Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Philippe rode steadily back to town. When he reached the stables, the attendants helped him get Alex off the horse.
By then she had completely passed out. He tried to rouse her enough to stumble to her room, but her legs gave out.
He solved the problem by picking her up and carrying her through the doors to the inn.
At the sound of guests, the innkeeper came rushing out to be of service. He looked at them questioningly. Philippe knew the humor in his expression had to confuse the old man.
“Is she alright, Monsieur?” the innkeeper asked.
“Yes, she’s drunk,” he said. “She will be fine. Would you mind sending a pitcher of water and a basin to her room?”
“Certainement, Monsieur,” he said.
“And if you could find me a change of pants?” he asked, indicating his soiled leg.
“Oui, Monsieur,” he said, scuttling off but not before giving Philippe another odd look.
Philippe maneuvered her down the hall to her room and got through the door with the help of several expectant attendants.
He laid her on the bed and began to undo her boots.
The innkeeper brought the water and Philippe directed everyone out.
He pulled off her boots and stockings and rid her of her weapons.
Though a little disheveled, with torn pants and a rumpled shirt, she’d remained reasonably clean, Philippe himself having gotten the worst of it.
Her body was floppy and limp, making it easy for him to work, but she’d still crumple up her brow and let out a protesting moan every now and then.
He worked quickly, having done this very thing for his brothers and his men multiple times in his life.
Succumbing to drink was a common problem on the road, but he had never cared for a woman like this.
Though he kept her modesty in mind, he worked with efficiency and purpose.
Once she was laid out more or less unencumbered, he took a cloth, dipped it in the water and began washing her face.
He leaned her forward and put a second pillow behind her, propping her up.
“Alex.” He attempted to rouse her with a gentle shake. “Wake up.”
“Mmmmm,” she whined in protest.
“Come now,” he patted her cheek. “Open your eyes.”
“No,” she mumbled. “My head hurts.” She tipped forward and he caught her.
“Drink this water or you will feel worse in the morning.” He held the cup against her lips.
“I don’t want it,” she said, shaking her head.
“Drink it,” he commanded, titling the cup to wet her lips.
Alex grumbled but followed orders, taking a few gulps before she shut her mouth and refused any more.
“You are a terrible drunk,” he chuckled.
She sank into the cushions and curled up into a ball. “I don’t feel good,” she whimpered.
“I know you don’t,” he replied. He sat next to her on the bed and again dipped the rag into the basin of water.
He wrung it out and dabbed her forehead and neck, running his thumb along her cheek and the edge of her lips.
He smiled to himself—she was certainly the prettiest drunk he’d ever cared for.
He left the rag on her forehead for a moment.
As he was still waiting for pants, he decided to strip down to his undergarments and set the dirty pair outside of the room to be cleaned.
He’d already decided that he would stay with her, as he would do for any of his men.
Of course, the fact that it was Alex made the situation a little more delicate, but he hoped the closeness they had shared tonight would afford him her trust. He’d been a gentleman with her, mostly, and she was in no danger with him.
Really, he’d take any excuse not to leave her side.
He had realized he was in love with her, and everything had become clear.
His lack of finesse around her, his inability to let her out of his sight, his uncharacteristically muddled head.
The feeling had been growing inside him until it was a raging force and affecting everything he did.
Even his more careful and prolonged pursuit of Giroux had gone painstakingly slow in part because he wanted to keep her safe and spend as much time near her as possible.
What a moron he was to not have realized sooner, but he’d never experienced anything like this before.
His interest in women had always been… different, less complicated.
To think, had he taken her the moment she entered Chevalerie like he had wanted, he would have missed all the enchanting moments between them, the ones, he realized, that had forged his feelings and, he hoped, hers as well.
He didn’t know what she would say to him when she woke up.
Perhaps she would slip into his arms. Perhaps she would hate him again.
No matter, because now that he had it figured out, he would chase her for a lifetime if he had to.
He watched her as she slept, more peacefully now, feeling warmth in his heart.
He shook his head and chuckled to himself, the events of the evening having taken so many strange turns.
He pulled a blanket over her and lay next to her on the outside of it.
He rested his head on the pillow and crossed his arms across his chest. He closed his eyes and a satisfied smile worked its way onto his lips before he drifted off to sleep.
He hadn’t felt this content in a very long time.
He was unsure how long he had been asleep when a loud crash snapped him awake.
He was disoriented at first and, looking to see that Alex hadn’t stirred, he wondered if he had imagined it.
The commotion outside the door told him otherwise.
He jumped out of bed, threw on his jacket, and realized he was still in his stockings.
There was no time to find pants now, so he buckled his sword belt and ran down the hall to investigate.
Out in the parlor, the innkeeper stood by the door with his candle, unsure of whether or not to open it in a repeat of last night’s performance.
Several civilian guests had poked their heads in, looking to see what had happened.
Thankfully, Philippe saw Laurent, Claude, and Franc with their swords at the ready, and he heard the rest of his men coming down the hall.
