No Longer a Gentleman

“SLEEP WELL,” CASSIE 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.

Books by Mary Jo Putney

The Lost Lords series

Loving a Lost Lord

Never Less Than a Lady

Nowhere Near Respectable

No Longer a Gentleman

Other titles

One Perfect Rose

The Bargain

The Rake

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

No Longer A Gentleman

THE

LOST LORDS

MARY JO PUTNEY

ZEBRA BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

To the Mayhem Consultant for his patience

and good nature.

It isn’t always easy to live with a writer!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To the Creative Cauldron. How many stories have we knocked out of the ballpark together? A lot!

And to all the great people at Kensington, who take such good care of my books.

Chapter 1

London, January 1813

Time to dance with the devil again. Cassie wielded Kirkland House’s dragon’s head knocker, wondering what mission awaited her this time.

The door opened. Recognizing her, the butler bowed her inside. “His lordship is in his study, Miss Fox.”

“No need to show me the way.” Cassie headed to the rear of the house, thinking that it was about time Kirkland sent her back to France. For years, she had moved secretly between England and France, spying and acting as a courier at Kirkland’s direction. The work was dangerous and grimly satisfying.

Outwardly a frivolous gentleman of leisure, in private Kirkland was a master of intelligence gathering and analysis. He’d kept her in London longer than usual this time as part of a team working desperately to uncover a plot against the royal family. They had succeeded, a wedding and Christmas had been celebrated, and now Cassie was restless. Working to undermine Napoleon’s regime gave her life purpose.

She knocked at the door of the study and entered at his call. Kirkland sat behind his desk, as well tailored as always. He rose courteously as she entered.

With his dark hair, broad shoulders, and classic features, the man could never be less than handsome, but today his face was etched with strain despite his smile. “You’re looking more anonymous than usual, Cassie. How do you manage to be so forgettable?”

“Talent and practice, since anonymity is so useful for a spy,” she retorted as she chose a chair opposite him. “But you, sir, look like death in the afternoon. If you don’t take better care of yourself, you’ll be down with another attack of fever and we’ll find out if you’re indispensable or not.”

“No one is indispensable,” he said as he resumed his seat. “Rob Carmichael could do my job if necessary.”

“He could, but he wouldn’t want to. Rob much prefers being out on the streets cracking heads.” Rob had said as much to Cassie—they were close friends, and occasionally more than friends.

“And he is so very good at it,” Kirkland agreed. “But I’m not about to fall off the perch anytime soon.” He began toying with his quill pen.

“It isn’t like you to fidget,” Cassie said. “Have you found a more than usually perilous mission for me?”

His mouth quirked humorlessly. “Sending agents into France is always dangerous. My qualms increase when the mission is more personal than of vital interest to Britain.”

“Your friend Wyndham,” she said immediately. “Bury your qualms. As heir to the Earl of Costain, he’d be worth a few risks even if he weren’t your friend.”

“I should have known you’d guess.” He set the quill neatly in its stand. “How many times have you followed possible leads about Wyndham?”

“Two or three, with a singular lack of success.” And Cassie was not the only agent to look for proof that the long-vanished Wyndham was either alive or dead. Kirkland would never give up until there was evidence of one or the other.

“I haven’t wanted to admit it, but I’ve feared that he was killed when the Peace of Amiens ended and all Englishmen were interned so they couldn’t return to England.” Kirkland sighed. “Wyndham wouldn’t have gone tamely. He might well have been killed resisting arrest. He hasn’t been heard from since May 1803, when the war resumed.”

“Since he isn’t in Verdun with the rest of the detainees and no other trace of him has turned up, that’s the most likely explanation,” Cassie agreed. “But this is the first time I’ve heard you admit the possibility.”

“Wyndham was always so full of life,” Kirkland said musingly. “It didn’t seem possible that he could be killed senselessly. I know better, of course. But it felt as if saying the words out loud would make them true.”

It was a surprising admission coming from Kirkland, whose brain was legendarily sharp and objective. “Tell me about Wyndham,” she said. “Not his rank and wealth, but what he was like as a person.”

Kirkland’s expression eased. “He was a golden-haired charmer who could beguile the scales off a snake. Mischievous, but no malice in him. Lord Costain sent him to the Westerfield Academy in the hope that Lady Agnes would be able to handle Wyndham without succumbing to his charm.”

“Did it work?” Cassie asked. She had met the formidable headmistress and thought she could handle anyone.

“Reasonably well. Lady Agnes was fond of him. Everyone was. But she wouldn’t let him get away with outrageous behavior.”

“You must have a new lead or you wouldn’t be talking to me now.”

Kirkland began fidgeting with his quill again. “Remember the French spy we uncovered when investigating the plot against the royal family?”

“Paul Clement.” Cassie knew the man slightly because of her ties to the French émigré community. “Has he provided information about Wyndham?”

“Clement had heard rumors that just as the truce ended, a young English nobleman ran afoul of a government official named Claude Durand,” Kirkland replied. “I know the name, but little more. Have you heard of him?”

Cassie nodded. “He’s from a minor branch of a French noble family. When the revolution came, he turned radical and denounced his cousin, the count, and watched while the man was guillotined. As a reward, Durand acquired the family castle and a good bit of the wealth. Now he’s a high official in the Ministry of Police. He has a reputation for brutality and unswerving loyalty to Bonaparte, so he’d be a dangerous man to cross.”

“Wyndham might not have survived angering a man like that. But Clement had heard that Durand locked up the English lord in his own private dungeon. If that was Wyndham, there’s a chance he might be alive.”

Cassie didn’t need to point out that it was a slim chance. “You wish me to investigate Clement’s information?”

“Yes, but don’t take any risks.” Kirkland regarded her sternly. “I worry about you. You don’t fear death enough.”

She shrugged. “I don’t seek it. Animal instinct keeps me from doing anything foolish. It shouldn’t be hard to locate Durand’s castle and learn from the locals if he has a blond English prisoner.”

Kirkland nodded. “Dungeons aren’t designed for long-term survival, but with luck, you’ll be able to learn if Wyndham is—or was—imprisoned there.”

“Did he have the strength to survive years of captivity?” she asked. “Not just physical strength, but mental. Dungeons can drive men mad, especially if they’re kept in solitary confinement.”

“I never knew what kind of internal resources Wyndham had. Everything came so easily to him—sports, studies, friendships, admiring females. He was never challenged. He might have unexpected resilience. Or, he might have broken under the first real pressure he’d ever faced.” After a long pause, Kirkland said quietly, “I don’t think he would have endured imprisonment well. It might have been better if he was killed quickly.”

“Truth can be difficult, but better to know what happened and accept the loss than be gnawed by uncertainty forever,” Cassie pointed out. “There can’t be many English lords who offended powerful officials and were locked in private prisons. If he is or was at Castle Durand, it shouldn’t be difficult to learn his fate.”

“Hard to believe we may have an answer soon,” Kirkland mused. “If he’s actually there and alive, see what must be done to get him out.”

“I’ll leave by the end of the week.” Cassie rose, thinking of the preparations she must make. She felt compelled to add, “Even if by some miracle he’s alive and you can bring him home, he will have changed greatly after all these years.”

Kirkland sighed wearily. “Haven’t we all?”

Chapter 2

Paris, May 1803

“Time to wake, my beautiful golden boy,” the husky temptress voice murmured. “My husband will return soon.”

Grey Sommers opened his eyes and smiled lazily at his bedmate. If spying was always this enjoyable, he’d make it a career, rather than something he merely dabbled in. “‘Boy,’ Camille? I thought I’d proved otherwise.”

She laughed and shook back a tangle of dark hair. “Indeed you did. I must call you my beautiful golden man. Alas, it is time for you to go.”

Grey might have done so if her stroking hand hadn’t become teasing, driving common sense from his head. So far, he’d acquired little information from the luscious Madame Camille Durand, but he had increased his knowledge of the amatory arts.

Her husband was a high official in the Ministry of Police, and Grey had hoped the man might have spoken of secret matters to his wife. In particular, had Durand discussed the Truce of Amiens ending and war resuming again? But Camille had no interest in politics. Her talents lay elsewhere, and he was more than willing to sample them again.

Once more indulging lust led to drowsing off. He awoke when the door slammed open and a furious man stormed in, a pistol in his hand and two armed guards behind him. Camille shrieked and sat up in bed. “Durand!”

Grey slid off the four-poster on the side opposite her husband, thinking sickly that this was like a theatre farce. But that pistol was all too real.

“Don’t kill him!” Camille begged, her dark hair falling over her breasts. “He is an English milord, and shooting him will cause trouble!”

“An English lord? This must be the foolish Lord Wyndham. I have read the police reports on your movements since your arrival in France. You aren’t much of a spy, boy.” Durand’s thin lips twisted nastily as he cocked the hammer of the pistol. “It no longer matters what the English think.”

Grey straightened to his full height as he recognized that there was not a single damned thing he could do to save his life. His friends would laugh if they knew he met his end naked in the bedchamber of another man’s wife.

No. They wouldn’t laugh.

An eerie calm settled over him. He wondered if all men felt this way when death was inevitable. Lucky that he had a younger brother to inherit the earldom. “I have wronged you, Citoyen Durand.” He was proud of the steadiness of his voice. “No one will deny that you have just cause to shoot me.”

Something in Durand’s dark eyes shifted from murderous rage to cold cruelty. “Oh, no,” he said in a soft voice. “Killing you would be far too merciful.”

Chapter 3

London, 1813

Cassie returned to the private boardinghouse that Kirkland maintained for his agents near Covent Garden. She stayed at 11 Exeter Street whenever she was in London, and it was the nearest thing she had to a home.

Packing didn’t take long because whenever she returned from France, she had her clothing laundered and folded away in her clothes press to await the next mission. It was winter, so she selected her warmest garments and half boots. All were well constructed but drab because her goal was to pass unnoticed.

She was finishing her selections when a knock sounded on the door and a female voice called, “Tea service, ma’am!”

Recognizing the voice, Cassie opened the door to Lady Kiri Mackenzie, who was balancing a tray with a teapot, cups, and a plate of cakes. Lady Kiri was tall, beautiful, well born, rich, and confident to the bone. Amazing that they had become friends.

“How did you know I was here?” Cassie asked. “I thought you and our newly knighted Sir Damian were still honeymooning in Wiltshire.”

“Mackenzie and I returned to town yesterday. Since I was near Covent Garden, I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were here.” Kiri set the tray on a table. “Mrs. Powell said you were, so behold! I arrive bearing tea.”

Cassie poured a splash of tea and decided it needed more steeping. “I’m glad you returned in time for a visit. I’ll be leaving by the end of the week.”

Kiri’s face became still. “France?”

“It’s where I am useful.”

“Do be careful,” Kiri said worriedly. “Having had a brief encounter with spying gave me a sense of how dangerous it can be.”

Cassie tested the tea again and decided it was ready. “That was an unusual circumstance,” she said as she poured. “Most of what I do is quite mundane.”

Kiri didn’t look convinced. “How long are you likely to be gone?”

“I’m not sure. A couple of months, perhaps more.” Cassie stirred sugar into her cup and settled back in her chair. “Remember that I am half French, so I’m not going to a foreign country. You’re half Hindu, so surely you understand that.”

Kiri considered. “I take your point. But India can be dangerous even though I’m half Indian. The same is true of France. Rather more so since we’re at war.”

Cassie selected a cake. “This is my work. My calling, really.” The cake was filled with nuts and currants and very tasty.

“From what I can see, you’re very good at spying.” Kiri chose a spice cake. Mrs. Powell’s kitchen could always be relied on for good food. “Does Rob Carmichael mind you going away for so long?”

Cassie’s brows arched in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

Kiri flushed. “I’m sorry. Was I not supposed to know about your … your relationship?”

Kiri must have seen Rob and Cassie together. Not surprising since the women had lived under the same roof for several weeks. “Our relationship is that we are friends,” Cassie said astringently.

“And I should mind my own business,” Kiri said, her voice rueful. “But he’s a fine fellow. I … I thought there was something more than friendship between you.”

Cassie felt a sharp pang of… envy, she supposed, that Kiri could believe in love. Not that her friend hadn’t had problems to overcome. Her father had died before she was born, and since she had been raised in India with mixed blood, she had faced prejudice when her family came to England.

But Kiri had a loving mother and stepfather, not to mention wealth, position, and beauty to protect against an often cruel world. Cassie had been born with some of those advantages but had lost them early, along with her faith in happy endings.

Newly wed and madly in love with a man worthy of her, Kiri lacked the experience to recognize the many ways men and women might connect. A desperate need for warmth could draw people together even without love.

Not wanting to try to explain that, Cassie said merely, “Friendship is one of life’s great blessings. It doesn’t need to be more.”

“I stand corrected.” Kiri made a face. “I appreciate how patiently you’ve educated me on worldly matters.”

“You learned quickly.” Cassie chuckled. “Kirkland said he’d hire you as an agent in an instant if you weren’t unfortunately aristocratic.” She paused. “He probably has put you to work listening to what is said at Damian’s since so many high officials and foreign diplomats choose to do their gambling there.”

“The possibility might have been touched on,” Kiri said with a twinkle in her eye. After demolishing another cake, she opened her reticule. “While in the country, I spent some time playing with a scent you might find useful.” Kiri pulled a small vial from her reticule and handed it over. “I call it Antiqua.”

“Useful?” Cassie accepted the vial with enthusiasm. Kiri came from a long line of Hindu women who were perfumers, and she created marvelous scents. “I thought perfumes were for allure and frivolity.”

“Take a sniff and see what you think,” her friend said mysteriously.

Cassie obediently unstoppered the vial, closed her eyes, and sniffed. Then again. “It smells … a little musty, in a clean sort of way, if that makes sense. Earthy and … very still? Tired? Not exactly unpleasant, but nothing like your floral and spice perfumes.”

“If you caught this scent in passing, what would you think of?”

“An old woman,” Cassie said instantly.

“Perfect!” Kiri said gleefully. “Scent is powerful. Dab on a bit of Antiqua when you wish to be unnoticed or underestimated. People will think of you as old and feeble without knowing why.”

“That’s brilliant!” Cassie sniffed again. “I detect a hint of lavender, but I don’t recognize anything else.”

“I included oils I don’t use often, and when I do, they’re usually disguised by pleasanter fragrances,” Kiri explained.

“When I’m in France, I often travel around in a pony cart as a peddler of ladies’ sundries. Ribbons and lace and the like. I make myself look plain and dull and forgettable, and this will add to the effect. Thank you, Kiri.” Cassie stoppered the vial. “Would you have time to make more before I leave?”

Kiri pulled out two more vials. “Once I thought the scent worked, I made a larger batch.” She chuckled. “I put some of this on and crept up on Mackenzie and he didn’t recognize me until I caught his attention by doing something highly improper.”

Cassie laughed. “If you could creep up on Mackenzie unobserved, this scent should make me invisible.”

Kiri pursed her lips. “If you’re going to be traveling as a peddler, I have a remedy that might be a good item for you to carry.”

“Perfumes that aren’t quite up to your standards but are still lovely? That would be wonderful,” Cassie said.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Kiri said, “but it’s a good idea. I have a number that aren’t quite what I wanted, but pleasant and too full of expensive ingredients to throw out. You’re welcome to them. But what I had in mind was thieves’ oil.”

“What on earth is that, and why would any honest country housewife want any?”

Kiri grinned. “I found it when researching ancient European scents. The story goes that during the Black Death, some thieves were caught robbing the dying and dead. In return for their lives, they offered the formula that allowed them to commit their crimes without catching the disease. There are different recipes, but they’re usually based on an herb vinegar infused with other herbs like lemon and clove and rosemary. Herbal vinegars are traditional remedies, so that’s a good start.”

“Fascinating,” Cassie said. “Does it work?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps it might prevent someone from coming down with more usual ailments like coughs and colds. Since I’m usually healthy, I don’t know if the thieves’ oil is making a difference. The version I settled on is pungent but not unpleasant, and it smells like it ought to do some good. Perfect for a peddler who won’t be around if it doesn’t work.”

“I’d love to have some,” Cassie said. “I’ll use it myself. Traveling through the French countryside with a pony cart in the dead of winter is a recipe for catching colds. I’ll let you know if the thieves’ oil keeps me healthy.”

“I’ll send some tomorrow, along with my surplus perfumes.” Kiri foraged in her bag again and produced an exquisite bottle of scarlet glass with a delicately twisted stopper. “One last thing. For when you return to England and can be yourself again.”

Warily Cassie opened the bottle and placed a drop on her wrist. One sniff and she became still as stone. The fragrance was an exquisite layering of lilac and roses, frankincense and moonlight, vanished sunshine and lost dreams. And underneath, the shadows of darkest night. It caught at her heart with painful intensity.

“Now that I know you better, I decided to create a personal perfume,” Kiri explained. “What do you think?”

“It’s superb.” Cassie reinserted the stopper with rather more force than necessary. “But I’m not sure when I’ll have occasion to wear anything like this.”

“You hate it,” her friend said sadly. “I thought you might.”

Cassie gazed at the lovely little bottle resting on her palm. “I don’t hate it. I … just don’t want to wear this much truth.”

