The Duke's Messenger (26 page)

He detached himself from the shadow of the building and moved out across the cobbles. She could hear no sound of boots. He must be wearing soft leather shoes. Reeves had such a pair. The figure below moved across to the deep shadows beside the coaches, aligned in a regular row, their shafts before them like slender paws stretching into the vacant area of the yard.

Something about the stealthy movement of the man gave her a frisson of fear. He was up to no good. Her thoughts flew to Reeves. He would investigate at once…

But Reeves was in his sickbed, and she dared not disturb him.

The man below had reached the shadows beyond and disappeared somewhere along the serried row of vehicles. His direction was no more than ordinarily erratic, indicating only someone whose purpose was not quite clear. As she watched, the figure took on a semblance of familiarity.

Recognition struck her. There was no need to disturb Reeves with her discovery of a man, illicitly abroad in the night.

For Reeves himself was already abroad — the very man she had seen, walking just a moment ago with healthy stride toward the shadows!

Chapter Twenty-Five

Reeves, she thought resentfully, could march around all night in the stable yard if he wished, and she would not care. What matter if he had been so ill that afternoon — pale of face, weak of limb?

She had made up her mind that she must forget everything that had to do with Reeves. She was affianced, almost, and besides, the coachman-cum-gentleman represented all that she had been taught to abhor. To make a good marriage, to take her place in the level of society to which she had been born, was what was expected of her.

She lingered, however, at the window, waiting to see Reeves emerge from the deep shadows of the coaches.

She must consider the alternatives — to marry where she wished, to dear Rowland, or admit that she found Reeves far too attractive to suit. She did not think she was a snob. But to throw her cap over the windmill was not to be thought of.

Reeves was still hidden in the shadows below. It would do no harm to be sure he had not collapsed in weakness. Besides, she was caught up in curiosity over what his purpose was in this stealthy expedition in the dark.

She thought back, over the afternoon’s events. The only untoward incident that could have a bearing on Reeve’s actions was the arrival of the archduke. He had sent his man up to see Reeves, to ascertain the state of his health. And that was all.

Nell was now chilled sufficiently to turn back to her warm bed and fall asleep at once. But she was too wide-awake to consider sleep. What was Reeves doing? She was quite sure he would not welcome her intervention, even if she could find him in the shadows.

She was almost ready to give up the question and go to bed. But just before she turned away from the window, she thought she saw movement on the front step again. Reeves must have doubled back out of her sight. She would just wait to see him inside the inn and then go to bed.

She heard a door shut quietly below. But the figure below was still on the step, apparently just now emerging from the building. At this rate, the stable yard would soon be more densely populated than the inn itself.

The man below, unaware of the watchful eyes on him, moved swiftly away from the lighted door. The snow was coming down hard now, and she viewed the happenings below as though through a lacy veil. They might well be snowbound by morning.

She strained to recognize the second man. The archduke had come with so many servants that it was most unlikely she would know any except Fulke. But to her surprise, the man below, possibly aware of her eyes on him, looked up. And she recognized him!

Hard on the heels of her recognition came decision. She would put
Reeves
out of her mind tomorrow. But tonight she must warn him that he was not alone in the stable yard — that from somewhere out of the storm had come Emile, the squint-eyed servant of the Comte de Pernoud!

She snatched up her dark blue cloak, threw it around her shoulders, and slipped quietly through the door. The stairs were in shadow, but from below came sufficient light from a lantern left on the table in the common room for her to see her way. Like a shadow herself, she descended swiftly, and in a moment stood on the step beyond the front door. Mindful of the chance of eyes watching from the building behind her, or more likely the vigilance of the two men she knew were already abroad in the night, she stepped away from the circle of light at the door. She was grateful for the Muscovy sable lining of her cloak. She pulled it close at her throat, for the wind-driven snow was cold and wet on her skin.

The yard was silent. The wind’s keening was the only sound to be heard. She thought, with some apprehension, that a regiment might march across before her, and she would scarcely hear them.

Reeves had vanished into the broad band of darkness along the far fence. She had lost sight of the second man even before she had left the window. But she must first seek out the coachman and warn him that the enemy was stalking him in the night. Looking around her and seeing no sign of movement, she moved silent as a wraith across the intervening space. She found her breath again as she stood in the shadow of a great carriage wheel and believed herself hidden.

The coach beside her shone dull red and gold. It occurred to her that Emile must have arrived with Phrynie’s Josef. Else how would it chance that the enemy, for he was that without doubt, could have emerged from the inn, moments ago?

Perhaps Josef Salvator himself was just such another as the Comte de Pernoud!

She must find Reeves…

She looked around carefully, scanning dark corners, watching the snow swirl dizzyingly around her. Nothing moved. She took a step away from the gaudy coach.

A hand from behind was clapped over her mouth, an arm snaked from behind to close like a vise on her waist. Her involuntary scream was no louder than a sigh.

A voice spoke gutter French in her ear. “You know what I want, that bunchy package. Where is it?”

She twisted futilely in his grip, making strangled sounds against his hand. His fingers smelled of rancid grease and only a remote acquaintance with soap. Unpleasant as it was, she buried her teeth in his hand, satisfied to hear him grunt in pain. Her cloak was twisted around her hips, from Emile’s grip on her waist. The wet snow found the opening, and her nightgown in only a moment became sodden, clinging clammily to her body. The cold stirred her to action.

She was indignant at the presumption of this base Emile, she was incensed by the fact that she could not travel as safely in Germany as in her own precincts and determined not to faint away like so many Rosamunds and Julias in those idiotic novels that had no relation to truth.

The garlic-breathing monster who had her in his grip now — that was reality!

She did not try to scream again. She bit the filthy fingers, she kicked backward to hit her attacker’s shins — realizing with a start that she was wearing only thin heelless slippers. She bent double to take him unawares and writhed like an eel in his grasp.

