Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (36 page)

He was gasping, his face livid. "Oh, Mitchell!
Mon
Pauvre! Mon Pauvre
!" she whispered, and began to bathe his
face gently. The long grey eyes opened narrowly. "
Go
!
For the love… of God!" he gasped out. "
Go
! One of
us must… get there!"

Imperceptibly, the light dimmed. Two men peered in at the
wide-open door.

'"Ere!" gasped the plumper of them. "Wot you gone and done,
missus?"

"Horses," cried Charity, still holding the wet handkerchief to
Redmond's brow. "Quickly! Please—
please
hurry!"

"Not till I knows what's to do." The plump little man walked
inside, surveying the carnage. "I'm Joseph Miller the proprietor of
this establishment. Your man been and killed they three?"

Charity bent over Redmond. "Are you stabbed, sir?" she asked
urgently.

He shook his head weakly. "Boot—merely. Be… all right. Go. May
be—may be more."

"There ain't no more," said Mr. Miller. "You done for the lot.
Jem, you run for the constable."

"No!" Constables meant talk and notes and more talk. Charity
cried desperately, "Help us, I beg of you. These men are from my uncle.
My husband's father has died, you see. The news was kept from us, but
we just learned that if he does not appear at the funeral on Wednesday,
my uncle inherits the fortune, and we will be left penniless! They
tried to murder him just now. Please!
Please
help
us!"

Mr. Miller's jaw dropped at this dramatic tale. "Why, them
dirty villins!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Here, Jem, let's put 'em
where they can't cause no more trouble. Bring the wheelbarrer."

And so Jem and the obliging host disposed three limp and
groaning rogues into the muddy wheelbarrow and trundled them
ignominiously into the rain.

Charity returned her attention to Redmond. He was breathing
hard still, his pale lips tight-gripped, but he eyed her with awed
astonishment and whispered, "Jove!
What
a
splendid tale!"

She tried to move aside the arm that was clamped across his
ribs. "Never mind that. Let me see." She began to unbutton his shirt.

"Good heavens, woman!
Must
you always
be… striving to undress me? Not content with cutting my breeches off—"

"
Mit-chell
!" She tugged at his wrist.
"Will you be sensible and let me—"

"No, little mouse."

She glanced up, surprised by the gentle voice. He was smiling
at her in a way that reduced her knees to blancmange.

"If you will just be so good as… to bring me the brandy."

She thought numbly that it was no wonder he was so successful
as a rake, but after a stunned second she recovered her sensibilities
and sped to take up his coat. Removing the flask, she cried, "Oh,
Mitchell! The pistols were here all the time and I never had the sense
to . .

"You were marvellous," he said, gritting his teeth as he
struggled to sit up.

She hurried back to kneel beside him and hold the flask to his
lips. He took a mouthful, coughed, and gasped. For a moment his head
sank onto her shoulder. She held him close, her cheek against his
rumpled hair, her heart aching for him. "Oh," she whispered, "if
only
I could help you!"

He did not answer, but reached for her hand. She thought it
was the wrong hand and that he wanted more brandy, but instead, he
pressed her fingers to his lips.

Something about that gentle, civilized gesture proved her
undoing. All the terrors and dangers, the constant anxiety for her
brother and her friends, the endless effort, and now this terrible
fight overwhelmed her. Reaction caused her to tremble violently, and
tears filled her eyes. "Oh, Mitch… They—they almost—"

His arm was about her. He said in a steadier voice, "Almost
killed me. And would have done but for you, my so intrepid fieldmouse.
Now, listen, Madame Mulot, if I should be downed, you must take
Diccon's notebook. I carry it in a clumsy sort of pocket I've fashioned
inside my coat lining, You must—"

"No, no! Do not even think such a dreadful thing! You will
not
be downed!"

He smiled. "Very likely not with you to aid me. Gad! When I
think of how well you wield spears and clubs, I wonder—"

"I see as the lady was properly done up when you driv in,
sir," said the host, returning to peer anxiously at Charity. "And no
wonder! Be blowed if
ever
I heard of such
wickedness. How far you got to go, might I henquire?"

"Brighton," Mitchell answered succinctly.