“Perhaps someday you will.”

“Perhaps.” But Cassie doubted that.

Chapter 4

Castle Durand, Summer 1803

Once he realized Durand didn’t want him dead, Grey fought at every opportunity. Resistance didn’t get him killed, though he acquired numerous bruises and lacerations.

If he’d known what lay ahead, he might have tried harder to get killed.

Durand’s men were well trained and brutally efficient. As soon as Grey was captured, one of the guards appropriated his finely tailored garments, gave him coarse peasant clothing and shoes, and ordered him to put them on.

After Grey dressed, he was shackled, gagged, blindfolded, and tossed into a smelly cart. Foul straw was thrown over him. He struggled frantically for breath as the cart began rumbling over the cobbled Parisian streets. When he fell into agonized unconsciousness, he was sure he would never wake again.

But he did. When he recovered his senses, he learned that he could breathe if he didn’t move too much or allow panic to flood his mind.

As cobblestones became roads and then rutted rural lanes, he thought he would go mad from terror and anguish. Grey had always loved sunshine and bright lights and good company. Now he could not see, could not speak, could not even howl with despair.

He lost track of how long he rattled around the cart. Several days, but it was devilish hard to tell how much time passed when he was in constant darkness.

Morning and evening, he was fed and watered and allowed to relieve himself. His body was so stiff from its bindings that he could barely walk. Chilling spring rain sometimes fell, but his damnable good health spared him from lung fever.

At last the nightmare ended. The cart clattered into a stone courtyard, the ropes securing his ankles were unshackled, and he was marched into a building.

Being blindfolded sharpened his senses. He recognized that the building was large and old and mostly stone. A castle, perhaps. He stumbled down narrow stairs with uneven stone treads that supported that theory.

The guards he had come to know through their scent and voices were joined by another man with a guttural voice, strange footsteps, and a sour smell of garlic. A door squealed and Grey was shoved through. He barely managed to avoid crashing to the stone floor.

The gag and blindfold were jerked off. He flinched backward from the torchlight, which stung his eyes after days in darkness. The guards who had brought Grey there stood silently in the doorway while a broad man with cruel features and a wooden peg leg stood directly in front of him. The man leaned on a cane that had leather streamers falling from the brass head.

“I am Gaspard, your jailer,” the man said, menace in his guttural voice. He spoke the French of Paris’s worst stews. “Durand orders me to keep you alive.” He gave an ugly smirk. “I fear you will not find the accommodations what you are used to, my little goddam lordling.”

Grey had to strain to understand. He’d learned the French of the well born when he was a boy, but he hadn’t been taught the coarse dialects of the poor and the provinces. That was changing rapidly. He wondered if he would ever hear English spoken again.

He remembered that the French had called the English “goddams” since at least the time of Joan of Arc. The name came from the constant profanity of the soldiers of the English army. Resigning himself to being a goddam, he said, “If you wish to keep me alive, food and water would be helpful.”

Gaspard gave a bark of laughter. “In the morning, boy. I have other concerns now.” He glanced at the guards. “Take off the goddam’s coat and shirt.”

The two guards silently moved forward and obeyed. Grey was too cramped and bruised to fight well, and he couldn’t prevent them from stripping off his ragged, oversized coat and shirt. He’d never felt so helpless in his life.

There was worse to come. While the two guards immobilized him, Gaspard began whipping Grey’s back. Dimly Grey realized that the leather streamers on the cane were the lashes of a whip and the cane itself was the handle.

After a dozen or two agonizing blows, Grey sagged to the floor between the guards. “Let him fall,” Gaspard said contemptuously. “Remove the shackles. They aren’t needed. There is no way the goddam will escape this cell.”

Grey lay on the floor, barely aware of a key unlocking his wrist manacles. The guards rose and followed Gaspard as the jailer limped from the cell, his wooden leg tapping ominously. They took the torch with them.

After the heavy door was closed and locked, Grey was left in darkness. Even the sliver of light at the bottom of the door disappeared as his jailers walked away.

Grey felt panic rising at the thought of being trapped in darkness until he died screaming. What did the French call the ultimate prison, a oubliette? But that was a pit, wasn’t it, with the prisoner at the bottom of a deep shaft? The name meant forgotten, for prisoners were forgotten and left to die.

He had the mad thought that the guillotine might be better. At least death took place in open air and was quick, if ugly.

But he wasn’t dead yet. Now that he was free of gag, blindfold, and chains, he could breathe and move freely. As for the darkness—it hadn’t destroyed him on the endless journey to this place, and he wouldn’t let it destroy him just yet.

He pushed himself up on his knees and fumbled for his shirt and coat, which had been dropped nearby. The heavy fabric inflicted a fresh wave of pain on his lacerated back, but he needed protection against the biting chill.

Then he listened. Absolute silence except for the faint sound of trickling water somewhere quite close. Given the dampness around him, that was unsurprising.

What had he seen of his cell before Gaspard left? Stone walls, stone floor, damp and solid. The room wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t tiny, either. Perhaps eight paces square, with a very high ceiling. There was something in a corner to his left. A pallet, perhaps?

Swaying, he got to his feet, then moved to his left with his arms outstretched to prevent collision. He still managed to sideswipe a wall by coming at it from an angle, but a few more bruises made no difference.

He stumbled on something soft. Kneeling, he explored by touch and found a pallet of straw and a pair of coarse blankets. Luxury compared to what he’d endured since his capture.

Standing, he skimmed one hand along the wall so he could discover the dimensions of his cell. Down the side wall to the back, opposite the door. He turned and moved along the back wall. About what he estimated as the midpoint of the wall, he stumbled on a rocky obstacle and fell heavily.

More bruises, damned painful ones, but nothing broken, he decided after he recovered his breath and tested the new injuries. He explored with his hands and identified two irregular blocks of stone.

One was chair height, so he hauled himself up and sat, though he couldn’t lean against the wall because of his injured back. As the throbbing in his knees faded, he realized he had never properly appreciated the convenience of chairs before.

The second block of stone was about a foot and a half away, roughly rectangular, and around table height. He felt positively civilized.

After the pain diminished, he resumed his exploration, moving even more slowly. At the far corner, he felt a film of water seeping down the stones. It wasn’t a lot, but perhaps enough to keep him from dying of thirst if other drink wasn’t offered.

There were no more stone blocks. The only other feature he located was the massive wooden door and its frame. He circled again even more slowly. This time in the back corner where the moisture dripped down, he sensed the movement of air. He knelt and found a hole about the size of two fists. The water dripped down into it and there was a faint scent of human waste.

So this is where prisoners relieved themselves. It could have been worse. He used the facilities, then made his way back to the pallet, and wrapped himself in the blankets, lying on his side to protect his back.

Despite his exhaustion, he found himself staring into the darkness wondering what lay ahead. Durand’s comment that it no longer mattered what the English thought suggested that the war was about to resume after a year of truce.

Grey wasn’t surprised to know that. He’d seen suggestions that the French were using the truce to regroup for another round of conquest. Since he had joined the rush of Britons to Paris when the truce began, his friend Kirkland had asked him to keep his eyes open and pass on what he saw.

Grey had used that as an excuse to seduce a married woman, and that action had brought him here. Not that Camille had required much seduction. Looking back, he wasn’t sure who had seduced whom.

Dear God, what would become of him? Might Durand offer him for ransom? His parents would pay anything to get him back. But Durand wanted him to suffer. That could mean being imprisoned forever here in the darkness.

Not forever. Until he died. How long would it be until he’d be praying for death? The knowledge that he was likely to die here in the darkness, alone and unmourned, made his heart hammer with panic. Grimly he fought the fear.

Breaking down shouldn’t matter since no one was here to sneer at his weakness. But it mattered to him. Everything in his life had come easily, and even when caught in mischief, he’d suffered few consequences. Until now. Resigning himself to living in darkness, he wrestled his demons until fear faded and he slept like the dead.

The next morning he awoke to find light entering his cell from a horizontal slit window near the high ceiling of the cell.

For that beautiful sight, he wept.

Chapter 5

France, 1813

In the late afternoon sun, the village of St. Just du Sarthe looked much like any other village in northern France, apart from the medieval castle rising above. As Cassie drove her cart over the hill opposite the castle, she paused to study her goal.

Locating Durand’s family seat hadn’t been difficult. She’d been fortunate that dry, cold weather had saved her from becoming bogged down in snow or mud. She’d moved at a leisurely speed, stopping in villages to sell her ribbons and buttons and bits of lace, along with Kiri’s perfumes and a few remedies.

She’d bought as well as sold, acquiring items of clothing or handicrafts that could be sold elsewhere. In short, she’d behaved exactly as a peddler should.

Snapping the reins over the back of her sturdy pony, she made her way into the village. It was large enough to have a small tavern, La Liberté. Cassie halted there, hoping to find both hot food and information inside.

The taproom was empty except for three ancient men sipping wine together in one corner. A robust woman of middle years was busy behind the bar, but she glanced up with interest when Cassie entered. A female stranger traveling alone wouldn’t be common here, and Cassie was moving with the deliberation of an older woman.

“Bonjour, madame,” Cassie said. “I am Madame Renard and I hope I may find some hot food and a room for the night.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” The woman chuckled. “The only place. I’m Madame Leroux, the landlady, and I’ve a plain room and some hearty mutton stew and fresh bread if you’re interested.”

“That and a glass of red wine will suit me well.” Cassie guessed that the landlady would be a good source of information. “I’ll settle my pony in your stable first.”

Madame Leroux nodded. “The food will be ready when you return.”

The pony was as happy to be indoors and fed as Cassie was. She returned to the taproom and settled into a chair by the fire, grateful for the warmth.

She was removing her cloak when the landlady emerged from the kitchen with a tray containing stew, bread, cheese, and wine. Cassie said, “I thank you, madame. Will you join me in a glass of wine? I’m a traveler in ladies’ notions, and I’m sure you will know if there might be local interest in my goods.”

“Merci.” Madame Leroux poured a glass of wine and settled comfortably on the other side of the fire. Expression curious, she asked, “Isn’t it dangerous to travel alone?”

Besides moving slowly, Cassie had grayed her hair and was wearing the Antiquity scent, so she must seem worrisomely fragile. “I’m careful, and I’ve not had trouble.”

“What do you sell?”

Cassie listed her wares between mouthfuls of the excellent stew. When she finished, the landlady said, “Our weekly village market is tomorrow. In midwinter, new goods will be welcome. I think you will find it worth your while.”

Cassie sipped at her wine. “What about the castle above the town? Might I find customers there? I have some truly fine perfumes blended by a Hindu princess.”

The other woman smiled appreciatively. “An intriguing description, but Castle Durand is a quiet place. The master visits very seldom, and his wife even less. There are never guests unless you count a prisoner or two in the dungeon, and I doubt they have the coin to buy.”

“A dungeon?” Cassie looked properly shocked. “In modern France?”

“Men with power don’t give it up easily,” the landlady said cynically. “The Durands have been lords of the castle forever. They’re called the Wolves of Durand. The last Durand got chopped for being an aristo, but there’s a Durand cousin up there now, not much different from the last one apart from calling himself Citoyen instead of Monsieur le Comte. ’Tis said this Durand has an English lord locked in the dungeon, but I have my doubts. Where would he find an English lord?”

“That seems unlikely,” Cassie agreed, concealing her excitement. “Surely there are female servants? After the market, I could drive up there to show my wares.”

“Go at your peril,” Madame Leroux said. “Half the village is ill with influenza—that’s why I’m so quiet here. I hear that most of the castle staff is ill, too. Not the sort of thing that usually kills, but it creates plenty of misery. Best stay away.”

“I may have something for that,” Cassie said. “The Hindu woman who made the perfumes also gave me what she called thieves’ oil. The legend is that during the plague years, thieves used it to stay safe when they robbed the dead. I have tested it myself on this journey, and I haven’t become ill despite the weather.”

The landlady’s gaze sharpened. “I might be interested in that myself.”

Cassie dug into her bag for a sample. “Try this. A few drops in your palm, rub your hands together, then cup them and sniff the scent.”

Madame Leroux followed the instructions, her nostrils flaring as she sniffed the pungent mixture. “Smells like it ought to do something! Does this remedy really work?”

“As one businesswoman to another, I will admit that I’m not sure,” Cassie replied. “But I haven’t had so much as a cough since I started using it.”

Madame Leroux took another sniff. “Perhaps we can trade your oil for my lodging?”

After a brisk bargaining session, agreement was reached and Cassie handed over a larger bottle of thieves’ oil. Madame Leroux chuckled. “If you call at the castle and fall ill with the influenza, at least you’ll know it’s no good.”

“I hope it works,” Cassie said with an answering smile. She now had a good reason to go to the castle, where she could learn if Kirkland’s long-lost friend was really in Durand’s dungeon. “But perhaps I will head on to the next village. This country is new to me. How far to the next village that has lodgings? In summer, I am happy to camp out with my pony, but not in February!”

“Three to four hours’ drive if the weather stays clear.”

“Then I shall move on after the market.” Cassie mopped up the last of the stew with the heel of her bread. “But I shall make sure to stay here if I come this way again.”

Chapter 6

Castle Durand, Summer 1803

By morning’s light Grey saw that the heavy door to his cell had two small trap doors opened from the outside, one at head height, the other near the bottom. “Breakfast, yer lordship,” a sneering voice said as half a loaf of bread and a tankard of tepid minty tea was placed through the lower door. “Return the tankard later or no dinner for you.”

Because he was hungry, he obeyed. The breakfasts were usually bread with drippings smeared on and more of the herb tea. No costly China tea for prisoners.

Dinners were sparse but more varied. There might be a bowl of stew, or perhaps vegetables and a bone with meat on it. Occasionally a boiled egg. The best part was the pewter goblet of wine. It was always a coarse young table wine, but it gave him something to look forward to. He felt occasional fleeting amusement that because this was France, prison food wasn’t quite as dreadful as it might have been.

Apart from meals, Grey’s life was deadly monotony. He always sat in the narrow beam of light filtered down into his cell. That light saved him from madness, but not despair. Having always lived surrounded by people, he hadn’t realized human contact was as essential to his life as air. Now he saw no one, not even his jailers, so he couldn’t use his legendary charm to improve his situation.

He felt like a bird trapped in a small room frantically beating against the walls. But there was nothing, nothing, he could do to escape. The mortar that joined the stones was new and hard and impervious. The slit window that let in the blessed light was too far above his head to reach even when he jumped to try to catch the sill.

All the world was gray stone. The only features of the cell were the pallet with straw and dark blankets and the crude stone table and seat. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a beefy hand placing the food on the floor and removing the empty bowl and drinking vessel. Occasionally Gaspard would open the upper window in the door to spew insults. Grey knew he was in a bad way when he looked forward to such interludes.

The cell warmed a little as spring turned to summer. When rain fell, the trickle of water down the wall became stronger and he could clean himself a little. He tried not to think of the magnificent new bathing rooms his father had built at the family seat, Summerhill. Tubs full of hot water large enough for a man to sink in to his chin …

No. He daren’t think of home. Like a hibernating animal, he took refuge in sleep, spending most of the hours of the day and night wrapped on his pallet in a dark haze of melancholy. Only meals pulled him from his stupor.

That changed the day Durand visited. Floating between sleep and unwelcome wakefulness, Grey was slow to realize that the door was opening. He was still lying on his pallet when Durand strode into the cell.

“Look at yourself, Wyndham,” Durand said contemptuously. “Three months’ imprisonment have turned you into a filthy, dull-witted pig. What woman would let you touch her now?”

Fury slashed through Grey’s lethargy and he launched himself up from the floor and straight at Durand. Like his classmates at the Westerfield Academy, he had learned the Indian fighting skills called Kalarippayattu from Ashton, his half-Hindu classmate. Surely he could break a middle-aged politician …

Durand slid away with insulting ease, then spun Grey around and forced him to his knees by twisting one arm excruciatingly behind his back. “You’re nothing but a boy, and a weak one at that.” He shoved Grey onto the floor, releasing his grip and stepping back after a parting kick in the belly. “The English are a nation of weaklings. That’s why French victory is inevitable.”

Gasping with pain from the kick, Grey panted, “The war has resumed?”

“Naturally. The Truce of Amiens was merely a pause to recruit more men and build more weapons. Within the next months, we will invade England and make ourselves masters of Europe.”

Grey didn’t want to believe that. But it could be true. In Paris, he’d heard that the French were building boats and amassing an army at Boulogne. “Napoleon will have to get by the Royal Navy first,” he spat out in a thin, rusty voice.

“We have plans to take care of your navy,” Durand said confidently. His expression changed. “After the invasion, your family will probably be dead and their fortune confiscated. I wonder if it would be prudent to offer you to them for ransom now? How much would they pay for their son and heir, Wyndham? A hundred thousand pounds? Two hundred thousand?”

Grey’s heart spasmed. Dear God, to be free of this place! His parents would pay any amount to get him back. They would …

They would beggar the family for his sake. His parents, his younger brother and sister—all would pay for Grey’s stupidity. He could not do that to them.

