Chapter 25
Luke was shoved against the wall by a shallow-chested guard, and of course he allowed it. Passivity did not come easily, but
it was part of the act. He was dressed like a member of the band who’d lost his way. In reality, he buzzed with combat energy,
and he’d like nothing more than to tussle with a guard. But members of the band did not challenge the watch; they complied.
They apologized. They pretended to be drunk and lost.
“What’s your business so far from the ballroom?” the guard shouted in Luke’s ear. Luke forced himself to cower against the
wall.
“Thought you’d give yourself a tour of the castle, did you?” the guard went on. He spun Luke, pressing his face against the
rough stones. The young guard had been alone when he’d come upon Luke, but they usually canvassed these passages in pairs.
Luke could handle the guard if his partner remained absent, but there were no guarantees.
Luke had only been stopped because he’d been darting through the shadows like a bloody assassin.
Sloppy. His desire for revenge had obscured his common sense.
He must slow down; he must look like a musician.
Linus had been, thank God, located, and collected and carried out; but he needed medical attention, and fresh water and clean clothes.
Luke’s men were hustling him to safety and arranging for this and Luke was on the prowl for Vincent Surcouf. He needed only a quarter hour more.
“Answer me!” the guard was shouting.
“Lavigne?” called a second voice behind him. “What’s happened? Who’s that?”
Luke craned to see. Another guard trotted up, a hand on his blade. Damn.
“Musician,” said the first guard. “I came upon him scurrying from the stairwell like a rat.”
“Musician?” asked the second guard, leaning in close. He snarled in Luke’s ear, “What’s the rush, Fiddler?”
“Aye,” said the first guard. “And where’s your instrument?”
“You know who runs when there’s no chase?” asked the second guard. “A thief, that’s who. He’s stolen something, I reckon.
Step away from the wall, Fiddler.”
Luke ignored him, choreographing a fistfight in his head. This would not be his first time to fight two men at once, but it
was hardly his preferred scenario. And where there were two guards, there were sure to be more. He was just about to shove
away from the wall and spin with a roundhouse kick when a woman’s scream rang through the passage.
“Aidez!” Help.
The choreography in Luke’s head dissolved. He knew that voice.
“Aidez-moi!” Help me, the voice cried again. Again, he knew it. Undeniably, unmistakably. It was a voice he heard in his dreams at night.
And she was crying for help.
Luke shrugged off the hulking guard and pushed from the wall. The man was distracted by the siren song of a young woman in
distress, and he fell easily away.
Luke ducked right, keeping out of the man’s reach, and squinted into the dim passage. Why, in God’s name, would his wife be in France? And if she was in France—which she would not, could not be—why would she be in the rabbit warren of corridors deep in this castle, calling for help?
He took a step toward the sound . . .
“Guards!” the voice shouted in French.
Without hesitation, the two guards scrambled after the sound, leaving Luke behind. He bolted after them, his heart in his
throat. The voice sounded like it came from just around the corner. The guards made the turn, Luke close behind. Meanwhile,
his brain told him to embrace the distraction, run the other way. There was no reason for Danielle to be in France, in this
castle, now. Danielle was safely—
For as long as he lived, Luke would never forget the vision that greeted him around the corner.
His wife—oh yes, he’d not misheard—his wife, Danielle Allard d’Orleans Bannock, stood in a pool of light cast by hanging lanterns.
She wore a gossamer gown of silvery white and the crown he’d given her on their wedding day. Her hands were raised like someone
pantomiming the word Come. She looked ethereal and regal and unforgettably beautiful. She also looked like she was in the wrong country, at the worst
possible time, drawing unnecessary attention to herself.
She did not, at first glance, look like she required help.
And yet—
“Oh, there you are,” she said to the guards in French, giving a little smile.
Transfixed, the men edged closer. They made it only four steps before an unidentified robed figure lunged from a gap in the wall.
In an acrobatic flourish—slashing arms and whirling cloak—the figure whacked the nearest guard in the back of the head with what looked like an unlit torch. The man dropped like a stone.
