No Longer a Gentleman (8 page)

Sleeping in a chair by the kitchen fire had the advantage of letting Grey exercise choice, and the disadvantage that the kitchen became active early. When Viole Boyer bustled in, whistling, Grey came awake groggily, apologized to his hostess for being in the way, and headed off to the pallet made up in Père Laurent’s room.

There he slept for hours longer, waking near noon to sunshine reflecting brilliantly off the snow. The farm occupied a lovely little valley surrounded by hills and felt safe, remote, and prosperous. Laurent was gone, and Grey’s dried garments had been stacked neatly beside him.

Reveling in his freedom, he dressed and made his way to the kitchen, which bubbled with noisy life. The whole household was there, everyone happily eating and talking and celebrating the miraculous return of Uncle Laurent. Grey’s pulse began hammering and he wanted to run out into the empty countryside.

“Do you wish breakfast or luncheon, monsieur?” Viole called gaily.

“Coffee and bread to take outside would be ideal,” he said, managing to control his desire to bolt. “The open sky calls to me.”

Viole nodded and prepared a tall mug of coffee made with honey and hot milk, and a half loaf of bread split and filled with raspberry preserves. “There will be more when you return to warmth.”

Grateful she didn’t try to persuade him to stay indoors, he donned a cloak and hat offered by the young son of the house and headed outside. The day was as bitterly cold as it was beautiful, and for long minutes he just stood in the yard and studied the colors and textures that surrounded him.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen a sky more intensely blue. A grove of dark, graceful evergreens rose up the hillside left of the barn, the needles rustling in the wind. Flurries of snow danced silently over the smooth whiteness that covered the land.

And the tastes! The hot milky coffee warmed him, and the delicious tang of the raspberry preserves reminded him of how very good food could be. He would never take the pleasures of food and drink for granted again.

Since he was wearing the guard’s boots, it was easy to plow through the snow to the pond. He cleared a place on the log that served as a bench and settled down, drinking in the scents and sounds of the countryside along with his coffee.

A hawk glided effortlessly overhead. Though he had taken great pleasure in the small birds that visited his cell, he’d missed the sweeping power of a hawk’s flight.

The world was a feast, a dizzying tumult of colors, sounds, movements, and scents, and he was a beggar who didn’t know what to do with such riches. He finished his coffee and bread, but felt no inclination to go inside again.

He heard the crunch of footsteps in the snow behind him and guessed who was coming even before Cassie joined him on the log, sitting a safe yard away. He tensed, but she didn’t speak, and gradually he relaxed again. She was as peaceful as the frozen pond and the sculptured drifts of snow.

She drank tea, and the herbal scent was heavenly. One of so many things he’d never appreciated when he was living a luxurious life.

Her presence was soothing, not stressful like the exuberant Boyers. Eventually, Grey felt moved to say, “Strange. I longed for company and having Père Laurent imprisoned in the next cell was the greatest blessing I’ve ever known. Yet now that I’m free, I find myself uncomfortable around a handful of people.”

“We are social creatures. Being deprived of companionship is one of the greatest torments imaginable.” She sipped at her tea. “For you to survive so many years alone required great resources of will and endurance that took you far beyond normal life. Returning will take time.”

“Great resources of will and endurance?” He smiled humorlessly. “No one who knew me before would imagine me capable of either.”

“Kirkland had his doubts,” Cassie said with a half smile. “But that didn’t mean he thought he should give up on you. Imagine the pleasure of returning to your friends and family and amazing them with your strength of character.”

His crack of laughter was rusty. He and Laurent had enjoyed rich discussions, but laughter was rare. “That does sound rather appealing.” He finished his coffee, wishing there was more but not wanting to go inside for it. “My wise Lady Fox, will I ever be close to normal again? Or have all the years in prison changed me into a different, unrecognizable person?”

She shook her head. “We never know our full potential until circumstances force us to meet unexpected challenges. Different circumstances would have drawn forth other aspects of your nature.”

“I would have enjoyed different circumstances infinitely more,” he said dryly.

“No doubt.” She glanced at him for the first time. “But if you’d continued to live the life of carefree luxury, would you now find such intense pleasure in simple things? Would the sky be as beautiful, the raspberries so exquisite, if they had always been available to you?”

His brows arched. “No, but I paid a very high price for my new appreciation.”

Her smile was fleeting. “Higher than anyone would wish to pay. But at least there are some compensations for what you endured.” She drank more tea. “They help balance the anger.”

Grey felt as if she’d struck him a physical blow. He’d been so euphoric at regaining his freedom that he hadn’t really recognized the anger that seethed just below the surface of his new happiness. Now that Cassie had named it, he realized that deep, fierce anger burned inside him. Anger that was so volatile that he might do … anything if it was released.