Managing a sneer of his own, he said, “They surely think I’m dead already, and good riddance. Why do you think I spent months in France? I was an expensive, useless son. My father was furious with me and I thought it best to get out of sight. He would have disowned me if he could.” Grey shrugged. “I have a younger brother who is better in all ways. He will make an excellent earl. I’m neither wanted nor needed.”

“A pity,” Durand said with a trace of regret. “But entirely believable. If you were my son, I wouldn’t want you back, either. Then you shall stay here till you rot.”

He spun on his heel and left. The locks on the door were engaged before Grey could stagger to his feet.

Had he thrown away his only chance of leaving this dungeon alive? Hard to say. Durand was a shifty devil and he might have collected a ransom and not freed his captive. Or returned Grey’s dead body to England.

But Durand had been right to sneer. Grey had been wallowing in self-pity and despair, allowing himself to become weak in body and spirit. If he’d been in better shape, he might have been able to break Durand’s neck. He’d never have escaped the castle, but it would have been satisfying to kill the mocking bastard.

He’d lost track of time. Three months, Durand had said. He felt as if he’d been here that many years, but from the length of his beard, three months sounded about right. It was summer, probably sometime in August. His twenty-first birthday had just passed.

If he had been home in England, his parents would have thrown a great celebration at the family seat, inviting aristocratic friends as well as all the Costain dependents. Grey would have enjoyed it enormously.

Instead, they were mourning his disappearance and likely death. He loved his family, but he’d always taken them for granted even though one couldn’t have asked for better parents. He was deeply fond of his younger brother and sister, who looked up to him. He’d failed them all. The only thing he could take pride in was discouraging Durand’s ransom demand.

Grey would not—could not—continue in this spineless fashion. First, he must begin an exercise regimen to rebuild his strength.

He studied his cell as he thought about what was possible in the space. He could run in place to build his endurance. Stiffly he began, imagining places he’d been and sights he’d seen so he could mentally leave these ugly walls.

He ran until he had a stitch in his side, then dropped to the floor and pushed himself up with just his arms. Once that would have been easy. Now he could only manage to push himself up half a dozen times before he collapsed, gasping.

Another way to build muscles was by lifting the two stones that served as chair and table. He bent to lift the smaller one. It was heavier than expected. He barely managed to raise it six inches before losing his hold. It crashed to the floor and a chip spun away from the lower edge.

Panting from his exertion, he vowed that he’d lift that damned stone over and over until he was strong enough to carry it around his cell. Then he would tackle the larger block that served as his table.

He could and would exercise every day. What else had he to do?

Perhaps even more important, he must rebuild his mind. He’d always been lazy in his classes, able to get by with little work and the help of an excellent memory. Lady Agnes had seen to it that he learned at the Westerfield Academy, but his years at Oxford had been fairly useless. He’d attended Christchurch College, where gentlemen’s sons like him dabbled in classes between social amusements. Kirkland and Ashton, characteristically, attended Balliol, the college associated with sheer brilliance.

He considered the memorizations required by different masters. How much of Caesar’s Gallic Commentaries could he quote in Latin?

“Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres.” All Gaul was divided into three parts. He knew the Latin and English, and now he translated the passage into French. Since his voice also was weak from lack of use, he spoke the passage aloud as he exercised until he was too tired to do more.

Shakespeare. He’d studied the Bard and also performed in plays at the homes of friends. Always he was chosen as one of the leads and he learned his speeches easily. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day …”

No, not Macbeth, not here and now. What did he remember from Twelfth Night? Yes, that was a much better choice. “If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting; The appetite might sicken, and so die.” He liked to sing and had a decent voice, so he could sing as much as he wanted to. Good for the soul and for maintaining his ability to speak.

He must keep track of time, no longer letting the days slide by mindlessly. When he’d dropped the chair stone, a small piece had chipped off. He would designate today as August 15, 1803. Using the stone chip, he scratched that on a head-high stone near the door. Every day would be marked off with a scratch.

He could hear church bells from the village. Careful listening would tell him what days were Sundays, and he should be able to determine major holidays.

From now on, his life would have purpose. He might never have a chance to free himself. But if an opportunity was presented, no matter how small, he’d be ready.

Gradually, Grey’s weakened body began to strengthen. So did his mind. He was amazed at how much he remembered of his lessons. He’d always enjoyed reading, so each day he chose a book from his mental library and recalled as much of it as possible.

He didn’t talk aloud to himself because doing so made him feel too close to the madmen he’d seen when one of his more rattle-pated friends had taken him to Bedlam Hospital. The friend thought watching deranged patients amusing. Grey had found it deeply disquieting. The memory of those tormented souls haunted him still, especially on those days when he wondered if he was descending into madness.

But an unexpected blessing appeared not long after Durand’s visit. Though he didn’t talk aloud, he had no compunctions about singing. Every day he sang several songs, and he enjoyed both the music and the way his voice was returning to normal after three months of disuse.

He’d just finished a rousing rendition of an English drinking song when a young female voice whispered in French from the slit window above, “Bonjour, monsieur. Is it true that you are an English milord?”

Grey leaped to his feet in excitement. Another human! And a female at that. “I was once, mamselle, but now I am a prisoner, of no importance.”

The girl giggled. “A real milord! I’ve never met a goddam. How did you come to be here?”

“I misbehaved,” he said solemnly. She giggled again and they had a brief conversation through the window, which was a foot or so above ground level. She was a castle maid and called herself Nicolette, though he suspected it wasn’t her real name.

She couldn’t stay long because the housekeeper was a dragon and Nicolette feared for her position if she was caught. But after that she visited once or twice a week, often with one of her friends.

Some of the girls were deliciously scandalized at the chance to talk to an imprisoned English milord. Nicolette was a kind girl with some interest in Grey as an individual. Occasionally she dropped an apple or other fruit between the bars. He devoured her offerings, amazed that he’d ever taken apples for granted.

Nicolette told him of her sweetheart and bid him a fond farewell when she left the castle to marry. He gave her his blessing, for he had nothing else to give.

None of the other maids visited as much, but he still had occasional visitors. For a time there was a boisterous young ostler from the stables who taught Grey highly obscene French drinking songs until the man was fired for drunkenness.

Grey treasured those moments of normality. They helped keep him sane.

Chapter 7

France, 1813

Madame Leroux was right, and Cassie did a brisk business at the small market in the village square. She rather enjoyed being a peddler. Since she didn’t depend on selling to support herself, she could be flexible on prices. It was a pleasure to be able to sell a pretty ribbon to a girl who had never owned anything pretty.

The thieves’ oil was popular, too. With winter illnesses rampant, buyers would try anything that might help. Customers were also interested in news, as isolated villagers always were. Yes, the news from Russia was bad, but the emperor had escaped safely, and wouldn’t this length of lace look lovely on your daughter’s wedding dress?

By noon there were no more customers, so it was time for the castle. Cassie ate a bowl of thick bean soup at La Liberté, thanked Madame Leroux for her help, and left St. Just du Sarthe. Instead of heading for the next village, she drove up to the castle. The narrow road was bleak and windy, and the castle was equally bleak when she reached it.

The castle proper was surrounded by a looming wall that had never been mined for stone. The massive gates stood open so people and vehicles could come and go easily, but the gates looked as if they could still be closed in an emergency.

She drove through the gates unchallenged. The walls cut the bitter wind once she was inside. Not seeing anyone, she drove around to the back of the castle and left pony and cart within the shelter of the mostly empty stables. Then she slung her peddler’s bag over one shoulder and went hunting for the entrance to the servants’ area.

After two locked doors, she found one that opened under her hand into a short passage leading into the castle kitchen. The long room was warm and there were pleasant smells, but there was no one in sight. Cassie called, “Hallooo! Is anyone here?”

A hoarse woman’s voice replied, “What do you want?”

A heavy-set woman pulled herself from a wooden chair by the fire and limped toward Cassie. Her round face looked designed for smiles, but she was wrapped in shawls and coughed every few steps.

“I’m Madame Renard, a peddler, and I see that you’re a candidate for some of my throat lozenges. Here, a sample.” Cassie fished a packet of honey and lemon lozenges from her bag. They tasted good and did help soothe a cough.

“Don’t mind if I do.” The woman removed a lozenge from the packet, then sank onto a bench. “Merci. I’m the cook, Madame Bertin.”

“I was told most of the people here at the castle were ill.” Cassie glanced around the kitchen. A pot hung on the hob by a fire that had burned down to embers. “You look like you could use some help. Shall I build up the fire for you?”

“I’d be most grateful,” the cook said. “There’s chicken broth in the pot there. Could you get me some?” She coughed wrenchingly. “Everyone is sick in bed, can’t even manage stairs. I’ve got hot food for anyone who wants it, but no one has made it this far and ’tisn’t my job to wait on other servants.” More coughing.

“I hope no one is dangerously ill?” A ladle hung by the fire, so Cassie scooped warm broth into a porringer on a nearby table.

“The housekeeper died early on, but she was old and sickly already. I don’t think anyone else is in mortal peril, but this winter’s influenza makes a body weak as a kitten for days.” Madame Bertin sipped the hot broth appreciatively. “I kept the fire from dying and managed to make this broth, but now I’m too tired for anything else.”

Seeing an opportunity, Cassie asked, “Would you be willing to pay a bit for some help, madame? I could carry trays of bread and broth to the servants who are ill, and perhaps do some chores around the kitchen.”

“’Twould be a real blessing. Let’s see, who lives in …” The cook thought. “There are six maids in the attics and two men in the stables. The stairs are just through that door, but it’s five long flights of steps to the attic. Can you manage that much?”

“I’m spryer than I look. I’ll be happy to help out. When people are ill, they need something warm.” She stirred the broth with the ladle. “And I’ll be glad to earn a few coins, too. Where do you keep the bread? Cheese would also be good. Strengthening.”

“The pantry is there.” Madame Bertin pointed. “A good thing Citoyen Durand isn’t here. He’d be raging and whipping people to do their jobs even if they’re too ill to stand. But what is going to happen in a quiet place like this in the dead of winter? We can all rest a day or two until we’re ready to work again.”

“Fortunate,” Cassie agreed. She filled mugs, cut bread and cheese, and carried a tray out to the stables, where she was gratefully received. After returning to the kitchen, she prepared more trays for the maids. With six of them, she needed to make two trips up the narrow stone stairs. No wonder Madame Bertin hadn’t even tried.

As the cook said, no one seemed at death’s door, but all the servants lay limp in their beds, weak, tired, and very glad for sustenance. Cassie made a silent prayer that the thieves’ oil would protect her. Becoming that ill while traveling would be very bad.

She returned to the kitchen, where the cook was drowsing in her chair by the fire. Cassie tucked a knee robe around her. The time had come to learn if there really was a dungeon with prisoners. “Is there anyone else I should take food to?”

Madame Bertin frowned. “There are the guards and the prisoners in the dungeon. The head jailer, Gaspard, usually sends a man up for food, but one is ill, Gaspard is off somewhere, and the one there now wouldn’t dare leave his post.”

“So the guard and the prisoners need feeding? How many prisoners are there?”

“Only two. With everyone ill, they’re being neglected.” The cook crossed herself. “One of the prisoners is a priest. ’Tis very wrong to lock up a priest, but Durand would be enraged at the impertinence if anyone told him so.”

“Shocking!” Cassie agreed. “What is the other prisoner?”

“They say he’s an English lord, though I’ve never seen him, so I can’t say for sure.” She shook her head sadly. “No doubt an Englishman deserves a dungeon, but surely not the priest. He is old and frail and needs hot food in this weather.”

“I’ll take food down to all of them.” Cassie started to assemble a tray. “You say you’ve never seen the prisoners. They are never brought up for exercise in the yard?”

“Oh, no. Citoyen Durand is very strict about his prisoners. They are never released from their cells, and the guards never enter. Food is put through a slot.” Madame Bertin crossed herself again. “The poor devils must be half mad by now.”

Cassie’s lips tightened as she prepared the food. After ten years of uncertainty, Kirkland’s search might be about to end. But his long-lost friend might be broken beyond any chance of mending.

Chapter 8

Castle Durand, 1805

Grey regarded the sparrow that perched on his sill. “Enter, Monsieur L’Oiseau. I’ve kept a bit of bread for you. I hope you appreciate what a sacrifice this is.” The bird cocked its head, undecided, so Grey whistled his best imitation of sparrow song. Reassured, it glided from the sill to the floor and pecked at the bit of bread Grey had saved.

He enjoyed talking to the birds. They never contradicted, and he was amused by their saucy willingness to approach. “Cupboard love,” he murmured, tossing another crumb. “Not so very different from being an eligible prize in the marriage mart.”

He’d been old enough to experience some of that in London before his disastrous decision to visit Paris. Kirkland and Ashton, who paid more attention to politics, had both warned him to keep his trip short since peace wouldn’t last, but he’d characteristically brushed them off. He was the golden boy, heir to Costain, to whom nothing evil could happen.

Two years later, here he was, slowly going mad with boredom and grateful for the fleeting companionship of a sparrow. But at least he was stronger and more fit than before, and his singing voice had improved.

He tossed another crumb. The sparrow seized it, then cocked its head for a moment before flying up and out the window. Grey watched the bird leave with an envy so deep that it was pain. Oh, to be able to fly free! He’d wing his way over the channel and home to the beautiful hills and fields of Summerhill.

Since his company had left, he rose and began running in place, calling up images of his childhood home. Those had been happy days at Summerhill, which was blessed with a mild south coast climate. Fertile fields and plump, happy livestock. He’d loved riding the estate with his father, learning the ways of a farmer without even thinking about it. His father had been a good teacher, challenging his heir’s mind and curiosity.

The earl had also talked government and the House of Lords and what would someday be expected of Grey when he became the Earl of Costain. But that had been unimaginably far in the future. His parents were young and vigorous, and Grey would have many years to sow wild oats before it would be time to settle down.

Which was the attitude that had led him here. Tiring, Grey slowed his pace to a walk before settling on his rocky chair. He placed it so that the sunshine would fall on him. What subject would he contemplate today? Natural history, he decided. He would try to recall every bird he’d ever seen in Dorsetshire.

His list had reached twenty-three when he heard sounds in the passage. It was too early for dinner. He stared at the door, wondering if Durand was paying one of his brief visits. The minister no longer taunted his captive face-to-face, not since Grey had thrown his captor to the floor and almost inflicted lethal damage.

He’d have succeeded if Durand hadn’t had a guard with him. Grey had been beaten savagely, but it had been worth it. Since then, Durand contented himself with sneering through the window in the door. The coward.

Grey prepared himself for whatever might come, but the steps stopped short of his cell. Snarling voices, a bang of the cell door next to his. Then retreating footsteps and a return to silence. Good God, could there really be another prisoner only a wall away? If only Grey could speak to him!

But the wall was too thick for sound to penetrate. Perhaps it was possible to stand at the door and shout, but the door was also thick and its two openings were covered from the outside. If Grey shouted, he would attract the evil attentions of Gaspard long before he could make himself understood by the new prisoner.

He paced the common wall restlessly, running his hands over the solid surface. If only there was some way to communicate! He wanted to howl with frustration.

He dropped to the floor, his back against the common wall, fighting the temptation to bang his head against the stone. And heard a voice, soft and low and regular. He froze, wondering if he really was losing his mind.

No! The sound came from the sewer hole in the corner of his cell. With rising excitement, he knelt beside it and listened. Yes! The words were clear now. Latin. A prayer? The cell next to him must have a similar hole that joined with his and allowed wastes to fall into some subterranean hole.

Frantic with hope, he called, “Monsieur! Monsieur, can you hear me?”

The Latin stopped and a soft, cultured voice said in French, “I can. You are another prisoner?”

“Yes! In the next cell!” Grey swallowed hard, fearing he might dissolve into tears. “My name is Grey Sommers and I’m English. I’ve been here over two years. Who are you?”

“Laurent Saville. I’m called Père Laurent.”

Father Lawrence? “You’re a priest?”

“I am.” A note of dryness entered the calm voice. “My crime has been to love God more than the emperor. And you?”

“Durand …” Grey hesitated, uncomfortable with admitting his sins to a priest. But priests were supposed to be forgiving, weren’t they? “Durand found me with his wife.”

“And you live?” Laurent said in amazement.

“He thought death too merciful.” Grey’s words tumbled over each other. “Tell me about yourself. Where are you from? Where have you studied, what subjects do you know? Please, talk, anything!” Fists clenched, he forced himself to stop. “I’m sorry. It has been so long since I’ve had a normal conversation with another man.”

The low chuckle was deeply soothing. “I was born and raised near here. We will have all the time we need, I’m sure. Tell me what life is like in Durand’s dungeon.”

The priest was right. They had plenty of time to talk. Till one of them died.

Though Grey valued the occasional exchanges with the servants, having a regular companion made a huge difference. And he couldn’t have done better than Père Laurent, who was kind and wise and learned, and as willing to share his knowledge as Grey was to learn it. Sometimes they sang together.

The food improved, too. Grey guessed that someone up in the kitchen was a good Catholic who thought a priest deserved to eat decently, and Grey benefited by that.

Laurent was older, his health more fragile. One terrible winter, he seemed on the verge of dying from lung fever. That was when Grey learned to pray.

Father Laurent survived. And together, they kept each other sane.