"What? By
Wednesday
?" The round face was
dubious, "Best report it to the law, sir. Two days ain't much time. Not
with your lady alongside—"

Redmond reached out. "Help me up, there's a good fellow."

The host obliged. Charity scrambled to her feet, clinging
anxiously to Redmond's other hand. His eyes closed briefly, but then he
recovered himself.

"Oh, you are so tired! You
must
rest!"
she cried.

"Rest… and lose my fortune?" Incredibly a whimsical grin was
slanted at her. "I've not much reliance on your law, host," he went on.
"Rather, saddle us your two best horses and we'll be off."

The man shrugged. "Like as not, you're right. Precious little
law we got." His voice rose in a sudden raucous howl that made Charity
jump. "
Wal-ter!''

Redmond said fondly, "Can you gather our things, m'dear?"

Her heart leaping, Charity hastened to do his bidding as an
ostler hurried in and was instructed to saddle up Mr. Pitt and
Short-and-Sweet.

"We named the bay arter Mr. Pitt, 'cause he's all fire and
brimstone," explained Mr. Miller, helping Redmond to where he might
lean against a feed bin. "Short-and-Sweet will do nicely for your lady.
Was you intending to rent 'em sir? I've a friend down to Stoke-on-Trent
as will return 'em do you wish to pay the fees. Then you could rent
another pair from him."

Redmond completed the negotiations, then asked, "Where did you
put our rogues?"

"In the smokehouse, sir. Quite safe they'll be there till
morning, never you fear. Here, let me help you, though I'm thinking
'twould go kinder on you was you to take my best room 'stead of riding
in your condition.''

He boosted Redmond into the saddle, then helped Charity mount
the black mare. Patting the animal, he said,"Be gentle with her mouth,
if you will, ma'am. A rare little creature she be."

Charity nodded, promised to take care of his horse, added her
fervent thanks to Redmond's, and followed her husband into the rainy
afternoon.

For a little while Redmond walked the horses along the wet
lane. Then he drew closer to Charity. She asked anxiously how he felt.
"Oh, I shall do nicely, thank you. The thing is"—he hesitated,
regarding her with grim intensity—"we've to make a dash for it now.
There will be others, you see. And they know where we are. Charity… I
wish you will stay here. I could find you a—"

"No. I must keep with you."

He smiled faintly. "My faithful wife. I shall manage, I swear.
I'll not fail this time."

She knew he was thinking of Sanguinet and that hideous
interrogation in the war room at Tor Keep. She said calmly, "I am quite
sure you will not. But I must stay with you for as long as I can
without being a hindrance."

"Hindrance!" He reached over to clasp the hand she at once
stretched out to him. "Lord! The way you swung that club! What a
fighter you are, my mouse!"

Her eyes glowed with joy. "And you," she said warmly. "How you
managed to fight off all three, I shall never know. I am very sure no
other man could have done it."

Incredulity touched him. After a wondering moment, he said,
"Come then,. Madame Mulot. We'll do our damnedest." He paused, then
added, "Together."

Charity nodded, smiling resolutely into his grave eyes.

Already they were out of the village. Redmond urged his big
bay to a canter. The black mare at once kept pace. They rode on along
muddy lanes, the rain becoming heavier, driving into their faces, the
horses sending up sprays of cold water as they splashed through
puddles. A grey mist hung over the fields, and the afternoon settled
into a sullen wetness. Charity began to be very cold. She scarcely
noticed it. Had she been given the choice, she would have been nowhere
else in the world.

Take it off!" Redmond's voice was a snarl.

Her teeth chattering, Charity said, "Very w-well. B-but turn
your naughty back, sir!"

Water trickling down the sodden locks of hair that plastered
against his forehead, Redmond scowled, but did as he was asked, fixing
his gaze sternly on the deplorable green chickens of the wallpaper in
the grubby bedchamber of this deplorable hedge tavern. After a moment,
a wet habit was thrust at him. He took the garments and eyed them, his
heart contracting. So small. So cold and soaked. A hand was on his arm.
He looked up. Her great eyes were scanning him worriedly. His gaze
flickered down the chemise that clung revealingly to her thin shape,
and a great ache of longing surged through him.

