed over Natalya's exceedingly uncomfortable bed on the third story of one of St. Malo's less prestigious inns. The legendary fortified town was nearly silent, save for the rhythmic crash of waves against the battlements, yet Natalya had scarcely slept all night. She couldn't stop thinking about the day to come, about their escape from France; most of all, however, she couldn't stop thinking about Grey St. James.

Her heart raced with a jumble of mixed emotions. How different the past three days had been in comparison to what she had expected. There had been little cause for laughter since they had shared wine and bread on the road to Angers. She had slept on mean, narrow beds in the homes of Grey's friends, Paul in Angers and Louis in Bain-de-Bretagne. At least she had
tried
to sleep while the men sat up talking and drinking wine. Neither house had offered much in the way of amenities or hot, nourishing food, for neither man was married. To make matters worse, after discussing their situation with Paul, Grey had decided that time was of the essence and that he and Natalya would ride to St. Malo rather than hire a carriage. If Auteuil and Poujouly were in pursuit, they must not be allowed to catch up. And so their journey had been arduous, with little time or opportunity for meals and rest, let alone conversation. Natalya's body ached and her heart was beginning to ache as well.

In spite of everything, she felt safe with Grey, and she realized that other traitorous feelings had also taken seed. Galloping along beside him, she would find herself studying the shape of his shoulders or the play of his lean hands on the reins. Gaunt he might be, but she had realized that he had the same rouguish, piratical look her father had possessed in his younger days. He could be maddeningly arrogant, yet he possessed a lighthearted side that appealed to her sense of whimsy. And he was keenly, undeniably intelligent.

Now, turning on her straw tick, Natalya stared out the diamond-paned window set high in the wall. Perhaps, she told herself, she was only drawn to Grey because he held her at arm's length, treating her with a careful sense of propriety. They never touched except by accident or necessity, when he was opening a door for her or helping her dismount from her horse. By the third night, when he'd brushed against her while they climbed the stairs to their rooms, she'd found herself longing for more.

What was happening to her, and why was it happening now? Certainly she had enjoyed herself with men before, and more than a few had fallen in love with her, but none of it had ever been more than a diversion for her. The main reason she had left Philadelphia was boredom—with the rounds of parties and the growing pressure to marry. By the time she'd turned twenty-five and begun to write
My Lady's Heart,
Natalya had decided that her only talent for romance lay in writing about it.