Chapter 9

France, 1813

Since the guard and prisoners weren’t known to be ill, Madame Bertin provided a hearty sausage stew rather than broth. Carrying three meals, Cassie carefully descended the treacherous stone steps. She didn’t want to break her neck when she was so close to an answer.

The stairs ended in a short corridor with a door at the other end. A locked door. Since her hands weren’t free, Cassie kicked the door. “Monsieur? I have your dinner!”

A key rattled in the lock and the door was opened swiftly by a burly man. “Come in, come in! I was wondering if I’d been forgotten.” Getting a look at her, he said suspiciously, “I don’t know you.”

“Everyone else is ill with the influenza so I’m helping out,” Cassie explained. “Shall I put the tray on your table?”

The guard nodded and stepped back, relaxing when he saw that his visitor seemed to be a fragile old lady. “Gaspard will be back soon, but we’re under orders to never leave the prisoners unguarded, so I couldn’t come up to the kitchen.”

It said much for Durand’s temper that he was obeyed even when he was a hundred miles away and his guard was hungry. As she set the tray on the end of the table, she surreptitiously studied the guardroom. There were several chairs and cards on the other end of the desk, where the guard had been playing some form of solitaire. This job must be insanely boring.

As soon as Cassie set a steaming bowl down, the guard sat and dug into the stew. She poured wine from the decanter she’d brought. “I have meals for the prisoners as well. Are they through that door?”

The guard nodded and slurped some wine. “The cells are there, but don’t worry. Leave the tray and I’ll take their food in after I’ve eaten.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If there’s any left after I eat! I’m that hungry, I am.”

So if he was feeling greedy, the prisoners would starve? Concealing her anger, she said amiably, “If you need more food for them, I’ll bring it down when I come back for the bowls. And maybe a little more wine for you, eh?”

The guard gave her a gap-toothed smile. “You understand what a man needs, grandmère.” He ripped off a piece of the bread and dipped it into the stew.

A ring of keys hung from a nail by the door that led to the cells. Though Kirkland had sent Cassie only to verify his information, there would never be a better chance to free Wyndham if he was here. Even if he wasn’t, Cassie would release any other poor devil languishing in this hellhole.

The guard was paying no attention to her, so Cassie stepped behind him and applied hard pressure to two carefully chosen spots in his thick neck.

“Merde!” As the blood flow was cut off, the guard jerked and started a protest, then slumped forward into his dinner. Cassie maintained the pressure long enough to ensure that he was thoroughly unconscious.

After releasing the hold, she efficiently bound his wrists and ankles and gagged him. Another moment to stow him behind the desk so he wouldn’t be immediately visible if anyone entered, and then she snatched up the key ring. If Gaspard was going to be back soon, she needed to move fast.

It took a few moments to find the right key. The door swung open, and she was almost flattened by the stench in the passage on the other side. Dear God, what was it like to go ten years without a bath?

Trying to ignore the rank scent of unwashed bodies, she headed down the ill-lit passage. The right wall was plain stone; the left had four doors. Her nose confirmed that the occupied cells were at the far end. Which one held the man she sought?

As she paused, she heard the sound of a male voice behind the last door. She blinked. He was singing! He had a fine baritone.

She listened to the words, and smiled involuntarily when she realized that he was singing a French song so scurrilous that even she didn’t know all the obscenities. Probably not the priest, then.

Now to find out if it was Wyndham. Hoping to God he hadn’t been driven mad, she found a likely key and attempted to open the cell on the far end. It took three attempts to find the right key. She opened the door and found herself face-to-face with a monster from a nightmare with filthy hair and beard falling over ragged garments.

They both froze in shock, staring at each other. Was this Kirkland’s golden boy? The prisoner was broad shouldered and gaunt as a starving wolf. Hard to tell what color his hair was under the filth. Not really dark, but certainly not blond. His only distinctive feature was startlingly intense dark-ringed gray eyes.

The moment of surprise ended—and he launched himself at her with murder in his crazed gray eyes.

Chapter 10

In a world of endless monotony, even small changes were instantly noticeable. Grey was running in place when a key in the lock brought him instantly alert. The door hadn’t been opened since the time he’d come close to killing Durand. Ever since, Durand had spoken through the little window when he came to taunt Grey with stories of great French victories and predictions of the imminent defeat of the British.

But if Durand or Gaspard were visiting, they would know what key to use. A guard? No one else was allowed down here. Grey approached the door, every muscle in his body taut. Beside the door were ten years’ worth of neat scratches to mark the days. Thousands of marks measuring endless days. If there was even the remotest chance he could escape, he’d attack.

The door swung open to reveal a woman. The shock temporarily paralyzed him. Dear God, a woman, the first he’d seen in ten years! She was old and drab and forgettable, but unquestionably female. The sheer wonder of that held him immobile.

He recovered from his surprise when he realized this was his chance to escape this damnable cell. She’d never be able to stop him, especially since she didn’t even hold a weapon. He charged toward her.

He was grabbing for the keys when she tripped him, caught his outstretched arm, and used his own speed to sling him to the floor with his arm twisted agonizingly high behind his back. He lay on his belly gasping. Years of constant exercise and an old woman could flatten him?

“Are you Lord Wyndham?” she asked in a swift, low voice. “I come from Kirkland to help you.”

She spoke in English. It was so long since he’d heard the language that it took him a long moment to interpret the words. Wyndham. Kirkland. Help?

She said in French, “So you’re not Wyndham. No matter, if you want to escape, I’ll help you if you promise not to attack me again.”

He replied in the same language, “I am Wyndham. Haven’t spoken English in years. Wasn’t attacking you, just trying to escape. Let me up?”

She released his arm. He scrambled to his feet, feasting his eyes on the sight of another human being. Better yet, a clean, normal woman. He impulsively wrapped his arms around her and crushed her warm body into an embrace, his heart pounding.

She swore and shoved at him.

“Please,” he said, his voice shaking. “I’ve been so … so hungry for touch. Only a moment. Please!”

She relaxed and let him hold her. Dear God, she felt good! A warm, breathing woman with a sweet old-lady scent of lavender that made him think of his grandmother. He never wanted to let her go.

After too short a time, she pushed away. “Enough,” she said, her voice compassionate. “We must leave. Almost everyone in the castle is ill with influenza, so I think we can walk right out if we’re careful. I have a pony cart where you can hide till we’re away. Do you have anything to take with you?”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Not a single damned thing except for Père Laurent in the next cell.” He took the keys from her and began fumbling through them.

“Try this.” She touched a key. “It’s similar to the one that opened your cell. Can the priest move quickly?”

“He’s been ill. I don’t know how much longer he’ll last in this beastly place.”

The woman frowned. “That could jeopardize our escape.”

“I’m not leaving without him,” Grey said flatly as he slid the key into the lock.

“Very well, then.” The woman might be old and drab, but she knew when not to waste time arguing.

Grey’s hands were shaking as he tried to unlock the door. Such a simple action, yet deeply unreal after ten years when he had done nothing so simple and normal. But the cold iron key was solid in his hand, and that throw to the floor had been very real.

“Who are you?” he asked as he jiggled the key in the stiff lock.

She shrugged. “I have had many names. Call me Cassie or Renard.”

Cassie the Fox. Given that she’d managed to enter the castle and release him, it was a good name for her.

The door swung open and Grey finally met the man who knew him better than anyone else in the world. Laurent was lying on his pallet. On the stone wall above his head an irregular brown cross had been drawn in blood. The priest’s personal shrine.

Père Laurent levered himself up on one arm as the door opened. He was thin, white haired, and ragged, but Grey would have known him anywhere by the calm wisdom in his face.

“Grey.” The priest smiled luminously as he stretched out a hand. “At last we meet in person.”

“Meet and escape, courtesy of this lady here.” Grey took his friend’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “We must move quickly. Can you manage?”

The priest swayed and would have fallen without Grey’s support. He exhaled roughly. “I fear not. You must go without me. Better you escape than all of us be captured.”

“No!” Grey slid his arm around Laurent’s waist. The older man was just skin and bones, seeming so fragile that he might break, but once again, human touch was a pleasure deeper than words could describe. “I leave with you or not at all.”

Cassie frowned. “Père Laurent is right. We must escape from the castle, avoid pursuit across France, and travel back to England. The good father doesn’t look as if he can climb the stairs.”

“I’ll carry him!” Grey spat out.

“He is very stubborn,” the priest said mildly to Cassie. “But if we can get away from the castle, I can be left safely with a niece while you two run for your lives.”

“Very well.” Her eyes were worried. “But we must move quickly. Sergeant Gaspard could return at any moment.”

As Père Laurent reached out and touched the blood cross in a gesture of farewell, Grey hissed under his breath, “I hope the devil does return.”

Luckily Cassie the Fox didn’t hear him.

Chapter 11

Cassie’s instincts were screaming that they must move faster as she led the way down the passage, and those instincts had saved her life several times over. But with Wyndham half carrying the priest, they moved slowly. She wondered if he’d be strong enough to carry Père Laurent up the stairs after years of abuse and inadequate food.

Her unease spiked when she heard irregular footsteps ahead. At a guess, a man descending to the guardroom. “Someone’s coming,” she said in a low voice.

She was reaching for her concealed knife when Wyndham said with icy menace, “Gaspard. That’s the sound of his peg leg. Here, take Père Laurent.”

Wyndham caught up with Cassie and transferred the priest’s weight. She automatically took Père Laurent’s other arm so he wouldn’t fall. Which meant her knife hand wasn’t free.

Before she could protest, Wyndham swept past her with an expression so savage she was stunned to silence. He moved like a wild beast that had been released from a cage, his loping stride taking him to the guardroom in seconds.

The peg-legged man appeared in the door at the bottom of the stairs. His jaw dropped as he saw a prisoner racing toward him. “Merde!”

Snarling curses, Gaspard pulled a pistol from his greatcoat. Before he could cock and aim the weapon, Wyndham was on him with a growl that was barely human.

There was an audible snap as Wyndham broke Gaspard’s neck. The sergeant dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The end had come so quickly it couldn’t even be called a fight.

Cassie must have made some sound because Père Laurent said quietly, “I am not a violent man. But I will say that Gaspard got less than he deserved.”

Reminding herself that Wyndham would have learned Hindu fighting skills at the Westerfield Academy, Cassie swallowed her shock. But as she supported the priest along the last stretch of the passage, she wondered if she’d released a mad wolf to run wild.

By the time they reached the guardroom, Wyndham had pulled the dead man out of the stairwell and was rapidly stripping off his clothing. “Père Laurent, these garments will keep you warmer,” he said tersely.

A practical man, Wyndham. Cassie said, “I put the guard behind the desk. He should still be unconscious. He’s taller so his clothing would be a better fit for you. Just don’t kill him, please.”

Wyndham piled Gaspard’s garments on the chair, then pulled out the still-limp guard. “You do good work,” he said with approval. “First I’ll help Père Laurent dress.”

Cassie could understand that an aging priest might not want a woman’s aid. She bent over the guard and released his bonds so she could undress him.

He was starting to stir, so she knocked him out again. She was careful not to cut the blood flow so long that his mind would be damaged. She did her best to avoid hurting or killing anyone without a good reason.

He was heavy, but Cassie was a lot stronger than she looked. By the time she had the garments off, the priest was dressed and sitting at the table gulping down a bowl of stew. As she poured wine for him, he said apologetically, “We weren’t fed since yesterday morning.”

“Almost everyone in the castle is ill,” Cassie explained. “I volunteered to take trays around, which is how I was able to find you.”

“I suppose Grey and I must be thankful that no one ever came near us, which seems to have spared us the illness.” Laurent wiped up the last of the stew with a piece of bread. “Le bon Dieu works in mysterious ways.”

Cassie had seen plenty of evidence of that, including the fact that the deity seemed to have a wicked sense of humor. She asked, “Grey?”

“My Christian name is Greydon Sommers,” Wyndham said tersely. “I haven’t felt much like a courtesy viscount in quite some time, so I prefer you call me Grey.”

She understood that very well indeed. She poured the last of the wine into a glass for Grey, careful to keep her gaze averted as he pulled off his ragged garments. The worn, thin fabric would have been transparent if not for the layers of dirt.

“Ready,” he said.

She turned and saw that the guard’s clothes were loose enough to go around his waist twice but the height was close and the outfit was clean and warm compared to his old clothing. If not for the matted tangle of hair and beard falling halfway to his waist, he would look normal. Except for the chancy light in his gray eyes.

“I’ll head out and bring my pony cart to the entrance,” she said. “There’s a landing at the top of the steps. Wait there until I come for you. I’m hoping we can get away without being seen.”

Wyndham lifted a bowl of stew and began scooping it out with his bare fingers like a jungle savage. “The cart will take a few minutes, so I’ll eat first.”

“Just don’t delay our departure.” She headed up the stairs, her steps quick. She hoped the men wouldn’t gulp down the food so quickly they’d become ill.

On the landing at the top of the steps, Cassie opened the door and peered out cautiously. Silence. She headed toward the back door, walking softly. She had to pass through one end of the kitchen to get outside. Madame Bertin was at the far end, snoring audibly in her chair by the fire.

Hoping that would last, Cassie left the castle and crossed the yard to the stables. The wind was sharper and even more bitter than when she’d arrived. There was a storm coming; she could feel it in the air.

Her pony waited patiently, having finished the hay Cassie had appropriated from the stable supply. She pulled off the pony’s rug. It was warm and smelled horsy, but that was a minor issue compared to how the prisoners smelled.

She’d had the cart built with a false bottom capable of carrying useful cargo, and people when necessary. It was reached by a panel that opened along the side. She tossed the rug in. The compartment wasn’t comfortable, but there was clean straw and the horse blanket would add warmth and cushioning. It was big enough for two men, barely.

After driving across the courtyard, she tethered the pony by the back door and went inside again. Madame Bertin still snored.

Wyndham—Grey—and the priest waited on the landing at the top of the stairs, the priest supported by his younger friend. She touched a finger to her lips in a gesture for silence.

Père Laurent looked as if he’d never make it to the cart without collapsing. She bit her lip but needn’t have worried. Grey scooped the old man up as if he weighed nothing and carried him quickly and silently across the kitchen. It was like a Restoration farce, with characters tiptoeing across the stage unseen.

Wondering how Grey had maintained so much strength under prison conditions, Cassie opened the outside door and looked around. The courtyard was still empty. Giving thanks for cold winds and influenza, she held the door open so Grey could carry the priest out.

He stepped outdoors—and froze, his gaze riveted upward. A rapid pulse beat in his throat. He whispered, “I never thought I’d see the open sky again.”

“It’s been here waiting for you.” She lifted the panel that opened the false bottom. “And the sooner we leave, the better the chances that you’ll be able to enjoy it for a long time to come.”

Grey stared at the compartment. He looked like a skittish colt ready to bolt. Guessing the problem, she said, “I know the quarters are tight, but it’s needful.”

He drew a ragged breath, steeling himself. Then he carefully laid his friend in the compartment. The priest said to Cassie in a thin voice, “Take the main road south from the village. That is the direction to my niece’s farm.”

“Very well. When we’re safe away, you can give me more detailed instructions.” She glanced at Grey. “Your turn. Does it help to know that you won’t be locked in? The compartment can be unlatched from the inside.”

“That does help,” he said tersely before climbing into the compartment. “I always thought I’d leave this place in a bloody coffin,” he muttered. “Seems I was right.”

She almost laughed. It appeared he’d retained some sense of humor, so there was hope for the man. “This coffin has fresh air, and it won’t be for long.”

Cassie latched the long door and swung up onto the seat. The first flakes of snow were drifting softly down as she set the cart in motion.

She drove out the castle gates, hoping they’d find shelter before the snow became serious. And that the priest’s niece was still alive, well, and would welcome them as he believed.

Stage one, the rescue from the castle, was successful.

Now came the hard part.

Chapter 12

Grey and Laurent slid a little toward the front of the cart as it rattled down the hill from Castle Durand. Still no shouts of pursuit, no gunshots. How long until their absence was discovered? A few hours, perhaps as much as a day.

Père Laurent murmured, “I didn’t believe I would leave that place alive.”

“Neither did I. Much less that I’d be rescued by Cassie the Fox.”

“That is her name? It suits her. She’s clever like a fox.”

That she was. Grey hoped that Cassie the Fox would continue to be as competent as she’d been so far. The way she’d knocked out and immobilized the guard was impressive. He closed his eyes so he couldn’t see how cramped this compartment was. It would be embarrassing to fall apart now that he was finally free.

He was grateful when the cart stopped. Sounds of rummaging above their heads, then Cassie opened the side panel. Her dark cloak was frosted with snowflakes.

Grey slid out with relief. Snow was starting to accumulate on the iron-hard ground and more was falling. Weather. Actual weather! Not just watching the light change beyond his tiny window.

As Grey helped his friend from the compartment, Cassie said, “I’ll need your guidance now, Père Laurent. This has the feel of heavy snow coming and I’d like to find shelter before the roads become impassable. If your niece is too far away, we need to look for an isolated barn to wait out the storm.”

