Tender the Storm (5 page)

The girl, of course! Rolfe was conscious of the hot tide of color rising in his neck. It didn't matter that the child could not read his thoughts. He felt as if he had defiled her merely by thinking them in her presence.

She was an innocent, pure and unsullied, on the threshold of womanhood. Anyone with any intelligence could see at a glance that she was gently bred. When such a girl married, even then, she would not be subjected to a man's baser, sensual nature, not unless her
husband were
a brute. The marital bed was not where a gentleman played out his carnal lusts. It was a man's duty to beget heirs. It was no part of his duty to debauch his innocent wife.

Deciding, belatedly, that it was time to change the direction of his thoughts, he addressed a question to the child. "Who was the woman at the hotel?"

She gazed at him somberly before replying, "She is one of my teachers."

"What's her name?"

"M . . .
Citoyonne
Michelet."

"You are not related?"

"No."

Rolfe grunted, but decided not to press the matter. The woman was not significant. Nor was there any profit in trying to determine who was foe and who was friend. As far as possible, Tinteniac preferred his agents to work independently. There was safety in anonymity. For all he knew, Duhet himself might be a member of his own network.

La
Correspondance
.
He'd been recruited to the network two years before, when an assassin's bullet had cut down his elder brother. Edward's transgression had been that he was too closely associated with the French Royalists in England. The family seat in

Kent, Rivard Abbey, had opened its doors to aristocrats seeking sanctuary from the Terror.

It was Edward's death which had shaken Rolfe from his natural indolence. "I'm apolitical," was the excuse he was used to employing laughingly when Edward tried to persuade him to take a more active role in events. He wondered what Edward would have to say about the role he had assumed.

No. There was no point in wondering. He knew exactly what Edward would say if he were alive. He would be aghast. That the Marquess of Rivard should court danger when the succession had yet to be secured was unthinkable. And yet, by some strange irony, it was Edward who had made himself the target of assassins.

Rolfe sighed and turned his head to stare unseeingly out the coach window. He had no real excuse for evading his duty to beget heirs except that it was an unpalatable one. And what duty wasn't? But more and more of late, the obligation which fell to his lot had begun to weigh heavily on his conscience. His mother, who knew nothing of his involvement in British Intelligence or of his frequent jaunts to the Continent, was vocal in her objections to his single state. He did not see how he could withstand her determined onslaught much longer.

Only one more assignment after this, he promised himself. One more "letter" to post and his field of operations would switch to England. Time enough, then, to consider leg-shackling
himself
to some eligible girl. He wondered idly what the future had in store for the child who was huddled so pathetically in the corner of the coach.

They stopped to water the horses on the banks of the River
Risle
, just outside Le Bee. It was here, by and large, that the conscripts parted company with them. They were bound for Toulon, in the south, where combined Royalist and English forces were successfully holding the port against French besiegers. Their party was now reduced to two coachmen and three conscripts, not counting the deputy.

Zoë was not permitted to leave the confines of the coach until a meager repast was prepared. Though she was not hungry, she was glad of the opportunity to stretch her legs and warm herself at the blaze which someone had kindled in a circle of stones. A pot of stew was suspended over the flames. One man was on guard duty. The others were huddled around or involved at various tasks.

A tin cup of something hot was thrust at her.

"Thank you," she murmured, and cupped her frozen fingers around the hot utensil, savoring its warming properties.

"Sit," said the deputy.

He was a man of few words as Zoë had discovered, and those few were mostly commands. She settled herself on the rock he indicated and studied him with veiled glances.

To her knowledge, he was exactly as he appeared — an agent of the commissioners. Claire had told her that the deputy was under orders to conduct her to Coutances. When she was safely delivered, transportation would be arranged to take her to the coast and thence to Jersey and England. Meantime, she was to trust no one, and the pretense that she was Fleur Guery must be maintained until she reached England.

Apart from the deputy, only one other held any in
terest for her. He was older than his companions. Zoë judged him to be on the wrong side of thirty or thereabouts. Her eyes followed him as he tended to the horses, leading them down in pairs to the ford to slake their thirst. He knew his way around horses. He knew how to gentle them with soft words and smooth touches. Such a man could not be all bad,
Zoë was thinking, and took comfort from that thought.

"Eat." The deputy thrust a spoon under Zoë's nose. A moment later, she was given a hunk of black bread. She ate in silence.