Rage had consumed him when he snapped Gaspard’s neck. He barely remembered doing it, apart from the vicious pleasure he’d felt in killing the bastard. He would have killed the guard if Cassie hadn’t asked him to restrain himself.

Her calm request to refrain from killing had cleared his mind enough to recall that Père Laurent had benefited from small acts of kindness by one or more of the guards. Because that kindness might have saved Laurent’s life, Grey had let the guard live.

Recognition of his anger was followed by two more insights. One was that his discomfort around the Boyers was not just the panic of being with too many people, but a deep fear that he might lose control and hurt one of them. Or worse.

The other insight … He blurted out, “You have also been a prisoner, yes?”

Cassie became very still, her gaze fixed on the dark open water where he’d bathed the night before. “For less than two years. Nothing like so severe as your imprisonment.”

“Still a very long time,” he said softly. “Solitary confinement?”

She nodded. “At first I was grateful not to be packed into a cell so crowded there was barely room to lie down. Within the month, I would have given everything I owned and my hope of heaven to share a cell with even a filthy, furious harridan.”

“No wonder you understand what it is to be deprived of companionship. Of touch.” He reached out and covered her left hand, where it rested on the log. Her fingers twitched, then clasped his. “You were eventually released?”

“I found my own way to freedom,” she said in a tone that refused all questions. “Like you, I discovered potentials in myself I had never imagined.” Her hand tightened on his. “Even all these years later, sometimes the craving for touch is overpowering.”

Since he felt the same, he slid along the log and wrapped an arm around her. Not for warmth, but for mutual need. She relaxed against him, her arm going around his waist. He wondered again how old she was. Once more he felt shame at his lustful thoughts.

At least he knew better than to act on those thoughts. Or to ask a lady her age. “What work do you do for Kirkland? If you spend much of your time traveling through France, you’re alone again.”

She sighed, her breath a white puff in the cold air. “I’m a courier, collecting information and getting it back to Kirkland. Sometimes I escort people from France, as I’m doing with you. My peddler disguise allows me to go almost anywhere. Spying is a lonely trade when I’m in France, but I return to London two or three times a year. I have a home of sorts and friends there.”

Though she had the satisfaction of working against Napoleon, her life sounded bleak. “Will you return to England with me, or hand me over to one of your smugglers?” His arm tightened involuntarily. He wanted her with him all the way home. With Cassie he could relax because she could flatten him if his anger erupted dangerously.

“I’ll return. I have other matters of business in London.” She made a face. “I need to go inside before I freeze solid. Are you considering another bath?”

“Next time I bathe will be in a tub of steaming water.” He removed his arm from around her and ran stiff fingers through his beard. “I need to go inside, too. I’m hoping Romain will lend me his razor. I want to see what I look like under this thatch.”

“Don’t shave the beard off yet,” Cassie said firmly. “We must travel inconspicuously. No one notices or remembers me, and your appearance needs to be equally drab. I have coloring to disguise your hair, and keeping a beard will add to the appearance of an undistinguished peasant.”

He grimaced. “Now that a clean-shaven face is within reach, I find that I crave it, but I will defer to your judgment. Have you talked to Romain about a horse?”

“He has a decent, unmemorable hack that he’ll trade for the cart,” she replied. “We also discussed a route. There’s an old woodsmen’s track over the hills. It will be a rough climb, but once we’re on the other side, pursuers will be less likely to find us.”

“You really think Durand will send men after us?” Grey asked, his skin crawling at the prospect.

“I don’t know the man, but my instincts say yes.” She got to her feet. “We foxes survive through slyness and instinct.”

He guessed she’d chosen the name Fox just as she’d picked Cassandra: because the names suited her. He wondered what her real name was. “Will Père Laurent be safe here?”

She frowned. “Reasonably so. This farm is remote, and since Madame Boyer married outside her native village, she will be hard to trace as one of his relations. Père Laurent will stay here under the guise of an elderly cousin of Romain’s, recently widowed and too feeble to care for himself. He’ll also keep his beard.”

“That should work,” Grey agreed. “Locked in that cell, no one has seen him in years, so he won’t be readily recognized.”

It would be hard to leave his friend after developing such closeness over the years. But even more than that closeness, Grey wanted to go home.

Firmly back in her role as a sturdy countrywoman who rode astride and brooked no nonsense, Cassie waited patiently for Grey to make his farewells to Père Laurent and the Boyers. He’d endeared himself to the whole family in the days they’d stayed at the farm and waited for the snow to clear enough for travel.

She had made her appearance drab for so long that it was second nature. Grey was more difficult to tone down. Even with his worn country clothing, the rinse she’d given him to dull his hair, and the ragged cut she’d given his beard, he looked like Somebody. Ten years in prison couldn’t extinguish his aristocratic bearing. She’d have to remind him to slouch wearily when they were around people.