Laurent gazed at the horizon, where the blurred shape of Castle Durand was still visible through the falling snow. “From where we are now, we should be able to reach Viole’s farm before the roads become difficult. She married a foreigner.” He gave a fleeting smile. “A man who lives more than half an hour’s ride away. Romain Boyer’s farm is a prosperous little place hidden well back in the hills.”

“If something has happened to your niece, will her husband also welcome us?” Cassie asked. “Much has changed in France in recent years.”

“We will find shelter there,” Laurent said confidently. “I must ride beside you, Cassie the Fox. The way is confusing and I will have to guide you.”

“Very well.” Cassie lifted a pair of scissors she’d been holding by her side. “But first I’ll trim your hair and beard so you’ll look less conspicuous.”

She began clipping efficiently at Laurent’s thin white hair. After she’d cut away the tangles that fell over his shoulders, he changed from a wild-eyed hermit into a shabby old man who wouldn’t draw a second glance.

When she finished, Grey lifted his friend up into the driver’s seat and bundled the horse blanket around him. To Cassie, he said, “My turn. If you give me the scissors, I’ll do the cutting myself so we can get moving without more delay.”

“You’d have trouble with the back.” She began cutting below his left ear. His hair was much thicker than Père Laurent’s, so she took it in chunks. She was taller than he’d realized, average or a bit above. “This will only take a couple of minutes.”

He stood still despite the closeness of the sharp blades. If he could shave his head and face completely bald, he’d be willing, just to get rid of the horrible, filthy mass of hair. During the years of imprisonment, he sometimes whiled away time by breaking off individual hairs. If he hadn’t done that, the tangled mess would be past his waist.

Despite all the knots, she managed to quickly cut his hair so that it was above his shoulders, then did a beard trim. She’d left enough hair to keep his head from freezing, but removing the weight made him feel lighter and freer. Not cleaner, but that would come.

It felt strange to be so close to a female again. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and kiss her horizontal. He was embarrassed by his intense reaction to a woman older than his mother. Dear God, how long until he could find himself a willing wench?

Forcing down lustful thoughts, he stared into the snow. He might no longer be a gentleman, but at least he had enough self-control not to behave like a beast with the woman who had risked her life to save him. At least, he hoped he did.

“There.” She finished trimming his beard a couple of inches below his chin, then bent to scoop up the handfuls of fallen hair. “Mustn’t show our direction by leaving a trail of hair.” She balled up the greasy locks and stuffed them into a corner of the cart. “Time to get back inside so we can be on our way.”

“No!” The word ripped out of him. “I can’t bear being closed up. There’s almost no traffic in this weather. I’ll lie in the back of the cart under the canvas cover.”

She studied his face. Her eyes were blue and shrewd and contained unexpected depths. “Very well,” she said. “Be sure to stay hidden if we pass other carts or riders.”

Thank God she was a sensible woman. Sighing with relief, he flipped back the canvas and climbed up into the cart. Given how she’d brought down both him and that great burly guard, best not to cross her. He’d had no idea how dangerous little old ladies could be. Well, there was his grandmother, the dowager Countess of Costain, but her weapons were words. With a pang, he wondered if she was still alive.

He settled in among the boxes and baskets. The space was more cramped than the lower compartment and the corner of a box stuck into his side, but he didn’t care as long as he was in the open air.

A homey equine scent wafted back from Père Laurent’s horse blanket. Grey didn’t mind. He’d always loved riding. What would it be like to be on a horse again?

He’d probably fall off. How much of his life would have to be relearned?

The thought made him sweat despite the cold. He must proceed one step at a time. For now, it was enough that he was no longer a prisoner.

Surrendering to fatigue, he slept as a free man for the first time in ten years.

Cassie’s mouth tightened as the snow became heavier. It was more than three inches deep and concealed the frozen ruts, making the ride a bumpy one. She’d slept in her cart before in bad weather, and even ridden out a blizzard once, grateful for the warmth of her pony. But she’d rather not have to do that with two men, one of them in fragile health.

The weather did have the advantage of keeping people indoors. Once a hunched rider passed them going the opposite direction, and another time she halted the cart while a farmer drove a small flock of sheep across the road. He ignored the cart and its occupants as if they were invisible.

Afternoon turned to dusk and the snow became deep enough to slow their progress. If they didn’t reach their destination soon, they risked being bogged down in the empty countryside.

It was almost dark when Père Laurent said, “Turn left into that lane. It leads to Viole’s farm.”

Praying that farm and niece would be as he believed, she turned at his direction. The area was indeed out of the way. They should be safe here, at least for a while.

The track climbed upward and the pony began foundering in the slippery snow. Cassie halted the cart and handed the reins to Père Laurent. “Please hold these.”

She climbed from the cart and went to the pony’s head. Taking the bridle, she tugged the pony forward. “I’m sorry for this, Thistle,” she crooned. “You’re such a strong, brave pony. Soon you can rest and I’ll give you some of the oats in the back of the cart. Just a little longer, ma petite chou.”

Head down, the pony struggled forward again. At first the cart barely moved. Then it began rolling smoothly, reducing the strain on Thistle. Surprised, Cassie glanced back and saw that Grey had climbed out and was pushing the cart from behind. The man was strong. And for a British lord, fairly useful.

The last stretch of track seemed endless. Cassie was numb with cold and slipped repeatedly. She was exhausted, not just from the trials of today but because she’d been pushing herself since leaving England. She kept moving, one foot in front of the other, clinging to the pony’s harness. She’d learned early that surrender was a poor choice.

She didn’t notice that the track had leveled off until Père Laurent said, “We’re here.” His voice was warm. “It looks just as I remember.”

Cassie wondered tartly if that had also been in the middle of a blizzard. She couldn’t see the farmhouse clearly, but smoke came from the nearest chimney and there was light visible through the windows. Even if the priest’s niece, Viole, wasn’t here anymore, surely the inhabitants wouldn’t turn away strangers caught in such a storm.

Shivering, Cassie made her way to the door and knocked hard. Only a moment passed before the door opened a crack, revealing the face of a wary middle-aged woman. She relaxed a little to see another female on the doorstep. “Who are you?”

“I’m Madame Renard. There are three of us, and we need shelter from the storm.” When the woman nodded, Cassie continued, “If you are Madame Boyer, do you have an Uncle Laurent?”

The woman’s face clouded and she crossed herself. “I did, may God rest his blessed soul.”

A weary but amused voice said, “Reports of my death were exaggerated, my dearest Viole.”

Cassie turned and saw the dark figure of Père Laurent emerging from the cart, supported by Grey. Viole Boyer stared in disbelief. “Mon oncle!”

She threw the door open and raced out into the snow and embraced the priest. If not for Grey’s support, she and her uncle would have tumbled to the ground.

Père Laurent didn’t mind. Tears on his face and in his voice, he said hoarsely, “My darling niece, I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

The wind gusted, cutting to the bone. Cassie pointed out, “This reunion will be even better indoors.”

“Oui, oui!” Madame Boyer took her uncle’s arm and led him to the house.

Cassie asked, “Is there a stable for my pony?”

A broadly built man who must be Romain Boyer appeared, drawn by the commotion. “Père Laurent, it really is you!” After a brief, intense clasp of the old man’s hand, he said to Cassie, “I’ll take your pony to the stable and bed it down, madame. You and your companions need to warm yourselves by the fire.”

Ordinarily Cassie would have seen to her horse herself, but this evening she was willing to turn Thistle over to someone else. “There are oats in the back of the cart,” she said wearily. “Thistle has earned them.”

“Indeed she has.” Romain Boyer moved into the storm and took hold of the pony’s bridle. “I promise she’ll be well cared for.”

The door opened into a large, warm kitchen with bunches of herbs and braids of garlic and onions hanging from the rafters. A fire burned on the hearth and the warmth almost knocked Cassie out. She stood, swaying, too tired to think.

A young girl and a smaller boy appeared. Seeing Cassie’s condition, Madame Boyer said, “You need rest, Madame Renard.” To her daughter, she said, “Light the fire and warm the extra bed in your room. This lady has brought my uncle home to us!” She turned to her son. “Fill three porringers with hot soup, André.”

To Cassie, she said, “Give me your cloak. I’ll dry it by the fire. Please, all three of you, sit before you fall over!”

Cassie was used to taking care of people in her charge as well as horses, but she let herself be ushered to a chair by the fire. Père Laurent sat on her right, and Grey withdrew to the corner, as far from all the chattering people as possible.

André ladled steaming soup from a pot on the hob into a wooden porringer, then hesitated, unsure whether to serve the lady or the priest first. Cassie gestured toward Père Laurent. “A priest has precedence over a female peddler.”

Glad to have that clarified, the boy handed the porringer to his great-uncle, then filled another and handed it to Cassie. She cupped it in her hands, her fingers tingling uncomfortably as they warmed. She was just finishing the soup when the young girl returned. “I am Yvette. Come, madame. Your bed is warmed and ready.”

“Merci.” Cassie set down the empty porringer and followed the girl from the warm kitchen, down a cold, drafty corridor, then into a small, warm bedroom with single beds on opposite walls.

“My sister, Jeanne, is married, so there is a spare bed,” Yvette explained. “The one on the right is yours. Can I help you disrobe?”

“Thank you, but I can manage.” Cassie sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off her half boots and loosened her hair. She stood to remove her sturdy gown, then crawled into the narrow but comfortable bed.

Usually in France she slept with one ear cocked for trouble. But this welcoming family and farmhouse were a haven, protected from all enemies by the storm rattling the windows and concealing the fugitives’ path.

She was asleep before Yvette left the room.

Chapter 13

It was still dark outside the frost-patterned windows when Cassie woke. She had the sense she’d slept only a few hours, but long enough to cure her exhaustion.

Wondering how her newly freed charges were faring, she dressed again. Yvette had left her half boots by the small fire so they were warm and mostly dry. After pulling them on, she returned to the kitchen, which was the center of life in most farmhouses.

The long room was empty except for Madame Boyer, who was mending by the fire. She glanced up, her happiness at the reunion with her uncle still visible. “Ah, you look much better than you did, madame. Join me by the fire. Would you like more to eat? To drink? Perhaps some apple brandy, made right here on our farm?”

Cassie was about to say the apple brandy sounded good when she noticed a drying rack angled on the other side of the fire. Her cloak was draped over one end, thin tendrils of steam wisping from the heavy fabric. Hanging on the other end were the garments taken from the guard at the castle. She remarked, “Wyndham is sleeping?”

Viole made a face. “Père Laurent and my family have gone to bed, but I cannot retire before your other man—I thought his name was Monsieur Sommers?—returns. He is bathing. In the farm pond.”

“What?” Appalled, Cassie stared at her hostess. “He’ll freeze to death! Surely the farm pond has iced over. How could you allow him to do such a mad thing?”

“Water flows in from a spring at one end so it doesn’t freeze.” Viole rolled her eyes. “I also told him he was mad, but he just asked most politely for soap and towels and a scrub brush. Uncle Laurent says he’s English. That explains much.” She gestured toward the fire, which was burning low. “I told him if he wasn’t back by the time that log burns down, I shall send my husband out after him.”

The log was almost gone. Cassie reached for her cloak. “Where is the pond?”

“Around the back of the house by the stables. It cannot be missed.” Viole set her mending aside and lifted a cloak from one of the pegs by the door. “Take mine. It’s dry.”

Cassie donned the cloak gratefully. “May I have a blanket and perhaps some brandy in case I must pull that idiot’s frozen body from the pond and revive him?”

Viole removed a small, squat jug from a cabinet, then a scratchy blanket from a different cabinet. The blanket was pleasantly warm from being kept near the fire. “If you need help removing the body, come inside and I shall wake Romain.”

Cassie took the brandy and headed toward the door. “Men! It’s amazing mankind has survived.”

“Mankind survives because womankind has more sense,” the other woman said.

“So very, very true.” Cassie pulled the hood over her head. “You can go to bed now. If Monsieur Sommers is alive and in reasonable health, I’ll wait with him until he’s ready to come back in. If he’s frozen dead in the water, I’ll leave him there till morning!”

Accompanied by Viole’s laughter, she headed out into the night. A foot or so of snow had fallen, making walking difficult, but the storm had mostly passed. The wind had dropped and the snow had become giant flakes, which meant the end was near.

Seething with exasperation, she followed the partially snow-filled tracks made by the foolish Lord Wyndham. The night was utterly still, and the world shimmered in a whiteness that caught all the available light and made the darkness glow.

The barn was a low stone building behind the house. Splashing sounds came from the right. Since any sensible animal would have taken shelter, it must be Grey.

One end of the pond was dark open water. As she drew closer, she saw her quarry. He was mostly immersed, only his head and shoulders out of the water as he busily scrubbed his hair.

Relief that he hadn’t frozen to death flared into irritation. She marched toward him as well as a woman could march through deep snow. “I didn’t go to the effort to rescue you just so you could kill yourself through stupidity, Lord Wyndham!”

“After ten years in a cell exposed to the open air, I don’t notice temperature much.” He ducked into the water to rinse off the soap, then emerged and pushed his wet hair back with both hands. Even in the night, it was noticeably lighter than before. “Such luxury to completely immerse myself in water! You cannot imagine.”

“I love a really luxurious bath,” she allowed. “But that doesn’t include freezing into a solid block of ice when I take one.”

“The water isn’t too uncomfortable. It’s the air that’s bitter cold.” His tone turned wry. “I’ll have to move fast when I get out so no cherished bits freeze and snap off.”

She suppressed a smile. “I brought a blanket you can wrap yourself in when the time comes.” A log laid on the bank served as a bench, so she wiped snow off one end, set the folded blanket on the cleared area, and sat. “I told Madame Boyer she could retire since I’ll stay here until you either emerge safely, or disappear into the watery depths.”

“Even if I keel over from heart failure, it’s worth it to be clean again.” Grey used a long-handled brush to clean his back, scrubbing so hard he must be removing skin. “Not to mention the benefits of icy water on hot blood.”

She blinked. “Your passions need controlling?”

His hands stilled. “For the first couple of years, I thought about women constantly. Dreamed of them. Remembered every woman I’d ever fancied in luscious feminine detail.”

He soaped his hair again, hard muscles rippling in his shoulders. “Gradually that faded away. By the time you arrived, I felt like a eunuch. Now I’m a guest in this glorious farmhouse and my gracious hostess is a distractingly fine-looking woman. Her daughter is a delicious nymph who is far too young for me to be having such thoughts. So yes, ice water is useful.”

“I, of course, am too old and drab to inspire unseemly lust,” she said dryly.

Grey turned a burning gaze on her. She could feel the heat even on this frigid night. “I thought it best not to offend you with my improper thoughts,” he said. “Particularly since you could probably defeat me in fair combat.”

Remembering the desperate intensity of his embrace in the prison, she shivered, and not from the cold. “You’re stronger and I presume you learned Indian fighting skills from Ashton while you were at the Westerfield Academy. I acted without thinking because you looked murderous and caught you by surprise.”

“Not murderous. Merely desperate to get past you and away from that damnable cell.” He ducked under the water to rinse his hair again.

Cassie pulled her cloak tighter. The snow had stopped entirely, and the air was getting colder. “Madame Boyer attributes your mad desire to bathe outside in a blizzard to your Englishness.”

He swallowed hard. “After ten years in hell, quite possibly I am mad.”

She winced. Thinking he needed reassurance, she said, “Not mad, I think, though perhaps a little crazed. That will pass.” She uncorked the brandy jug and leaned over the water to offer it to him. “Try the apple brandy. It might save you from freezing solid.”

He took a swallow, then began coughing so hard she was afraid he’d go under. When he could breathe again, he said hoarsely, “I’ve lost the habit of strong spirits.” He sipped more cautiously, then sighed with pleasure. “Apple fire. Lovely.”

When he handed the jug back to Cassie, she sampled the contents. Though strong, the brandy was sweet and fruity, with perhaps pear as well as apple. Enjoying the slow burn, she returned the jug to Grey. “This is made here on the farm.”

He took another sip. “Speak English to me,” he said haltingly in English. “Slowly. After ten years of only French, I must struggle to speak my native language.”

She did as he asked, speaking each word distinctly. “Your English will return quickly once you have it in your ears again.”

He frowned at the brandy jug. “I have wanted nothing more than to escape, but now that I am free, what will I find back in England?” he said slowly. “I thought I’d been long forgotten by everyone, but you said Kirkland sent you?”

“You have not been forgotten,” she said quietly. “You haunt all the friends you made at the Westerfield Academy. Kirkland has searched for you for years. He made inquiries among the thousands of Englishmen interned in France when the Peace of Amiens ended. He heard rumors, and traced them all without success. Kirkland was determined to keep going until he either found you alive, or found proof of your death.”

“Why?” Grey asked, surprised. “I was the very model of a useless fribble.”

“But a charming one, from what Kirkland said.”

“Charm is one of many things I’ve lost over the years.” He took another sip of brandy. “Do you know anything of my family? You have called me Wyndham, not Costain. I hope this means my father is well?”

“Kirkland said all of your immediate family is in good health,” she assured him. “Your father, your mother, your younger brother and sister.”

The moon broke through the clouds and touched Grey’s hair to brightness. Cassie was reminded that Kirkland had called him a golden boy. “If you’re through washing, it’s time to go inside.”