Before continuing on their journey, the deputy indicated that Zoë was to attend to her personal needs. He gestured to a clump of bushes which lay hard by their camp. Zoë was aghast, though she dared not argue the point with him. With every appearance of docility, she walked straight into the bushes and passed through to the opposite side. Some few yards farther on, she spied a more secluded spot which served her sense of what was fitting.

She had scarcely finished adjusting her garments, when the deputy swooped down on her. Like a naughty child, she was hauled back to camp by the scruff of her neck. Men laughed at her predicament as the deputy railed at her and administered several stinging swats to her posterior. Her cheeks burned scarlet. Tears trembled on her lashes and spilled over. It was too much for her.

She hauled herself out of his arms. "I'm not a child," she choked out, her eyes shooting sparks at him.

Coarse laughter greeted this childish display of temper as men stood about, waiting to see how the young deputy would take his revenge.

In a move calculated to demonstrate her immatur
ity, Rolfe tousled her tumbled locks. "Settle down, duchess," he said, joining in the general hilarity. "Obedient children don't get spanked. Remember that in future."

His words had a sobering effect. Zoë's eyes went stark with fear. If she was caught out in her deceit, the penalty she would suffer would be far graver than a few swats to her backside.

With a muffled curse, the deputy swept her up in his arms and deposited her inside the coach. She shrank from him, averting her head. His hand caught her chin, turning her tear-streaked face up for his inspection.

"I . . .
I want my mother," said Zoë. She was merely trying to throw him off the scent, she told herself. Such words, coming from a child, were only to be expected. But the truth of her statement twisted like a knife in her heart. More tears welled in her eyes. Impatient with herself, she blinked them away.

As the coach lurched and began to move off, Rolfe removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket. "Dry your tears," he said quietly.

Zoë obeyed and stole a sideways look at him. There was a suspicious twinkle lurking at the back of those grave eyes. She sniffed, deciding with a kind of determined defiance that she would rather be the object of his fury than his scorn. Pointedly, she lifted her chin.

Rolfe removed his handkerchief from her clenched hands and studied the girl's profile. "You must never disobey me again," he said seriously. "Do you understand?"

Her lip trembled.

He bit back a smile. "You put yourself at risk when you did not tell me where you were going. Anything might have happened to you. I'm responsible for your
safety. I won't tolerate disobedience, kitten. You'd better make your mind up to it."

The tilt of her chin dropped by several notches.
Now that he had explained himself, she saw the sense of obeying him. "I beg your pardon," she managed in a small voice.

"That's better. Now see if you can catch some sleep. You look half
hagged
to death."

She was too keyed up for sleep, and too craven to voice her opinion. Without argument, she closed her eyes. It was only a matter of minutes before the sham became reality.

When the girl beside him was breathing softly and evenly, Rolfe removed a blanket from beneath the opposite banquette. He shook it out, and draped it around her small form. Having done this, he gathered her in his arms, pillowing her head against his chest.

Zoë would have been thunderstruck if she had glimpsed the deputy's bemused expression as he gazed down at her. It was a curious blend of tenderness and apology.

Rolfe closed his eyes and gradually drifted into a light sleep.

They made
Lisieux
by nightfall. Zoë had to be shaken awake. Disoriented, she stumbled from the coach. She would have fallen over her clumsy wooden clogs if the young deputy had not caught her. Eyes downcast, she mumbled an apology and turned away as he made to enter a stone building.

Zoë huddled close to the coach and looked about her. Relief shivered through her. They had stopped at a hostelry. It had occurred to her that she might be forced to spend the night in the cells of the Law Courts. She'd been plagued with the terrible forebod
ing that she would disgrace the family name by breaking down like a terrified schoolgirl.

A thousand times over since they had gone into hiding, Zoë had reminded herself that, twice over, she was the granddaughter of a general. The blood of heroes ran in her veins. It was inconceivable that a Devereux should conduct himself with anything less than fortitude, whatever the circumstances. The other members of her family, her parents, her sister, her younger brother, were an example she should be striving to emulate. Of them all, she was the one who had the least to endure and the most to which to look forward. The thought braced her faltering courage until the deputy returned. When he towered over her, Zoë sagged weakly against the coach.

Her gaze made a slow appraisal of his taut features. His lips moved. She heard the grate of his voice. Evidently, the deputy was far from satisfied with the only available hostelry of which the town of
Lisieux
could boast. He seemed to be undecided. She felt the heat of his eyes as they traveled over her.

"You're frozen," was all he said.

In the next instant, he had made his decision. His small
troop of men were
ordered off to find their own pallets.