Grey hugged Père Laurent, saying huskily, “Au revoir, mon père,” as if the priest truly was his father. “If I ever have a son, I shall name him Laurent.”

This was the hardest farewell, for both men knew they were unlikely to ever meet again. The priest was old and frail and Grey’s own return to England was far from safe. Though the war must end someday, it was impossible to predict when Englishmen could openly visit France again.

His voice thick with emotion, Père Laurent said, “Make it Lawrence, for he will be an English gentleman, like you.” Ending the embrace, he said, “Go with God, my son. You are in good hands with the lady fox.”

“I know.” Grey swung rather warily onto his mount, a placid old gelding called Achille. The horse didn’t live up to its warrior name, so it was a good choice for him now. Cassie was unsurprised to see that even after ten years away from horses, he settled into the saddle like a skilled rider.

Viole Boyer approached him. “Godspeed, Monsieur Sommers. I have your English addresses as you have ours here. When this damnable war is over, perhaps you can call again, or at least let us know how you do.”

“I shall.” When she offered her hand, he bent from the saddle and kissed it. “You have my eternal gratitude, madame.”

“Then the scales are balanced,” she said, blushing like a young girl. The fabled Wyndham charm was recovering fast, Cassie thought with amusement.

As awkward, yearning silence fell, Cassie said briskly, “Time to get moving. We have a steep ride ahead of us.”

She gave a last wave and set off on a narrow path that led into the woods behind the farm, Grey following. When they reached the woodsmen’s track Romain Boyer had showed her the day before, it was wide enough for them to ride side by side through the bare trees. Patches of snow lay on the ground, but there was a hint of spring in the air.

“How long will it take us to cross over the hills?” Grey asked.

“Romain told me of a hut near the summit where we can spend the night,” Cassie replied. “We should reach our road on the other side of the hills by afternoon tomorrow, barring bad weather.”

He studied the sky and inhaled the air. “There are no storms coming.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I’ve been studying the weather in this region for ten years. Granted, it was through a rather small window, but I had ample time to observe the local weather patterns.” His mouth twisted. “Another one of those unlooked-for blessings of captivity.”

“One of the more useful ones.” She patted the saddlebag behind her. “Even if a late storm sweeps in unexpectedly, Madame Boyer sent us off with enough food to take us from here to the English Channel.”

“She is a woman in a thousand,” he said with conviction. “Unfortunate that she’s already married.”

“We were very lucky to have the Boyers take us in,” Cassie agreed. They’d been speaking in English, but she switched to French. “We shouldn’t speak English anywhere we might be heard.”

In French, he replied, “That would land us in serious trouble, but I do want to continue practicing my English when we’re in private. I’m still thinking in French.”

“You’ll find yourself thinking in English after we reach England. I find that my mind makes the switch easily when the language is all around me.”

“I hope you’re right. It would be embarrassing to return home speaking my native tongue like a foreigner.” He frowned at the rugged hills ahead. “What will Durand do in his pursuit?”

“He’ll use the fast government courier system to send word to all the gendarme posts on the roads in every direction,” Cassie said. “He has very little information to go on, so odds of our being caught are slim. But not impossible.”

The thought was sobering. “Then we shall have to be fast and easily overlooked.”

She gave him a quick smile. “Exactly.”

They fell silent for a long stretch of trail, the only sounds the horses’ hooves and the occasional cry of a bird. Halfway up the sizable hill, Grey said abruptly, “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day about anger. I hadn’t realized how angry I was until you said that. Now I’m afraid of what I might do if I lose control. So if I’m about to do something murderous, hit me with a rock. Break my arm. Block the blood to my brain. Do whatever you must to keep me from hurting someone.”

“Very well, I will,” she agreed after she got over her surprise. “Unless you’re damaging someone who deserves it. Even Père Laurent thought that your Sergeant Gaspard deserved his fate.”

“He did. But if you hadn’t asked me not to kill the guard, I would have broken his neck as well, and I don’t know if he deserved killing,” Grey said flatly.

No wonder he was concerned for his sanity, but he underestimated himself. “The fact that you care whether he deserved execution bodes well for your character.”

“Now I care a little,” he said gravely. “But when I was in full fury, I would have killed him whether it was just or not. Ten years in hell have ruined my character.”

Choosing her words, she said, “Of course ten years in prison changed you, but you had twenty years before then, and the most important were the earliest. That is when your character was formed. The Jesuits say that if you give them a boy for his first seven years, he is theirs for life. Did your parents see that you were raised well? Were you taught honesty and responsibility?”

“Yes, and kindness as well,” he said slowly. “I hope you’re right that my character was formed then, because I don’t know whether I still have those qualities. That’s why I asked you to stop me if I lose control.”

“I’d rather you worked on your anger yourself,” she said frankly. “With your Hindu fighting skills and strength, I would surely lose any fight unless I took you by surprise.”

