Chapter 11
Eleven
Alix awoke to the sounds of horses stirring impatiently in their stalls.
The air was redolent with the aroma of hay, horseflesh, and manure, and as awareness of where she was returned, she snapped her body straight, coming up hard against Rafe.
Her hands flew to her clothing and she found her bodice and fichu disarrayed; she flushed recalling where and how his hands had touched her.
Quickly she pulled away from the circle of his arms. He made no move to hold her, and she stumbled backwards, tripping over Jervis.
Awakened, Jones floundered, issuing a string of muffled curses through the coat he had wrapped about his head, until at last, face freed, he sneezed loudly.
“God’s blood, I hope they come for us soon, my head feels like it’s been split open and stuffed with straw.
” He blew his nose noisily and sniffed. “And if they’re going to kill us, I hope they offer us a last meal first. I’m so hungry I’d even welcome some of that grit-filled Parisian bread. ”
“Well, if it’s going to be our last meal,” Rafe said pleasantly, “I think I’d like something more substantial, perhaps a bit of eggs and some ham.”
Alix shook her head, looking from one to the other. “We may be led out of here and shot, and you two are worrying about your stomachs?”
Rafe’s mind was, in fact, far from breakfast, but if they were to try for an escape, he wanted Alix to remain as calm as possible.
“First things first, focus on the simple problems before throwing yourself at the larger ones.”
There was a rough pounding on the door. “I certainly hope that’s the ham and eggs,” Jervis said.
“All right, you three step outside,” a voice barked.
The door swung open and Alix threw up an arm to shade her eyes from the sudden glare of sunlight that filled the room. Rafe whispered in her ear, “Alas, not a coffee pot in sight.”
That was certainly true, she thought as she stepped out into a circle of uniformed men, bayonets at the ready.
Blinking and brushing bits of straw from her skirts, she assessed the results of the evening they’d spent in the storage shed.
She was stiff and dust-covered but she had fared better than Jervis.
The man servant’s dark eyes were swollen like walnuts and his long nose was reddened and dripping.
Rafe, she noted with some annoyance, looked unruffled.
“Right,” he said, picking a stray bit of straw from his sleeve and turning to the earnest looking guards, “shall we go and straighten out this misunderstanding?”
The guards ignored him. “You,” one of them said jerking his chin at Alix, “come with us.” The guard reached for Alix and, without thinking, Rafe’s fist flew up and connected with his chin.
The guard went down and Rafe whirled to face the next man, but as he did so was met by the blinding pain of a rifle stock across his head.
Staggering back he heard the distinct click of four rifles being cocked and Alix screaming as they dragged her struggling across the courtyard, “You bastards, you bastards!”
“Easy now, Captain, let me look at your head. Nasty bit of work, but it doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. Four against one, whatever were you thinking?”
Rafe, coming to, groaned. “I didn’t want them to hurt Alix.” He raised himself onto his elbows, ignoring the pain ricocheting through his head. “Where have they taken her? Could you see?”
“No, Captain, there’s a tree and a broken cart blocking my view. She hasn’t been gone too long.”
The two men strained to capture any untoward noises, but all they could hear were the sounds of normal stable yard activity.
A young maid stood eyeing them curiously as she tossed table scraps from her apron to a flock of noisy chickens.
A stablehand wheeling a cart full of manure stared as he passed, nodding to the young soldiers who stood self-consciously shifting their feet, guns at the ready.
Then the guard who had hauled Alix off reappeared—Alix at his side.
Rafe scanned her appearance anxiously. Her fichu was missing. And she wasn’t meeting his eyes; she was staring above them, at his head.
“Bloody fools, you might have told him you were taking me to the privy.” Glaring angrily at the guards she continued scolding. “Just look at what you’ve done! You could have killed him.”
One of the guards, a young man with spotted skin, shifted his rifle uneasily. “Didn’t give us a chance; crazy Englander attacked us before we could say anything.”
Alix sniffed, turning her attention to Rafe. Taking a clean end of her fichu, which she’d used as an impromptu washcloth and was still holding in her hand, she began to dab gently at the bloody crease across his forehead.
“So Jervis and I played heroes to prevent them from hauling you off to the jakes?”
She bit her lip. “Apparently so. Most gallant, but not, I’m afraid, too well thought out.”