“I fear emerging from the water because then the cold will be truly vicious.” He handed her the brandy jug. “But I suppose I must.”

“Madame Boyer said you’d brought out towels. Ah, over there.” She scooped up the towels. After kicking snow off a section of the bank, she spread the smaller towel on the cleared space. “Step up here. The towel will protect your feet a bit. Use the larger one to wipe off as much water as you can, then I’ll wrap you in this blanket.”

“Stand back if you don’t want to be splattered.” He clambered onto the bank and planted both feet on the small towel as he took the larger one from her.

In the moonlight, he had a gaunt powerful beauty marred by scars and too many bones visible under his taut, pale skin. Teeth chattering, he said, “Pattens. Over there.”

The wooden pattens had almost disappeared in the snow. She retrieved them and set them by his towel. Pattens were usually worn over regular shoes, but he was a tall man so they fit well enough on his bare feet.

He toweled himself off rapidly. From the little she saw of what was euphemistically called “courting tackle,” the frigid water had done a good job of cooling his ardor, at least for the moment.

“Let me wipe your back,” she said. He handed her the wet towel. She swiftly pulled it down his long frame, then wrapped the blanket around him.

He pulled the scratchy wool square tight, shivering. “I knew this would be the difficult part. Where’s the brandy?”

She handed it over. He swigged some as he stepped into the pattens. “Time to run for it before I end up like one of Gunter’s ices. Lord, is Gunter’s still in business?”

“The teashop in Mayfair?” Cassie had been there once so long ago she’d almost forgotten. But now she remembered a lemon ice, the tangy sweetness melting on her tongue. “As far as I know, it’s flourishing.”

“Good. I used to take my younger brother and sister there. In warmer weather!” He headed toward the house, making good time with his long legs and high motivation. Cassie followed at a slower pace, carrying the wet towels.

Though Grey had dashed into the warm house, he held the door open for her when she arrived. His gentlemanly manners hadn’t disappeared entirely.

Viole had retired, but she’d banked the fire and left a lamp burning, so the kitchen was warm and welcoming. On the scrubbed deal table were eating utensils, a bottle of wine, and food covered by a light cloth. After hanging up the cloak, Cassie lifted the cloth and found bread, cheese, a small dish of pâté, and a jar of pickled relish.

Keeping her voice down so as not to disturb the sleepers, she said, “We both need to warm up by the fire before heading off to bed. Our wonderful hostess has left refreshments. Would you care for some, or did you eat enough earlier?”

“Madame Boyer wouldn’t let me eat too much because she thought I might make myself ill. So yes, more food would be most welcome.” He kicked off the pattens and settled into one of the cushioned chairs by the fire, the blanket wrapped closely around him. With a sigh of pleasure, he stretched his bare feet out on the hearth. “Food and freedom and a fine fire. Yesterday I could barely imagine such riches.”

Cassie assembled two plates with sliced bread and cheese and mounds of pâté and relish. She was silently amused by Grey’s cavalier treatment of the pattens. In his pampered youth, he would have had servants quietly straightening up behind him. In his prison cell, he’d had no possessions to keep orderly. The man needed housebreaking.

She handed him one of the platters, a knife, and a tumbler of hearty red wine. In the low light, he had become the golden youth Kirkland had described. His hair was a bright blond, his beard several shades darker and touched with red. But he was a boy no longer. Now he was a man aged beyond his years.

“Food and drink whenever I want it. What a remarkable concept.” He spread pâté on a slice of bread and took a bite. He savored the taste before swallowing. “Aahhh, ambrosia.”

She settled in the chair beside him with her own food and wine. She tasted cheese on bread, pâté on bread, then both plus relish. As he said, ambrosia. “How did you keep your strength up under such dreadful conditions?”

“I exercised. Ran in place, lifted the two stones that served as furniture, kept moving as much as I could.” He shrugged. “At the beginning, there was barely enough food to keep a rat alive, but the rations improved after Père Laurent was imprisoned.”

“The castle cook thought it outrageous that a priest was so ill used, so she sent larger servings down for you both,” Cassie explained.

“I owe the cook thanks. There was never enough food to feel really full, but it was sufficient to keep me from weakening.” He spread pickle relish on a piece of bread and cheese. “There was nothing better to do, so exercise at least filled some time.”

“Exercise and singing?”

He smiled a little. “That and remembering poetry and the like. I was not an ideal student. It never occurred to me that an education might help me cling to my sanity.”

“A well-furnished mind must be a great asset when one is imprisoned.”

“Père Laurent’s mind is extremely well furnished. I encouraged him to tell me everything he knew.” Grey spread pâté lavishly. “Cassie, what happens next?”

“We need to stay here a day or two until the roads clear,” she said. “Then north to the English Channel, where smugglers can take us home.”

“Home,” he repeated. “I don’t know what that means anymore. I was a typical young man about town, drinking and gaming and chasing opera dancers. A useless life. I can’t go back to that. But I don’t know what I can go back to.”

“Ten years have passed,” she said slowly. “You would have been a different man now even if you’d been safe in England the whole time. You might have married and become a father. You might have entered politics since you’ll be in the House of Lords in time. Many paths are open to you, and you can take your time in choosing.”

“Even thinking about a night at the opera, or a boxing mill, or a gaming club frightens me,” he said bleakly. “So many people! I don’t know if I can bear that. That was one reason I went out to the pond. Even half a dozen kind people were too many.”

“After ten years of solitary confinement, it’s not surprising if you find the thought of crowds appalling,” she agreed. “But you can avoid them until and unless you’re ready. You’re a nobleman. You can be a splendidly eccentric hermit if you like. Since you were outgoing and enjoyed people before, it’s likely you will again. In time.”

“I hope you’re right.” He glanced across at Cassie, his gaze hooded. “Do you have the apple brandy?”

“Since you’re unused to strong spirits, it might be wiser not to indulge in more,” she observed. “Unless you want to greet your first day of freedom with a pounding head.”

He let his head rest on the chair back. “I expect you’re right. Even though I didn’t drink that much by the pond, I seem to be babbling away quite frivolously.”

“It’s not surprising you want to talk about what lies ahead, and I’m the best choice because I know England,” she pointed out. “And I am safe. After we reach England, you’ll never see me again, and I am not of a gossipy disposition.”

“What you are is a mystery, Madame Cassie the Fox,” he said softly. “What is your story?”

Chapter 14

As soon as Grey spoke, Cassie drew into herself, strength and intelligence vanishing behind the façade of a tired old woman. He wondered how old she really was. He’d first guessed her at twice his age, around sixty, but she did not move like a woman of so many years. When she wasn’t trying to look feeble and harmless, she had the litheness of a fit younger woman despite her gray hair and lined face.

Wanting to hear her lovely, smoky voice, he continued, “Why are you here, looking and talking like a Frenchwoman while serving an English master?”

“I serve no master, English or otherwise,” she said coolly. “Since I wish to see Napoleon dead and his empire smashed, I work for Kirkland. He shares my goals.”

Grey thought about how much he didn’t know. “The war. Is Napoleon winning? Durand would taunt me with news of French victories. Austerlitz. Jena.” He searched his memory. “He mentioned many other victorious battles as well.”

“Durand told you only one side of the story,” she said, amused. “There have been great French victories, but not lately. The French fleet was destroyed at Trafalgar in 1805, and Britain has ruled the seas ever since. In the Iberian Peninsula, the British and local allies are driving the imperial army back into France.”

“What about Eastern Europe? The Prussians, Austrians, and Russians?”

“The emperor has defeated the Prussians and Austrians several times, yet they will not stay defeated,” Cassie said. “In an act of staggering stupidity, last summer he invaded Russia and lost half a million men to General Winter. The sands of Napoleon’s hourglass are running out.”

Grey exhaled with relief. “All of these years, I’ve wondered if England was about to be conquered.”

“Napoleon is a brilliant general,” she admitted, “but even he cannot defeat all of Europe. If he had been content to stay within France’s borders, he could have had his crown, but his lust for conquest is his undoing.”

What else did he want to know? “You mentioned my classmates at the Westerfield Academy. What of them? And Lady Agnes?”

“Lady Agnes is well and continues to educate her boys of good birth and bad behavior.” Cassie smiled. “I met her only once, but she’s not a woman one forgets.”

He felt a rush of relief. Lady Agnes was far from ancient, but ten years was a long time. She had been as important in his life as his own mother, and he was glad to know she was well. “What of the others? Kirkland is obviously alive and apparently active in the spying trade.”

Cassie nodded. “He divides his time between Edinburgh and London as he runs his shipping company. Intelligence gathering is a secret sideline.”

He thought of the friends who had become closer than brothers in his years at school. “Do you know how any of the others are doing?”

Her brows furrowed. “I’m not well acquainted with most of them. The Duke of Ashton is well, recently married, and expecting his first child. Randall was a major in the army, but he left after becoming heir to his uncle, the Earl of Daventry.”

Grey had a swift memory of Randall’s taut expression after receiving a letter from his uncle. “He hated Daventry.”

“And vice versa, I’ve heard, but he and Daventry are stuck with each other and have apparently declared a truce,” Cassie said. “Randall is also recently married. He seemed very happy the time I met him. His wife is a lovely, warm person.”

“I thought he’d be a confirmed bachelor, but I’m glad to hear otherwise.” If ever a man needed a lovely, warm wife, it was Randall. Thinking of his other classmates, he asked, “What of Masterson and Ballard?”

“Masterson is an army major, and Ballard is working to rebuild the family wine business in Portugal.” Her brow furrowed. “You must have known Mackenzie, Masterson’s illegitimate half brother. He has a very fashionable gaming club in London. Rob Carmichael is a Bow Street Runner.”

Grey’s brows arched. “Rob would be good at that, but it must have driven his father into a frenzy.”

“I believe that was part of the reason he became a Runner,” she said with amusement. “Those are the only Westerfield students I know, but when you’re back in London your friends will be happy to bring you up to date.”

The thought of London created a knot of panic in Grey’s gut. His friends’ marriages also made him sharply aware of how much time had passed. They had grown up and taken on adult responsibilities. Grey had merely … survived.

Uncannily perceptive, Cassie said softly, “Don’t compare your life to theirs. You can’t change the past, but you are returning to family, friends, and wealth. You can have the future you dreamed of in captivity.”

He wanted to blurt out that he was no longer capable of having the life he was born to. His confidence, his sense of himself and his place in the world, had been shattered. As a future earl, he would have no trouble acquiring a wife eager to spend his money, but where would he find a wife who was willing and able to deal with the darkness of his soul?

But whining was ugly, especially to a woman as fearless as this one. He was still amazed at how she’d come to see if he might be in Castle Durand, seen an opportunity to free him, taken down a guard, and led him and Père Laurent to safety through a blizzard. Maybe that strength was why he found her so attractive.

Madame Boyer was an attractive woman in her prime. Her daughter Yvette was a lovely girl with a face to inspire young, bad poets. Yet it was drab, aged Cassie the Fox who intrigued him. Though she might be his mother’s age, she had a lovely, delicate profile, a smokily delicious voice, and a core of tempered steel.

Wanting to know more of her, he stated, “Tell me about your family.”

She leaned forward to put another piece of wood on the fire. “My father was English, but we made long visits to my mother’s family in France. We were here when the revolution broke out.” She settled back in her chair, her face like granite. “I said we must return to England immediately, but my warnings were dismissed by the rest of the family.”

“Cassandra,” he said, remembering his Greek studies. “The Trojan princess who saw the future, but couldn’t convince anyone of the danger she foretold. Did you choose that name for that reason?”

She winced. “No one else has ever made that connection.”

“Cassandra was a tragic figure,” he said softly, wondering how closely her story resembled the myth. “Did you lose your family as she did?”

Her head whipped away and she stared at the fire. “I did.”

Hearing the pain in her voice, he realized that it was time to change the subject. In his younger, more gentlemanly days, he would have known better than to ask such personal questions. “What do you think is the best way to return to England? I don’t even know where in France I am.”

“We’re about a hundred miles southwest of Paris, somewhat farther from the north coast.” She frowned. “North is the obvious way to go, which isn’t good if we’re pursued. But any other route would be much longer.”

“Do you think we’ll be chased? With Gaspard dead, there might not be anyone at the castle capable of organizing a pursuit.”

“His guard didn’t look like the sort to take initiative,” she agreed. “But once Durand learns that his prisoners are gone, he might send soldiers after you.”

“He probably will.” Grey flinched at the thought. “His hatred of me was very personal.”

“What did you do to earn his displeasure?”

Grey disliked revealing his stupidity, but she deserved an answer. “He caught me in bed with his wife. When I came to Paris, Kirkland asked me to keep my ears open for information that might be useful to the British government.” Grey sighed. “I rather fancied myself as a spy. I’d heard that Citoyen Durand was in the inner circle of the government, so I had the brilliant notion that maybe I could learn something from his wife. I met her at a salon and she made it clear that she’d welcome a bit of dalliance.”

“Do you think she was trying to lure you in so you could be killed or captured?”

“I’ve had plenty of time to think about that, but no, I think she merely had a taste for younger men, and I was foolish enough to be caught.” How different his life would have been if he’d left when she told him to. “How will we travel? The cart?”

She shook her head. “If anyone suspects that the old peddler woman with a cart had something to do with your escape, we would be too easy to catch.”

“I could travel on my own,” he said, hating to think that his presence would endanger her.

“Despite your ten years in France and your fluent French, you don’t know what the country is like now. We need to travel together.” A smile flickered over her face. “I can be your aged mother. I’ll see if the Boyers want the cart. It’s sturdy and well built, and it can be painted to look different. I can ride Thistle, but we’ll need to find a larger mount for you. Perhaps Monsieur Boyer will know someone with a horse to sell.”

“Hasn’t the army requisitioned all the horses?”

“That happened in the early days of the war, but now they can draw on the resources of a continent, so the military has sufficient horses. It shouldn’t be hard to find a steady, uninteresting hack for you. The sort of horse no one would look at twice.”

That was probably all Grey was good for now. “If the weather cooperates, I assume a week or so to the channel coast, and that you already know some helpful smugglers?”

She nodded. “I also have forged papers for you. Kirkland provided them just in case.”

Grey’s brows arched. “That was certainly advanced thinking when he didn’t even know if I was alive.”

“In my business, it is wise to prepare for all contingencies. That leaves more time to deal with unexpected problems. And there are always unexpected problems.” She covered a yawn as she rose. “I’m exhausted. At least the snow gives a good reason to sleep late. We won’t be able to leave for a day or two. You have a bed prepared?”

“They made up a pallet for me in the room with Père Laurent, but I’m so comfortable in this chair that I think I’ll sleep here.” It was a luxury too rich for words that he had a choice of where to sleep after ten interminable years without any choices.

Going back to a complicated world, would he know how to make decisions? Or would that have to be relearned, with all the errors that implied?

Cassie added more fuel to the fire, then pulled another ragged blanket from a cupboard. She spread it over him, saying, “It will get colder toward morning.”

“I’m used to the cold.” He caught her hand as she started to turn. “I just realized that I haven’t thanked you for rescuing me.” He kissed her hand with gratitude beyond words.

A spark of electricity snapped between them. She pulled her hand away, looking unnerved. “I was just doing my job. We were fortunate that today all went well. Good-night, milord.”

Candle in hand, she vanished into a corridor leading to the east wing of the house. He watched her go, wondering again how old she was. Her hand was strong and shaped by work, but there was none of the gnarling of age. Perhaps she wasn’t so old that he need be ashamed of himself for his lustful thoughts.

He closed his eyes and slept, dreaming nightmares that he was a fly caught in a sticky web, and a spider was closing in for the kill.

Durand exploded into his castle cursing with rage as he called for his steward. A trembling maid summoned the man. Monsieur Houdin was pale when he appeared.

As he stripped his cloak and gloves off, then tossed them aside, Durand glared at the steward. “What happened to my prisoners, Houdin? Were you bribed to release them?”

The steward jerked back from his master’s fury. “No, sir! No one in the castle betrayed you. But everyone here—everyone, including me—was laid low by a vicious disease that made us so ill that few could even stand. Two of the older servants died. Apparently in this moment of weakness, several men broke in and released the goddam and the priest.”

“Gaspard will answer for this!” Durand said viciously.

“Gaspard is dead,” the steward said starkly. “Killed in the assault. He did not betray you, Citoyen.”

“Perhaps not, but he was incompetent! What of the guards?”

“Brun was sick in his bed and barely escaped death. Dupont was on duty and was injured in the raid.”

Dupont would be the best witness, Durand supposed. “Where is Dupont?”

With no one to guard in the dungeon, Dupont was now working in the stables. Durand summoned him. The man showed up pale with fear.

Under questioning, he said, “There were three or four raiders at least, Citoyen Durand. I heard their footsteps, but the only one I saw was an old woman who was used as a decoy. She brought food down since so much of the staff was ill. I was attacked while I ate. They bashed me on the head to knock me out.” Dupont rubbed the back of his neck. “I awoke tied like a pig for slaughter and with my clothes stripped off.”