He strode to whip a blanket from the bed and wrap it about
her, then carried her to a chair by the fire. "Sit there!" he said
raspingly.

Charity watched as he draped her habit over two wooden chairs
to dry. Steam curled up almost at once. She began to feel a little less
freezing, but, oh, how she ached. And she had blisters, dreadful raw
blisters, where no one should have such fiendish annoyances. Starting
to nod, she forced her eyes open. Redmond had taken off his coat and
set it on a third chair beside her garments. His jacket was just as
sodden.

As gruffly as possible, she said, "Take it off!"

His tired eyes flashed to her, and at once a grin lit them.

"Hot-blooded wench," he said. But he took off his jacket
revealing a shirt that clung wetly against his lean body.

Charity said a sympathetic, "Oh, my poor dear. You are soaked
through!"

His smile died. A look of yearning tenderness crept into his
eyes. He came to her as if irresistibly drawn. And the weariness, the
ache, the hopelessness of striving against impossible odds, were as
nothing. Charity saw only his ardent gaze, the sensitive face, the tall
lean manliness of him. She tore the blanket away and stood as he
advanced on her, and her arms went out.

She was clasped in a strong but contained hold. His head
bowed, his mouth seeking hers. And she lifted her face, yielding her
lips with a willingness, an eagerness, that some distant part of her
mind marvelled at. After a dizzying eternity of heaven, Mitchell left
her mouth and began to plant a trail of kisses down her cheek, down her
throat, lower yet, until she gasped to the thrill of his lips upon the
curve of her slight breast.

"Mitchell…" she whispered. "Oh—Mitchell… !"

He picked her up and carried her, still kissing her, to the
rickety bed. "We have… so little time," he said softly, as he laid her
there.

She smiled and reached up to him.

Mitchell moved cautiously onto the bed and took her in his
arms. "My precious… Madame Mulot…"he said huskily. And he gathered her
closer, kissing her again and again, his hands caressing every part of
her frail body. But when he raised his head to bend over her, she was
asleep.

Mitchell Redmond, notorious rake and duellist, smiled faintly,
sighed, and kissed her white brow. He eased himself from the bed, and
gazing down at her, muttered wryly, "Just as well, beloved…"He pulled
the musty blankets over her, carried the lamp to where it would not
trouble her eyes, and returned to the fire. He checked the pistols one
at a time, then laid them close by. Crossing to the window, he peered
out, but could discern only the gleam of lamplight upon the wet surface
of the lane, the tossing branches of trees, and, distantly, a great red
glow in the sky that brought an angry scowl to his face. For a while he
occupied himself with the business of shaving. Finishing, he went back
to the fire and took out his timepiece. One hour more and they must be
gone. Even now, he flirted with disaster by stopping here. His eyes
slanted to the bed. She must have rest. God bless her valiant soul, she
must sleep—just for a little while.

That blessing being denied him, Redmond sat straighter,
keeping his vigil over the girl he once had judged as elegant as a grey
fieldmouse.

The sky was ablaze, the heavy clouds pulsing a sullen crimson,
the rainy night lit by the lurid red glow.

"Whatever is it?" asked Charity breathlessly as they halted
the horses for a moment at the top of a rise.

Redmond said savagely, "It is what they have done to our
England. The money grubbers with their tools and wheels and the steam
for their Satanic machines. These black fields were once green and
lush. These gentle people each owned a little trade and plied it with
honour and dignity. And then came the machines that could do as much in
a day as a man could do in a week. Now, the countryside is dying, the
streams are polluted with vat dyes and soot so that even the fish are
gone. From here to Birmingham and beyond, the machines spread
starvation and disillusion."

Appalled, and yet impressed by the depth of his anger, she
asked, "And—the people?"

He shrugged. ''The craftsman who took pride in the cloth he
wove on his own loom is the slave of today, who works at a grinding
pace for a man he may never even meet and who can no longer have any
sense of dignity or personal accomplishment. Because he makes so
little, his wife has to work beside him; their children toil for
fifteen, sometimes sixteen, hours a day at the shuttles, their little
hands—" He broke off. "I should not rant so, but—God, how I hate them!
These soulless money grubbers and their stinking machines!"

"But can nothing be done? Do not the officials, the people in
Whitehall know what is happening?"