He cursed in French. He grunted in exasperation. At length, furious at her resistance, he lifted her up and threw her to the ground. She sprawled her length, her cloak billowing away from her. She was in a moment as wet as if she had fallen into a brook in spring flood.

The fall took her breath away. She saw Emile tower over her and then drop to his knees beside her. His hand hovered over her mouth ready to cut off her first scream as he demanded, “Where is the package?”

With guile she did not know she possessed, she said, quietly, “Why do you want it?”

“My master sent me,” he said. She realized then that he was without wit, a mere automaton sent by the Comte de Pernoud, who must have surmised that the parcel would somehow act to discredit the Emperor. It would be a prodigy if she could not outwit the witless!

She must not give any hint to him that it was upstairs in her room. She dared not think of Phrynie’s reaction were she to awake and find the man with the squint eye sorting through her personal affairs. She must think of something…

“My brother has it,” she told him. “It is already in Vienna!”

“You lie!”

“On the contrary,” she said. “You must not believe I would keep it, when he was going to Vienna? I assure you it is in the hands of the English lord at this very moment.”

He paused to allow the process that served him as thought to take place, and his attention left her for a moment. She saw her opportunity. The man’s wits were not the peril. His brute strength was, for he could easily give one buffet to her head, like brushing off a fly, and she would have no further interest in the parcel — or anything at all.

She took her breath in silently. When she opened her mouth, her scream had all the force of a banshee’s screech. At the same moment, she rolled away from him.

Emile grunted like a savage and raised his fist in threat.

She was out of his reach. He scrambled for her on his knees, but she rolled over again. She attempted to scramble to her feet, but her knee on her wet cloak pinned her to the ground. Her nightgown bunched wetly between her thighs, and she fell back to the ground, knowing that Emile was
a
breath — perhaps her last breath — away.

But her scream had not gone unnoticed. She struggled to sit up, her eyes, wide and full of fear, fixed on her assailant. Suddenly it seemed to her that something jerked the man up to stand swaying, the snow piling up on his shoulders. She hardly had time to notice the odd phenomenon when its cause appeared.

Reeves was dealing effectively. A blow of seemingly insignificant force tapped Emile lightly, and the big man simply folded like a fan, to lie prone on the wet cobbles.

Reeves lifted her gently in his arms. “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so!” She was breathless.

“Can you stand for a moment?” He set her on her feet, releasing her slowly. Assured that she would not slip to the ground again, he called into the shadows, and Fulke, Josef Salvator’s factotum, emerged in answer.

“I don’t understand!” she thought she wailed, but there was no sound other than the muttered conversation between the coachman and the archduke’s man.

She was watching experts in their trade, she knew.

From somewhere Fulke produced a serviceable length of hemp, and Reeves tied Emile’s wrists. After a short consultation, Fulke pulled their captive to his feet and shoved him ahead in the direction of one of the sheds beyond the stable.

“I don’t understand,” she repeated, this time aloud.

His hands touched her lightly. “You’re drenched. Come. You’ll freeze else.”

How relieved she was, she heard herself thinking, to place her life in the competent hands that now led her to shelter! Muzzily she knew she had thought in error — not her life, of course! — but she did not feel able to come to more precise terms. She moved as he told her, took off her cloak as he commanded, all in a dream. She had no clear sense of time, nor of what had just transpired. He had brought her to an enclosed space floored with straw — in England it would be called a box stall, she believed.

She shivered and thought she could never stop. Reeves placed his jacket around her. Her teeth chattered. He paused only long enough to drape her cloak, fur side out, over the low partition that separated this stall from the remainder of the stable. Then he dropped down in the straw beside her.

“Where did he hurt you?” he asked. Not waiting for an answer, he touched her temples with fingertips delicate as butterfly wings. “Here? Here?”

“N-no, he didn’t hurt me. But I think he would have.”

“What were you doing out here? Can’t you ever stay quietly in your bed at night?”

His voice was rough. Possessed of a strange insight, she knew he spoke not from anger but from anxiety for her. Even in her sudden satisfaction, she could not keep from shivering again.

His arms closed around her and drew her close. She could smell the strong unmistakable smell of the Scottish tweed of his jacket, mingled with the dry scent of the straw under them and the clean aroma of soap, by which she believed she would recognize Reeves anywhere in the world. He rocked her gently, and she gave herself up to warmth and comfort, as though she were a child, secure and safe. Some long time later, she became aware that he was humming. A simple little tune, oddly quieting. She could feel his heart beat and feel the faint vibrations of his singing.

Dreamily she murmured, “What is that air? Do I know it?”

“Most likely not,” he said. “I learned it in Spain. In English, the words don’t fit the tune. It’s about what a man wants.”

“And what is that?”

“The reflective life,” he said, as though she had not spoken. “What a restful existence is that of the man who flees from the din of the world and follows the hermit’s path, down which have passed the few wise men whom the world has known!”

“Restful? I wish I live to see that day. It occurs to me that the contemplative life does not include breaking into private castles? Nor being so very knowledgeable with your fists? I vow you hardly touched that man, and he dropped like a sack of grain.”

“I never said I was wise,” he told her. “I do not hesitate to admit that at one time such a quiet life had its appeal.”

“No more?”

“A man, too, has a right to alter his thinking.”

He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. His lips met hers, and totally of their own volition her arms went around his neck and pulled him closer to her.

There was one moment when she recalled, as though standing to one side in censure, that of all things she had considered to be altogether disgraceful, none of them descended quite as low as reveling in the close and wonderful embrace of the coachman.

The moment of hesitation, however proper, fled hastily, vanquished beyond recovery in the sheer deliciousness of her present situation, with which she was eminently satisfied.