“What has happened?” called Philippe.
“Something hit the door, Monsieur,” said the innkeeper, “but we see no travelers from the windows.”
Philippe drew his sword. “Let’s see what it is this time,” he said.
The innkeeper obliged, sliding the long plank of wood that barricaded the door to the side and jumping back into the shadows as the door creaked open.
Philippe and his men held their positions, but nothing came through the door.
Philippe hadn’t expected communication until the morning.
He felt deep in his bones that whatever message he was being given, would not be a good one.
Philippe crept out into the darkness, but unlike last night, as soon as his vision adjusted to the dark, he saw something in the dirt, just a few yards away.
His eyes couldn’t make it out. His spirit, however, knew it was ominous and his stomach lurched in anticipation.
He moved closer, cautious of the darkness, the feeling of foreboding as thick as blood.
He was nearly upon the object before he understood what he was looking at.
He kneeled down and bowed his head at the ghastly scene. Then he reached out and closed the dead eyes of his fallen comrade.
“What is it?” he heard Laurent ask behind him.
Philippe continued to stare a moment, unsure of what to say, but very sure of the blazing anger pulsing in his chest. His men crept up behind him, and he heard the silence change as they too realized just what they were looking at.
He took off his jacket and covered the blood-caked mass. He tucked the sides under, feeling overwhelming remorse. He had let this happen. Maurice had died because he had misjudged the situation.
Out in the distance came a cry. Philippe looked to the sound as Laurent and Franc whizzed by him. There, in the field that bordered the inn was a shadowed figure, stumbling into view.
“It’s Auguste!” Laurent shouted.
Philippe could see Auguste’s hands had been bound as Laurent and Franc cut the ties. They helped the man to his feet and walked him to the rest of the group.
“Get some water! And a blanket!” Philippe rose and called out. “Does anyone have any booze?”
Bernard stepped forward and handed Auguste a small flask. “Here, brandy, here ya go,” he muttered.
“Philippe,” Auguste said, panting and out of breath, before gulping at the flask. He was scraped and cut about the face and his breeches had been torn in several places, but he was standing. “They ambushed us.”
Philippe grasped his man’s shoulder. “Do you need to sit?”
“No.”
“What happened?” Philippe asked.
“They pulled us into their camp. There weren’t very many. Eight, nine. Giroux was there. And there was another man. He was cloaked. He was the one in charge.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
He shook his head.
“Did he say anything?”
Auguste licked his swollen lips and shook his head again.
He took another drink from the flask. “They stopped talking before we got there. And then some of it was in the Northern dialect. I didn’t understand everything, but he told Giroux they needed a new advantage, and then he looked at us and said to send Maurice’s head.
” He swallowed hard. “I don’t know why him and not me. ”
Philippe continued. “Who did it?”
“One of the grunts.” He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed dirt and sweat from his eyes. “Then the leader told me to come back and tell you what I saw. They dumped me off a horse a half mile back.” He looked down at his hands. “Philippe, I have a wife in Chevalerie. I’ve got a baby on the way.”
Philippe gripped him on both arms. “You’re okay,” he said. “You’re alive.”
Auguste nodded and took another drink.
The innkeeper rushed out then and covered Auguste with a blanket.
The inn and nearby buildings were coming alive as people realized something had happened.
More attendants came to assist and help make sense of the tragedy, while Auguste was led inside.
Philippe stared off across the dirt, past the square and into the open wilderness.
He had played the patient negotiator long enough.
“We go after them tonight,” he ordered.
“Philippe,” said Laurent. “It will be exceedingly difficult to track them through the night.”
“I don’t give a damn,” he said. “We go now before they have time to regroup.”
He turned and stormed into the inn to gather what few supplies he needed.
He was sick to his stomach with guilt, rage, and impatience.
One of his men had died, and it was his fault.
Not wanting to put Alex in danger may have been the catalyst for his uncharacteristic patience in unraveling these crimes, but he had truly thought that endurance would be the key to this campaign.
Had they taken out Giroux or his men sooner, would they have learned of the problem at the river?
If they took them out now, would they ever discover the identity of the leader?
If they didn’t isolate the leader, would the problem even be solved?
He loathed the waiting and hated not knowing the solution.
But of all the variables, he did know one thing for sure: Giroux was the key to discovering their true enemy.
He made arrangements with his men and delegated tasks to the staff, each of whom busied around helping to prepare for the sudden departure.
He gathered his own things and with permission, sat behind the innkeeper’s desk.
He rubbed his fingers across his forehead.
Alex would never forgive him for leaving her behind.
He had been so close to unlocking something wonderful with her, he thought with a knife of regret to his heart, but he had to go.
This was his duty, and she had fulfilled hers once they had finished with the caves.
He needed to write to his father about his progress as well, but that could wait.
Right now, he would leave a note for Alex.
He rustled in the desk until he found what he needed and spread a piece of parchment out in front of him.
He took a deep breath and wrote across the page, My Dearest Alex.
All he could do was hope that she would forgive him once more.