Spinning toward his felled partner, the second guard reached for his sword, but he was too slow. The figure spun, took up
a new position behind the second man, and knocked him in the head with the same blunt object. The second man fell.
Luke was too stunned to go on the offensive, but he dropped into a defensive crouch, ready to evade the next blow.
“Bannock,” said the figure. “Get up and help me restrain them. Hurry. I didn’t hit them so very hard.”
Luke shook his head. The robed figure was a woman. And she’d called him by name. He took a step closer, eyeing Danielle at
the same time.
“Bannock,” the robed woman hissed. “Help me.”
“Who are you?” he asked. “Daniell—”
“This is my sister’s friend, Marie,” Danielle told him, dropping beside the nun and shoving the guards’ boots together.
And then Luke remembered. Elise Crewes had arrived at their wedding with a woman—a nun. But did this nun knock men unconscious
and restrain them? And why was she here? With Luke’s wife?
“Bannock,” the nun called again.
Luke forced his brain to function. His wife was on her knees, tying up a French guard, and he stood dumbfounded. He shook
his head and dropped beside her.
“What are you doing here?” he asked Danielle. His voice came out in a rasp.
A length of rope had appeared from nowhere, and she unfurled it.
“Danielle,” Luke repeated. Reaching out, he grabbed her wrist. If he’d dreamed her, she would vanish beneath his touch.
She did not vanish. She sat back on her haunches and he followed her, refusing to let go. She gave him a self-satisfied smile.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated, gaping at her beautiful face. He could smell her—geraniums and wind and a smell distinctive
to her alone. Her wrist was warm beneath his touch. The sleeves of her gown were short, and he felt soft skin between the
hem of her sleeve and the top of her glove. She was so achingly familiar, so precious and beloved—but so incredibly not supposed to be here.
“Mr. Bannock,” called the nun, “if you cannot assist us, will you please move aside?”
Luke looked to her. “Forgive me. Sister—?”
“Marie,” provided Danielle. She shook free of Luke’s hold and gathered up the rope. “Sister Marie is a guardian to the Orleans
family. She has attended my sister, Elise, for years. And tonight, she is assisting me. At the moment, I suppose I am assisting
her.”
“I assist you, Princess,” the nun corrected, tying the first guard’s wrist in a complicated knot.
Something about hearing English words, addressed to him, coming from Danielle’s mouth, broke through Luke’s stunned confusion.
She is real.
And she’s here.
And she’s binding a man by hands and feet.
“Wait,” he said, “let me. We’ll cut the slack so you don’t have to go around so many times.” He pulled a blade from his boot
and sliced the rope. The nun bound both men and Danielle gathered up the extra length. When the guards were bound, Luke pulled
their bodies into the dark recess where Sister Marie had lain in wait.
“This way,” the nun said, taking Danielle by the arm, pulling her up the passage. Danielle shot him a look over her shoulder,
part smile, part can-you-believe it, and went where the nun pulled her.
Luke checked around the corner, checked the bound men, and hurried after the women.
“In here,” said Sister Marie, yanking open a door and shoving Danielle inside. “You have five minutes to reunite. After that,
we absolutely must go. I’ll stand guard. Hurry.” She shot Luke a hard look.
Luke blinked at her, trying to decide if he should thank her, or contradict her, or—
“Five minutes, Captain Bannock,” the nun said. “This is an indulgence for which we have no time, but you’ll be useless until
you speak to your wife, that much is clear. She’s come after you, Captain. Reckon with it.”
“Reckon . . .” he repeated.
“Luke!” Danielle called from inside the dark room.
“She, ‘came after me’?” Luke asked in passing, following Danielle’s voice.
Sister Marie shook her head; her patience had expired.
Luke paused, catching the doorjamb with his hand and hanging back. “But there’s no emergency?” he demanded in a whisper. “Nothing is wrong? Danielle is not fleeing for her life? Do you mean that she came here . . . with . . . for the purpose of—? Why would she come here?”
“Now you have only four minutes, Captain,” intoned the nun.
“Luke!” Danielle hissed. Her arm lashed out, she fastened a hand around his bicep, and yanked him into the room.
Sister Marie closed the door behind them with a click.