His brows arched. “I suspect that you’ve had more practical experience fighting than I, and that you know lots of wicked tricks.”

She had to laugh. “You’re right, I do know a number of wicked tricks. It helps that most men don’t expect a woman to fight, much less fight well.”

“You sound like a woman who has done a great deal of fighting.”

“I’ve been fighting my whole life,” she said, her voice flat.

Several minutes of riding later, he asked, “What will you do when peace comes?”

She shrugged. “I haven’t thought much about it since I never believed I’d survive that long. Perhaps I’ll find a quiet cottage by the sea and raise flowers and cats.”

“In England or in France?”

“England,” she said immediately, surprised by her certainty on a subject she’d never much considered. “France has too many dark memories.”

He nodded agreement. Once they were back in England, he’d never have to return to France unless he chose to.

Cassie had no choice, for without her private war with Napoleon, her life had no meaning. She’d return again and again until the war ended.

Or until she died.

By the time they reached the tiny hut near the summit of the highest hill, Grey had learned two things. The first was that he hadn’t forgotten how to ride despite ten years of never going near a horse. His body remembered how to sit, how to control his mount.

The second thing he’d learned was that riding required the use of muscles he’d forgotten he possessed. Despite the rest breaks, every muscle and joint in his body was complaining by late afternoon.

The track had narrowed so Cassie had led for the last couple of hours. The blasted woman seemed tireless. She had an elegant back, though, and she rode beautifully. He enjoyed watching her.

He’d stopped feeling guilty about inappropriate thoughts for a female twice his age. She was proof that a woman could be alluring no matter how many years she had. A good thing she was capable of tossing him into the nearest wall if he behaved badly.

Would he know what to do with a willing female when the time came? He supposed if he could still ride a horse, he’d be able to ride a woman. He’d find out once he was back in England. For now, he and his guide needed to concentrate on traveling quickly and not being noticed.

The hut was by a jagged outcropping of rock, just as Romain Boyer had described. Cassie halted in front. The hut was small, large enough for perhaps four people to sleep if they liked each other well. A lean-to had been added on one side for horses, and the other side boasted a pile of wood. “I’m glad to see firewood,” she said as she dismounted. “It’s going to be a very cold night.”

Grey tried not to groan when he swung from Achille’s broad back. “I don’t mind the cold, but my aching body is likely to stiffen like a board by morning.”

“I have some liniment that’s good for sore muscles.” She led her pony to the lean-to and started to bed Thistle down for the night.

“You are a remarkably useful woman to have around.” He tethered Achille under the lean-to and removed the saddle. He was becoming rather fond of the old boy.

“My fairy godmother bestowed practical gifts like efficiency and endurance rather than beauty, charm, or golden hair,” Cassie said dryly.

He wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing. He doubted she would be flattered if he told her she had a beautiful back. Even though it was true.

Cassie the Fox was the perfect travel partner, Grey decided as he rolled into his blanket that night. She was relaxing to be with and fulfilled his desire for companionship while asking very little of him. Which was good, because his camping skills were nonexistent. While she prepared supper and hot tea, all he’d had to do was forage for more firewood to replace what they used from the woodpile.

On the other side of the hut, Cassie wrapped her blanket around herself. She was all of about four feet away from him. “Sleep well,” she murmured. “Tomorrow’s ride should be easier.”

“Every day is a new adventure,” he replied. “Tomorrow’s will be discovering if my seat is too sore to sit a saddle.”

Her laughter swiftly turned into the soft, regular breathing of sleep. He was so tired that he thought he’d sleep easily, too, but his mind stubbornly refused to slow down.

Cassie might think herself lacking in beauty, but he found her increasingly alluring. With nothing else to distract him, all he could think about was her.

He rolled onto his side facing away, but it was impossible to forget her presence. As the night wore on, he added wood to the flames in the primitive little fireplace. It barely took the chill off the air, but no matter. He was quite heated enough.

During the latter years of his captivity, passion had died and he’d felt like a eunuch. The idea had hardly bothered him when there were no women in his world except in increasingly distant memories. But now he was sharing a small space with an attractive woman whom he liked and admired, and all he could think of was how much he wanted to touch her.

He guessed it would be a long time before his craving for touch would be slaked. Greedily he remembered the hug she’d allowed when he had just been freed. She was all woman—soft and woman scented, but also strong. Efficient, but kind.

He couldn’t help but wonder how far her compassion would go. Would she lie with him from pity? He was so crazed with lust that he didn’t care what her motives might be. Pity would be fine if offered.

But his last shreds of sanity and honor wouldn’t let him roll across the hut to wake her and beg for the sweet solace of her body. She was the bravest woman he’d ever met, his savior, and she deserved better than to be pawed by a fool like him. If he tried, she’d probably emasculate him, and justly so.

He pulled his blanket tight and ordered his mind to sleep. Sleep.