“Worthless swine!” Durand snarled. “You deserve to stay here mucking out the horses.” Pivoting, he stormed back to the castle. Luckily he’d brought a squadron of his specially trained guards, all of them crack cavalrymen. He would consider the most likely routes the escaped prisoners would take, then send his men in pursuit.

He’d get that bastard Englishman if he had to send every man in the Ministry of Police.

Chapter 15

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.

Chapter 16

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.

Chapter 17

A cold night was improved by having a warm man in one’s bed. The large, stroking hand pulled Cassie from deep sleep to the edge of awareness and created a curl of desire that moved gently through her. Warm lips touched her throat and she stretched her neck into the kiss.

“Rob?” she murmured. She was wearing too many layers of clothing because of the cold, but that could be worked around. As his lips nibbled toward her ear, desire and wakefulness increased.

She turned her face toward him and his mouth covered hers hungrily. The kiss was deep and passionate. She loved the erotic brush of his beard on her face.

A beard? She jolted to full wakefulness when she realized that what she felt wasn’t the faint bristle of an overnight shadow, but a full-blown beard. Not Rob.

“Damnation!” She shoved hard at the body covering hers even before she recognized that it must be her traveling companion.

Grey gasped, then swore, “Merde!” as he hurled himself away from her. “Dear God in heaven, what was I doing? I swore to myself that I wouldn’t touch you!”

He drew a ragged breath. “I thought … I thought I was dreaming.” There was enough light from the embers on the hearth to illuminate the genuine horror on his face.

“Your dream was an active one,” she said acerbically.

“I am a beast!” His voice was agonized. “Please … please forgive me. I didn’t intend such insult. I’ll move outside for the rest of the night.”

“Wait!” She caught his arm as he started to rise. “This was regrettable, but not entirely surprising when we’re sharing tight quarters and you’ve been deprived of female companionship for so long. Any woman looks attractive.”

“You undervalue yourself,” he said tautly. “I’ve found you attractive from the beginning. Yes, I’m hungry for the embrace of a woman, but that alone wouldn’t have led me to assault you in my sleep.”

Taken aback, she asked, “How can you be interested in an old woman like me?”

“I’ve always liked females with something to say for themselves, and that’s more common among mature women.” He shook his head. “As heir to an earldom, I think I was giggled at by every brainless debutante in the ton. A woman like you, with strength and courage and intelligence, is a hundred times more attractive.”

He laid his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “Which is why I bathed in an icy pond my first night out of prison, and why I’d best sleep outside now. There’s a reason why young people are chaperoned carefully. Being close to an attractive woman can destroy male judgment.”

She hesitated, knowing she could let him go outside and they’d never refer to this awkward incident again. But did she want him to leave? Her blood hammered with rising desire. Like Grey, she yearned for touch and intimacy.

And if he thought she was attractive despite her carefully maintained guise of age and drabness … well, she found him attractive despite the effects of his imprisonment. Recklessly she said, “Don’t leave.”

His arm became rigid under her hand and the air thickened with tension. “I would like nothing better than to lie with you. I don’t mind if it’s from pity, but it mustn’t be because I’ve coerced you.”

“I’ve lain with men for worse reasons than mutual pleasure and comfort.” She leaned forward and kissed him hungrily. Bedamned to restraint and good sense.

Now that they were awake and willing, sleepy fondling blazed into sharp, clear passion. His mouth was demanding, hot with need, arousing equal heat in her. Impatiently she drew him down onto her rumpled blanket.

“I may have forgotten how to do this,” he said gruffly.

She laughed as he loosened the bodice of her gown. “I doubt that.”

Grey might be half crazed with lust, but as with his riding, he remembered the skills of lovemaking even after ten years of deprivation. With her gown loose, he pulled down the shift to bare her breast. Her nipple tightened in the icy air, then tightened more when his warm lips captured it.

She caught her breath and arched into his kiss, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his back. His hand moved down her body, leaving fire wherever it touched despite her clothing.

He caressed her hip and thigh, then slipped his hand beneath her gown. His warm hand on her bare flesh made a wickedly erotic contrast to the cool air that flowed over her intimate parts. Then he banished the cold with deft, heated fingers.

She pulsed against him as he brought her to swift readiness. His breathing harsh, he undid his trousers, moved between her legs and entered her with a long groan of pleasure. For an instant he was still, every fiber of his body rigid. “I … I can’t last long.”

“Of course not,” she breathed as she rocked against him.

Her movement shattered his control and he convulsed, pouring himself into her in seemingly endless rapture. Chest heaving, he subsided, his bearded cheek against her forehead as he murmured incoherent endearments in French.

She brushed his damp hair, amused and frustrated. She’d known this joining would be quick. Though not how quick. “You seem to have remembered the basics.”

“That was even better than I remembered,” he said with a catch of laughter. “Just touching you dissolved every shred of restraint I possess.” He rolled to his side and pulled her skirts down over her bare legs, then slid a hand up to her thigh under the fabric. “I also remember this matter isn’t finished yet.”

She gave a startled squeak when his questing fingers touched moist, sensitized flesh. Surprise dissolved into hot, pulsing sensation. She was so aroused it took him only a few skilled strokes to bring her to intense release. She buried her face against his shoulder to cover her cry of pleasure as shudders wracked her body.

She relaxed in his arms as sweet peace curled through her, content to drowse in the moment. Strange how their bodies could be in such harmony when they scarcely knew each other. Perhaps the fact that Grey would be gone from her life in less than a fortnight made this rare, startling intimacy possible.

He held her close, his hands caressing the length of her back. “I wonder if we’ll have a chance to do this someplace warm enough that we can take our clothes off.”

“At my age, nakedness is not always desirable,” she said wryly. “It’s been a good few years since I was eighteen.”

“‘Age cannot wither nor custom stale her infinite variety,’” he quoted. “You are timeless, Cassie the Fox. Now I have twice the reason to be grateful to you. You’ve restored not only my freedom but my manhood.”

“No gratitude is needed for mutual pleasure,” she said drowsily. “If you feel you owe me something, make it up in the future when you will have opportunities to help others. That’s the best part of being a lord. Your power to aid the less fortunate.”

“You sound like my mother.” He reached for his blanket and added it to the coverings over them. “She has always been very keen on helping the less fortunate.”

“And you aren’t?”

He hesitated. “I was raised to have a sense of noblesse oblige, but it was just words to me. Though I assumed I’d do the right thing when the time came, I never thought much about what that meant. In the future, I shall be much more aware of how fate can be unkind, and when I might be able to help.”

“Another silver lining to be found under a very dark cloud.”

“I suppose.” Tenderly he cradled her head. “I want to know more about you, Cassie. Have you any family? A husband, a lover, children, grandchildren?”

“If I had a husband, I would not be lying with you,” she said dryly. “I have none of the other things, either.”

“Not even a lover? Any woman as splendid as you deserves a lover. Maybe several,” he said firmly.

“There is a man in London,” she said slowly. “More than a friend, but less than a lover. We know not to ask too much of each other.” Neither of them had much to give.

His arm tightened around her. “Perhaps when this war is finally over and you find that cottage, you’ll also find the companion you deserve,” he said. “Someone to share your declining years.”

“You’re a romantic, Lord Wyndham.” She smiled into the darkness, thinking there was no reason he shouldn’t know the truth. “How old do you think I am?”

He frowned. “I really don’t know. At first I thought you must be at least sixty, but you’re so strong and fit.” His fingers trailed down her cheek. “You have lovely, smooth skin, and from what I’ve felt of your body, your figure is one any woman would be happy to possess. Perhaps … you’re in your midforties and descended from a long line of healthy folk who lived to ripe old ages?”

She chuckled. “I’m about two years younger than you are.”

“The devil you say!” He stared at her in the dim light. “You helped me disguise myself, so presumably you’ve done the same to yourself. Yet still I wouldn’t have guessed you to be so young.”

“A friend of mine in London is a master perfumer,” Cassie explained. “She created a blend she calls Antiqua. The scent is essence of harmless little old lady.”

He began laughing. “That’s brilliant!” Laughter abruptly cut off. “Then you are of child-bearing age, and I didn’t leave before I came.”

“No need to worry. I use a very ancient and generally reliable method of preventing unwanted consequences.” She shrugged. “Either the wild carrot seeds work, or I’m barren. I’ve never had occasion to worry.”

“Now that we’ve settled that”—he nuzzled her neck—“I look forward to smelling you when you’re not wearing Antiqua. I’m sure your scent is utterly alluring.”

“I don’t know about that, but I probably won’t smell twice my age,” she agreed.

“Any last guilt pangs I felt for lusting after a woman older than my mother have vanished.” His nuzzling turned into a delicate tracing of his tongue around her ear. As she caught her breath, he continued, “I really must delve deeper to find the true essence of Cassie the Fox, the most delectable vixen in France.”

Telling him her real age had changed things between them, she realized. He was no longer giving her the deference due a respected older woman. Instead, he was playful in a way that was new to her. “Vixens bite,” she warned before nipping his ear.

He inhaled and she felt him hardening against her thigh. “So do their foxes.”

He set his teeth on her nipple with exactly the right amount of pressure to excite, not hurt. She was shocked at how powerfully passion flared. She wouldn’t have thought it possible so soon. “You have much lost time to make up for,” she said huskily.

“Indeed I do.” His palm came to rest on the juncture of her thighs, moving in slow circles as he gave luxurious attention to her breast. “And I want to make up for all that lost time with you.”

She laughed, feeling like the young girl she’d never had a chance to be. Ten years couldn’t be made up in two weeks. But they could try.

Grey awoke feeling like a new man. Or rather, a man reborn. The air was bitter cold, but enough morning light seeped into the hut that he could study the delicate features of Cassie’s sleeping face, which was mere inches away.

Now that he knew her real age, he was amazed that he’d thought her old. She’d drawn subtle lines of age on her face, but this close he could see the smoothness of her complexion. She carried herself as a woman worn out by too many years of living when in fact she was the strongest, most physically adept female he’d ever met.

He bent the few inches forward to press his lips tenderly to hers. Her eyes flickered open. “I am in love,” he breathed. “Truly, deeply, madly, intoxicated with the most wonderful woman in the world.”

There was something deep and unreadable in her enigmatic blue eyes before she said briskly, “It’s the passion you’re in love with, not me. Don’t worry, you’ll recover from any infatuation that you might feel, Lord Wyndham. Now it’s time we rose and broke our fast so we can be on our way.”

He blinked. Even a teasing declaration should be treated with some respect. “Can’t I be at least a little in love with you?”

She gave him a twisted smile. “Passion warps the mind and judgment. I merely happen to be available. That’s not the same as love.”

He wasn’t sure he agreed with her. Love might be more than passion, but really good passion such as they’d shared through the night was surely an element of love.

He slipped his hand into the folds of her clothing and cupped her bare breast, his thumb teasing her nipple. “Available is an excellent quality and not to be wasted. Surely we can delay breakfast for a bit.”

She caught her breath, her eyes turning misty. “For a few minutes, I suppose. That should be plenty of time for you.”

He roared with laughter. “Is that a challenge, my delicious vixen? I shall take it as one.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and rolled onto his back so that she was lying on top of him, her mischievous face above him. Her old-age perfume was wearing off, so he could inhale her natural alluring female scent. Uniquely Cassie.

There was truth in her belief that he was in love with making love. But she was far more than the nearest willing woman. He really was a little in love with her. And, he guessed as her kiss sent him spinning into rapture, he always would be.

Cassie suspected she was smiling like a fool as they set off on the rugged track that would take them out of the hills to a road that led north. Though it was hard to read Grey’s expression behind the beard, she suspected he was also beaming. They’d ended up delaying breakfast for quite some time.

She’d been rather touched by his joking claim to be madly in love with her even though he was really just expressing his exuberant pleasure in his rediscovered sexuality. Perhaps she was a little bit in love with Grey. His lovemaking had a playfulness that was new to her. She looked forward to more passionate interludes between now and the time she delivered him to Kirkland in London.

Grey would return to the loving arms of family and friends and, in time, a suitable young wife. Cassie hoped she would be sensitive about what Grey had endured.

As for Cassie, she’d return to France with blazing memories to warm her in that English cottage, if she lived long enough to retire. She’d survived more than a dozen years in the spying trade. Perhaps she’d actually live to celebrate Napoleon’s death.

It was rather sweet of Grey to want her to find a companion for her old age, but also a sign of how young he was in some ways. Though he’d been born a couple of years earlier than she, most of his adult life had been spent in captivity. She’d crammed several lifetimes of experience into her twenty-nine years, while he’d had one very bad experience over and over for ten years.

That made her feel as old as her gray hair claimed she was. But the vast differences between them didn’t mean they couldn’t be lovers until their paths parted.

Peace disintegrated when they came out of the hills and turned onto the road north. Though traffic was light, the back of Grey’s neck crawled whenever he heard hoofbeats coming toward them. Surely it was too soon for Durand to have organized a pursuit, but reason had nothing to do with his primitive fear. He wouldn’t feel safe until he was back in England.

Though he couldn’t make the fear and anger go away, he could at least pretend to be sane and normal. He found that it helped to concentrate on the countryside around him. Even in late winter, it was beautiful beyond belief. Dormant trees contained an infinity of subtle colors, and the wind carried intoxicating scents of life.

And he could always watch Cassie, and wait for the night.

Chapter 18

After Durand finished cursing his incompetent servants for letting the prisoners escape, he formulated plans for recapturing them. The feeble old priest should be easy. He would stay close to his old haunts, so he could be traced through friends and family.

But Wyndham would flee the country as fast as possible, so Durand must move quickly. Thank God he had the many and varied resources of the police at his disposal. There were detachments of the gendarmerie in all towns of any size. All he had to do was claim he was after English spies to mobilize them.

He would have flyers printed and send them out by the fast military couriers. The gendarmes could distribute the flyers to inns and villages along routes the fugitives might follow. A description and a reward for information would set hundreds of civilians watching any strangers who passed by.

The problem with flyers was coming up with descriptions. The only one of the raiders who had been seen was the old lady, who left no impression at all. Gray hair. Average height. Average weight. No distinguishing features. Perhaps sixty years old.

Wyndham and the priest weren’t much easier. Durand knew what they’d looked like originally, but years in prison had resulted in emaciated bodies and savage beards. Coats could be padded and beards could be trimmed to change their appearances.

He had to settle for approximating the heights of the prisoners and saying that one was a feeble old man, one a young man with light hair. He added that the three people being sought might be traveling together, or separately, or with other unknown men. Very unsatisfactory.

There was also the question of which way they went. It would be clever of them to head south to Spain or east into the Low Countries or Germany, but clever was probably trumped by the fact that north to the channel was by far the fastest route to England. So Durand sent flyers in all directions, but concentrated on the roads north.

For himself, he headed to Calais. His hunter’s instinct told him that area was most likely for him to find his prey. When and if he caught up with Wyndham, he’d waste no more time on imprisonment.

This time he’d just kill the bastard.

Cassie frowned as they followed the narrow road that ran straight through the center of a small town. Until now, they’d passed through nothing larger than a hamlet and they’d slept in empty barns, but they couldn’t avoid people forever. “It must be market day. Everyone in the district is in the square ready to buy, sell, and gossip.”

She felt Grey tense beside her. Sharing a bed with a man made one extrasensitive to his emotions. “Is it possible to go around?” he asked.

“I don’t see any streets leading off, and if we try to circle through the countryside, we could lose half a day or more getting lost in muddy farm lanes.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He scowled at the crowded square ahead.

“Think of this as good practice for London,” she said encouragingly. “It will take only a few minutes to pass through the market and then we’ll be in the country again.”

He drew a deep breath, then halted his horse and dismounted. “You’re right. There’s no reason for me to go berserk.”

Cassie swung down from Thistle. In a crowd like the one they were about to enter, it was safer to lead their mounts. “I’ll buy bread if I see a baker’s stall, but otherwise we walk straight through. I’ll call you Grégoire if a name is needed.”

He nodded, tense but controlled. “What should I call you?”

“Maman,” she said promptly. “Keep your eyes down and pretend to be not very intelligent. I’m your old mother and I take care of business for both of us.”

He gave a short nod and started forward. Satisfied, she led Thistle toward the market square. This was Grey’s first test among strangers, but she was confident that he could manage. At night in private, he was as amusing as he was passionate. It was clear why everyone adored him in his youth.

Though restless anger still seethed under his lighthearted charm, it was slowly dissipating, she thought. This quiet journey was gradually bringing him in tune with the world again. By the time they reached London, he should be almost normal. A new normal that was a blend of what he’d been and what he’d experienced.

At this season the market contained little produce beyond wrinkled apples and tired-looking root vegetables, but there were baked goods and cheeses and charcuterie, as well as stalls with old clothes and utensils. If she’d had her cart, she’d set up shop.

Instead she moved through the crowd as quickly as she could without shoving and drawing attention. People were particularly jammed up around the fountain in the center of the square. Even over the noisy chatter, she could hear Grey’s harsh breathing, but he kept his eyes down and moved doggedly onward.

She didn’t want to stop in the middle of the market, but as they came out on the other side and the crowd thinned, she saw a bakery stall. “Hold a moment, lad, and take my reins,” she said in a country accent. “I need to buy us a loaf.”