Rafe laid back and closed his eyes. “Madame Harcrest, you seem to have a disconcerting effect on my most well-laid plans.”
The guard who had led Alix off now cleared his throat and said gruffly, “Perhaps the gentlemen would also appreciate the opportunity to freshen up before they appear in front of the revolutionary tribunal.”
Alix watched as Jervis and Rafe followed the guard across the stable yard.
Wringing out her damp fichu, she attempted to smooth the lace triangle.
Her hands were shaking and the fichu was filthy, smeared with Rafe’s blood.
She’d been so frightened when she’d seen him fall under the butt of the guard’s gun.
She shuddered at the notion that he might have died trying to prevent them from taking her to the privy.
Drawing the ends of the fichu across the front of her bodice, she couldn’t help recalling the feel of his hands and his mouth on her breasts the night before.
She shuddered again, but this time not from fear.
She needed to get away from Rafe Harcrest, she told herself, as much for his safety as for her own.
Huget, the massive guard from the night before, joined them a short time later.
Frowning at the lump on Rafe’s head he said, “Mayor de Poix, the head of the Senlis Revolutionary Tribunal is ready to see you.” Addressing the guards he added, “Make sure these English dogs don’t try anything.
” In silence, interrupted only by the sounds of Jervis trying to clear his nose and throat, they marched across the yard and around to the front of a well-kept stucco and stone house.
A tri-colored flag hung over the doorway, snapping lightly in the cool morning breeze.
Huget knocked at the front door and Captain Doret opened it. “I am reporting with the prisoners, sir.”
It struck Alix that they were almost like boys playing soldiers, though she well knew that this was no game.
A wave of fear washed over her as strongly as when the guards had dragged her away from Rafe, but she schooled herself to remain calm.
Never show people what you feel, her mother had always cautioned, it will give them too much power over you.
Well then, vowed Alix, squaring her shoulders, these men would see nothing more than the face of an honest French citizen unjustly detained.
Captain Doret led them through a well-furnished vestibule and into a dining room where several people were seated around a table, enjoying their morning meal.
There was an array of cold meats on a platter, a steaming tureen of eggs, and a silver mesh basket full of freshly baked breads.
It was with an effort that Alix raised her eyes from the food to face the stout man in the neatly curled wig seated at the end of the table.
“Well, Doret,” the man said, putting down his coffee cup, “what have you brought us this morning?”
“Mayor de Poix,” Doret said saluting, “we believe these individuals may be English spies.”
De Poix dabbed at his mouth with a fine linen napkin, then impatiently motioned the captain forward. “Let me see their papers.”
Doret handed him a packet that Alix recognized as their identity papers, visas, passports, and marriage license.
De Poix drew a pair of spectacles from his waistcoat and adjusting them on his broad nose studied the papers carefully. He glanced up. ‘Tell me Anton, what was it about this threesome that aroused your suspicions. Apart from the fact that the gentleman and his servant are English?”
Doret answered smartly. “They were traveling in an expensive hired chaise at a high speed late at night. With all the aristocrats trying to smuggle funds out of the country, and reports of foreign interference, I thought it would be best if you inspected them before they were allowed to pass.”
“I see,” de Poix said, stroking a roll of loose skin beneath his square chin. “And did you search their coach?”
“Yes, sir, we did.”
“What did you find?”
There was a pause. “Nothing suspicious, sir. But this morning they attempted to attack my men and that one”— he gestured toward Jervis—“had a knife concealed in his boot.”
Alix bit back an indignant response to the captain’s skewed description of the morning’s events.
Doret continued. “I didn’t want to disturb your family, knowing that your son had just arrived.” He inclined his head toward a slim young man with fine blue eyes and a wealth of blond curls. The young man, who was wearing the red, white, and blue sash of a government official, nodded impassively.
De Poix grunted. “Well, yes, I see.” And for the first time he looked directly at Rafe and Alix. “And what have you to say to these charges?”
Rafe stepped forward. “First, let me apologize for the unfortunate incident with the captain’s soldiers.
I thought they meant to harm my wife. And, as I am sure you understand, Your Honor,”—-he nodded meaningfully toward a stout woman seated to de Poix’s right—“my only thought was to protect her.” The lace cap atop the woman’s gray curls bobbed appreciatively.