“Oui, Maman.” He took Thistle’s reins so Cassie could approach the stall. She bought bread and several tarts made from dried fruits. She liked offering new tastes to please Grey’s long-neglected palate. His enthusiastic appetite was endearing.

She had just handed over her coins when shouting broke out behind her. She whipped around and saw a skinny dog running from the opposite stall with a smoked sausage in its mouth and a furious, red-faced merchant in pursuit. An onlooker called out cheerfully, “Looks like that little bitch is faster than you, Morlaix!”

“Shut your mouth, damn you!” Swearing, Morlaix cornered the dog, snatched back the sausage, and began kicking the cowering beast, which was trapped between a wall and a cart.

Grey said roughly, “Eh, sir, you shouldn’t be beating the poor brute!”

He took the merchant’s shoulder to pull him away from the dog. The man pivoted and swung a meaty fist at Grey’s jaw. Grey dodged, but his control splintered and he pulled his fist back to strike a furious blow.

Fearing he’d injure or kill the merchant, Cassie grabbed his arm before he could throw the punch. “Steady, lad!” she cried. “Don’t be hittin’ the gentleman!”

She used her grip to surreptitiously jab a point above his elbow that numbed his right forearm. He swung on her, eyes wild and his body shaking.

“Steady, Grégoire!” she snapped. “Steady!”

For an instant she thought he might swing on her and she prepared to duck. Then his rage faded enough that he lowered his fist and gave her a short nod to reassure her that he’d mastered himself.

Cassie turned to the angry merchant, who smelled of beer and raw onions. Bobbing her head, she said contritely, “Dreadful sorry, Monsieur Morlaix. My boy isn’t quite right in the head. He’s fond of dogs and can’t bear to see ’em hurt. Here, let me pay for that sausage and you can just let the poor beast go.”

She pressed a generous payment into the merchant’s pudgy palm. “I’ll get my Grégoire out of town now, sir. ’E gets confused around so many people.”

Morlaix took the money with a growl. “Get both of those beasts away from me!”

“I shall, sir,” she said meekly. “Come along now, lad.”

“Sausage,” he said in a dull voice that supported her claim that he wasn’t quite right. “You gave ’im money for the sausage, so it’s ours.”

Cassie took the damaged sausage from the merchant and gave it to Grey. He fed the meat to the skinny dog, who wolfed it down voraciously.

Swiftly Cassie collected her bread and tarts and the reins Grey had dropped when he became involved in the altercation. Lucky the horses were placid beasts that hadn’t seized the chance to run off. “Leave the dog, Grégoire, we need to be on our way.”

He got to his feet and took Achille’s reins again. “Oui, Maman.” His voice was submissive, but she sensed seething anger just below the surface.

The small crowd that had gathered to watch a fight drifted off, disappointed that there was no blood. Cassie headed away from the market at a brisk pace, shepherding Grey and his horse in front of her.

When they were clear of the last of the marketgoers and the main street was empty, she stopped to remount and saw that the dog was following them hopefully. “You’ve made a friend, Grégoire.”

Grey knelt and scratched the dog’s scrawny neck. She was young, medium sized, and so skinny that her ribs showed. Under the dirt, she seemed to be black and tan with white feet and muzzle. Floppy ears suggested hound ancestry.

She wasn’t wild, for she licked Grey’s hand hopefully. “She wants kindness as much as food,” he said. “But she also needs more food. One small sausage for which you paid too much doesn’t go far when one is starving. Can we spare some cheese?”

Cassie knew that feeding the scraggly little bitch was a bad idea, but she couldn’t resist the dog’s pleading brown eyes. She foraged in her saddlebags until she found a chunk of cheese. Breaking it in half, she handed a chunk to Grey. “You’ll never get rid of her after this.”

“I don’t want to.” Grey broke the cheese into smaller pieces and fed them to the dog one at a time. “I always had dogs. I missed them as much as I missed people.” He scratched the dog’s head affectionately. “If Régine chooses to follow, I won’t object.”

Cassie studied the skinny dog. “Naturally she should be called Queen. It will do wonders for her morale.”

Grey tossed the last piece of cheese to Régine. She snapped it neatly out of the air. “I hope so. Names are important.”

If Régine helped him relax and cope with the world, Cassie figured the dog was worth her weight in sausages. They proceeded out of the village side by side. A mile or so along, Cassie said, “You did well in the market. You didn’t kill anyone.”

Grey’s lips thinned. “I would have if you hadn’t stopped me. I’m not fit for civilized society, Cassie. If you aren’t around the next time I go berserk, I don’t know what will happen.”

“I’ll be around as long as you need me.”

He turned and looked at her, his gray eyes stark. “Is that a promise?”

She hesitated, realizing that she was on the verge of a very large promise. But while he needed her now, that wouldn’t be true much longer. Once he was back in England, there would be others better suited to helping him until the last of his demons were banished.

But for now, he did need her. “I promise, Grey.”

He gave a twisted smile. “You may live to regret saying that, but thank you, Cassie. For now, you’re my rock in a confusing world.”

“I’m more likely to regret your adopting that dog,” she remarked. “We’ll have to sleep in barns for the rest of our trip.”

He gave her an exaggerated leer. “As long as there is sufficient privacy to ravish you, my dearest vixen.”

She laughed, glad his anger was under control again. They’d spent the previous night in a barn, and there had indeed been sufficient privacy for ravishing, though she wasn’t sure who was the ravisher and who was the ravished.

Cassie glanced back and saw that Régine was following. The dog seemed to have had some training. Perhaps she was a family pet that had become lost. She’d make Grey a good companion. Cassie loved animals herself, but couldn’t keep them in her traveling life. She tried not to become too attached to her horses because sometimes she had to leave them behind. Just as she had to do with men.

They were making good time and should reach the coast within a few days. She’d be glad to get her charge safely home, but oh, she’d miss the nights!

After selling out his wares, the merchant Morlaix retired to the taproom of the nearby inn. As he waited for his drink, the commander of the local gendarmerie entered and posted a flyer on the wall by the door. REWARD! shouted across the top in large letters.

Morlaix liked to practice his reading, so he ambled over to study the flyer. Fugitives were being sought. An old woman, an old man, a younger man with light hair. Maybe together, maybe separate, maybe traveling with others.

“Eh, Leroy,” he said to the commander, who was an old friend. “I just saw two out of three like that in the market. The old woman and a light-haired man. But he was touched in the head and there was no old man.”

Leroy, a former army sergeant, looked mildly interested. “From around here?”

“No, strangers. Heading north.”

Leroy looked more interested. “The notice says they’re most likely heading north. What did the old woman look like?”

Morlaix shrugged. “Nothing worth noticing. Average size, dressed one step above a ragpicker, gray hair. A man would have to be desperate to want to bed her.”

Even more interested, the gendarme asked, “Old but strong?”

Morlaix frowned. “I suppose she was. She stopped her great brute of a son from attacking me.”

“Why did he want to attack you?”

The merchant told the story tersely, thinking it didn’t reflect well on him. The gendarme’s eyes lit up. “Could he have been an Englishman? They’re mad for dogs!”

“He didn’t say much, but he spoke like a Frenchman. An idiot Frenchman.”

Leroy tapped the flyer. “The younger man is an escaped English spy. I suppose he’d have to speak French well to be a spy. This pair may be the ones who are wanted. How long since they left town?”

“Half a day,” Morlaix replied. “See here, if they’re the ones, do I get the reward?”

“Maybe part of a reward, but only if they’re the right villains and if they’re captured. I’ll send word up the road by the military mail coach.” The commander spun on his heel and headed for the door.

“Don’t you go forgetting my reward!” Morlaix growled. His drink was waiting, so he took a deep swallow. Damned gendarme wanted the reward for himself. France may be an empire, not a kingdom, but there was still them that had power, and them that didn’t.

Chapter 19

“This looks promising,” Cassie said as a small roadside inn came into view. A weathered sign proclaimed AUBERGE DU SOLEIL. Inn of the Sun.

The name MME. GILBERT was painted below. This was no bustling post house, merely a local tavern that served drinks and simple food and had a room or two for travelers. “With luck, we can get a hot meal and a bath for Régine.”

“Any chance of a bath for us?” Grey stroked the dog’s back. She was sprawled contentedly across his lap, having become too tired to keep up behind the horses.

“Régine needs it more,” Cassie pointed out with a smile. “But if we’re really lucky, there might be some hot water for us.”

They rode into the small yard. It was muddy, like most of northern France now that the last of the snow was melting. Though the first welcome buds of spring were beginning to appear, there was a lot more mud.

Cassie dismounted, tethered Thistle, and entered the inn. Bells on the door rang as she entered, and a sturdy, authoritative older woman came out to greet her. “I am Madame Gilbert,” she said briskly. “How may I serve you?”

“Good day, madame,” Cassie said in her country accent. “My son and I are interested in a meal, a room, and perhaps a tub where he can wash his dog?”

“His dog?” The woman glanced out the window, where Grey and Régine were visible atop Achille. Grey had been trying to cultivate a vacant expression, but he wasn’t very good at it. Fortunately, the beard covered most of his face.

“He found a filthy, hungry stray in the town market and wants to keep it.” Cassie gave a “what’s a mother to do?” sigh. “Grégoire isn’t quite right in the head, and having a dog calms him.”

“Is he a deserter from the army?” Madame Gilbert asked bluntly.

“No,” Cassie said firmly. “He is not capable of being a soldier.”

The older woman shrugged. “Best not tell me anything I might have to lie about. But as one mother to another, I’ll say that the gendarmes in this district spend much of their time hunting down deserters, and they often come along this road. Most of ’em are soldiers who were invalided out of the army, so they don’t like seeing anyone else escape the suffering.”

“Truly Grégoire was never in the army, but he is of a soldierly age.” Cassie didn’t like what she was hearing. “Is there another road the gendarmes are less fond of?”

Madame Gilbert’s mouth quirked up, as if Cassie had just confirmed that her “son” was an escaping soldier. “Aye, and not far away. A little muddy lane leads by my stables. It doesn’t look like much, but if you follow its wandering through the fields, eventually it ends at another road that runs north. Narrow and quiet.”

Curious, Cassie said, “You sound sympathetic to deserters.”

The older woman’s mouth hardened. “Napoleon’s wars killed my husband, my brother, and both my sons. They’ll not get my grandsons, and I won’t help the gendarmes track down any poor devils who don’t want to die in muddy foreign fields.”

“I don’t much care who wins.” Which wasn’t true. Napoleon must be destroyed. More truthfully, Cassie added, “I just want this endless fighting over.”

“Amen to that. You’re interested in washing the dog?”

“That, a hot meal, and permission to bed down in the stables. Grégoire will be happier if he’s near the horses.”

The landlady nodded, by now convinced that Grey was a deserter. “It’s a nice snug building. You’ll sleep well there. As for the dog, there’s a laundry shed next to the stables with a pump, tubs, soap, and brushes. The hot meal tonight is mutton stew.”

“That sounds perfect, madame.” Cassie pulled out a thin purse. “How much for everything?” Including information more valuable than a roof over their heads.

Régine accepted washing without enthusiasm, but she didn’t bite or try to run away as Grey scrubbed her in the small washhouse. Cassie stayed out of splashing distance, admiring Grey’s bare chest and the dog’s increasing cleanliness. Régine would never be beautiful, but she was a happy beast who gazed at Grey with adoration. One of her parents might have been a beagle. The other ancestors were anyone’s guess.

After Régine had been scrubbed and dried with rough towels, they retired to the stables, which were indeed snug. Madame Gilbert kept a pair of staid cart horses, but there was plenty of room for Thistle and Achille.

Thinking it best to keep Grey away from the landlady, Cassie carried their suppers to the stable on a tray. The mutton stew was hearty and flavorful, the home-brewed beer a good accompaniment, and there was plenty of fresh bread to sop up the last of the stew.

It was dusk when Cassie took back the tray with the dirty dishes. She returned to the stables to find that Grey had spread a blanket over a pile of loose straw and was reclining on it, Régine beside him. Grey was long and lean and glorious in the dim light of a single lantern. Though disheveled and still too thin, eating well was taking the gaunt edges off his appearance.

“This combines the informal pleasures of camping with the advantage of having a roof, a good hot meal, and an easy escape if we need to leave in a hurry.” Since Régine lay on his right, he patted the straw on his left. “Come sit beside me, Cassie the Fox. Having satisfied one appetite, it’s time to satisfy another.”

“You are shameless,” she said as she complied, happy to lounge by his warm body in the cooling evening.

“So Lady Agnes Westerfield once said. She was laughing, but she meant it. And she was right.” Grey half rolled over Cassie and settled into a long, thorough kiss. “Will I have any success in seducing you?”

“I suppose I have a couple of minutes to spare,” she said teasingly as the fingers of her right hand slid into his tangled hair.

“Vixen!” He kissed her throat. “You’re trying to insult me into demonstrating my manly endurance.”

“You have deduced my fell scheme!” she said with a gurgle of laughter. When Grey wasn’t distressed, he made her laugh like no other man she’d known.

He buried his face in the angle between her throat and shoulder. “Oh, Cassie, Cassie,” he said huskily. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“I am merely a thing?” She nipped his earlobe, thinking how much she would miss this playfulness and laughter.

He laughed. “The best thing.” He kissed her temple. “The best luck.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “The best person.” He licked her ear. “And the very best, most amazing woman.” He ended his litany by bringing his mouth down on hers.

The deep, thorough kiss almost dissolved her ability to think. A long, delicious interval later, she murmured, “Your best luck was probably going to school with Kirkland. Not many men would spend so long searching for a lost friend.”

“True.” His hand slid down her torso. “But think of how much less amusing it would be if he’d sent one of his male agents to Castle Durand.”

“Given your state of deprivation, you might not have cared who rescued you.” She arched into his hand. “Any warm, willing body would do equally well.”

“Wicked, wicked vixen! Even ten years wasn’t enough for me to forget the differences between males and females. Though perhaps I should refresh my memory …”

He was reaching for her hem when shouts and the jangle of harness sounded in the yard outside. They froze.

In the quiet night, a harsh voice demanded entry to Auberge du Soleil in the name of the emperor so fugitives and deserters could be captured. Madame Gilbert replied robustly, telling the gendarmes she had no deserters in her inn, and why were the cochons disturbing law-abiding citizens at their dinners?

Desire and laughter vanished. Cassie swore under her breath. “Time we were leaving.” She scrambled from the straw. “A good thing we hadn’t unpacked.”

“The bastards!” Grey leaped to his feet and started toward the stable doors. “I’d like to …”

Cassie grabbed his arm. “We are not charging out there to take on half a dozen armed men! We are going to quietly saddle up and leave by the back door and take the lane that runs away from the road and the inn.”

His arm was rigid under her hand, but after drawing a deep breath, he turned away from the door and reached for his saddle. “Will they harm Madame Gilbert?”

“She’s a formidable woman and she seemed experienced with such visits from the gendarmerie.” Cassie tossed her saddle blanket over Thistle. “Her protests will buy us a few minutes before they search the stables. The best thing we can do for her is be gone without leaving any traces that we were here. Tell your dog not to bark.”

Expression grim, Grey folded the blanket and packed it into his saddlebags. When they were ready to leave, Cassie scanned the area while Grey quietly opened the doors in the back of the stables. She’d surveyed the lane earlier. Though narrow and muddy, it ran between thick hedgerows so they would disappear from view quickly.

Cassie dowsed the lantern and they led their mounts out. Régine trotted along behind them, puzzled but cooperative. Luckily, she wasn’t a barker.

They left just in time. Behind them lanterns flared and an officer ordered his men to search all their outbuildings. Giving thanks that the gendarmes were making so much noise, Cassie led the way out into the lane. A mist was turning into light rain and the damp cold bit to the bone. She hoped that somewhere down the lane they’d find shelter.

At least this time they weren’t escaping through a blizzard.

He was hunted like a rabbit through the fields, hounds baying for his blood. He fell and lay panting and helpless while hunters and hounds crashed down on him. But instead of the swift death of being torn to pieces, they captured him, bound his limbs, dragged him back to prison, and dropped him into a bottomless pit, where he fell into endless night …

Grey woke up screaming into the darkness. He lashed out, but before full-blown panic destroyed the last shreds of sanity, warm arms embraced him and a soothing female voice said, “It’s all right, Grey. We’re safe here.” Her soft voice and strong body were sanctuary in a black, bleak world. “We escaped without the gendarmes knowing we’d been there.”

Heart pounding and fists knotted, he fought to master himself. Mind over frantic instinct. He was not imprisoned, was not trapped in a lightless eternity. “Sorry,” he managed. “Knowing that we’re being pursued must have triggered a bad dream.”

“The first since you escaped?”

His first reaction was to say that it was, but he couldn’t lie to Cassie. “Not the first, but the worst.” He wrapped his arms around her, feeling his panic recede. “When you’re close, they go away quickly.” He frowned into the darkness. “Did I strike you when I was thrashing around?”

“No, though not for lack of trying!” she replied. “Luckily I dodge well.”

Thank God for that. “Remind me where we are?”

“A shed built to protect livestock fodder,” she explained. “At this season, most of the fodder has been used so there’s space for weary travelers to sleep.”