CHAPTER FOUR
While Henri took in the alarm in Grace’s features, his mind was working as furiously as his condition would allow.
If Jean-Marc and the others were ready to expose themselves to comment and question in the surrounding villages, it was certain they would not leave without making sure of his death.
Once his whereabouts were known to them, they would stop at nothing to come at him again.
“I must go from here,” he muttered unthinkingly.
“Go?” There was harshness in her voice. “How will you go, Henri? You cannot even stand upon your own two feet.”
“To remain is to put you in danger.”
“From what? They will not get into my house unhindered, I assure you, if that is what you fear.”
Henri was moved to give her a rueful smile. “I am assured, Grace, you have courage enough, but they are three and you have only Jemima.”
“And Reuben, if I choose to let him remain in the house.”
“And let him also be shot? No, Grace, it is not possible.” He held out his good hand towards where she stood by the bed, but she made no move to take it. Henri let it drop to the covers. “Eh bien, I must speak with these men who would take me away from here.”
Momentarily defeated, Grace turned away and walked to the window that overlooked the little garden.
She gazed down the lane in the direction of the main road, half afraid of seeing Henri’s enemies converging upon the house.
The lane was deserted, but it could only be a matter of time.
Sooner or later they must find their way here, even if none in the villages betrayed the presence of the fugitive.
Logic would bring them. Logic also told her that Henri was right.
Then why was an insistent voice within urging her that his safety lay in holding him here?
She turned to look across at him. “Who are they, Henri, the men who are looking for you?”
He was silent, though she read apology in his face. He would tell her nothing. Frustration thrust into her chest.
“Why do they want you dead? What had you done? Or is it to silence you?”
Henri hesitated. That last came dangerously close. If he allowed her to continue guessing, would she divine the truth? No, it was not possible. The truth was extremely complex. Only one who had knowledge of the deviousness of French affairs might come at it unaided. Her next words almost threw him.
“There is a watermark on one of your papers that bears a coat of arms.”
Dieu, had he used one of those sheets? Fool that he was! If Grace was acute enough to notice it, what of those in France who might have picked it up? Nor was it to his advantage to let it be seen in England, not yet. He sought for a way out of that one.
“It is possible. Such paper can be found, taken from houses of the enemies of the République.”
Scorn entered both face and voice. “Do you expect me to believe you did not know you had it?”
Henri eyed her with respect. He was conscious of a temptation to confide in her, but he knew he must not. To drag her into the complication of his affairs would be the act of a coward and an ingrate, after what she had done for him. His tone gentled.
“Grace, you ask of me what I cannot do. I owe to you my life. It is absolument impossible that I may endanger yours.”
She heard him with a rise of despair. If he was to stand in line against her, how was she to fight them all?
Could he not see he needed her protection?
There could be little doubt once it was known to Mayberry and the rest that Frenchmen were seeking him; his nationality would be instantly guessed at.
She would be in trouble enough for withholding it, let alone persuading them to continue to leave him in her care.
“But you will at least tell me these are the men who fired upon you.” Her boot clumped heavily as she moved back to the bedside. “What possible danger could it be to me to confirm that? I am certain of it, in any event. Why else would they be seeking you?”
She was relieved to receive a nod from him. “D’accord.”
“Then it is for Mayberry to question them. He will take them in charge, and that will keep them away from here.” Her heartbeat quickened.
“Heavens, what a simpleton I am, not to have thought of it before! There can be no difficulty, Henri. The moment it is known to the parish officers that these Frenchmen are in the area, they will assuredly be taken in for questioning. If you must be suspected of spying, then —”
“Not these men.”
“— they also must be in question.”
“Hear me, Grace! They have papers of — how do you say? — immunity. Yes, one may question them. Such papers will free them tout de suite.”
Balked, Grace hesitated, but only for a moment. “They will not be freed if Mayberry suspects them of attempted murder.”
Henri had no answer. Reserve was back in the green eyes, and it came to her the circumstances ran deeper than she dared guess at. That Henri was acquainted with his would-be killers was evident. Was he reluctant to see them captured on his account? Grace tried another tack.
“What happened that night? Can you remember? Can you tell me that much?”
The green eyes appraised her — warily, she thought. “C’est important?”
“Important? Of course it is important! Mayberry has been out in the marshes searching for clues. Whoever they are, whatever you may have done to provoke them, they tried to murder you. As parish officer, Mayberry has taken the matter very seriously.” A gust of anger shook her, though it had little to do with her words.
“This is England, Henri. Whatever habits may obtain in your country, people are not permitted to go about shooting each other here.”
To her mingled dismay and annoyance, Henri appeared to be amused. “But such a heat, enfin! Truly, Grace, you seize at — how do you say? At straw? Oui, you seize at straw, I think.”
She could feel herself flushing, and her voice went gruff. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you know.”
His arm moved quickly, and before she could snatch it away, Henri had hold of her hand. With surprising strength in one so weak, he pulled her closer. Grace had no choice but to perch on the bed, acutely aware of his grip.
“Ma chère, it will not aid you to tell this officer of the parish that these are the men who wish to kill me. You know it. You have said it, Grace. When he knows I am French, he must arrest me, no? It is duty. He does not know if I am a spy. You also, who have saved me, you do not know.”
Grace wanted to protest that she did know. Only an obstruction was sitting in her throat, and she had all to do to swallow it down, never mind speak. She scarce knew her fingers had tightened on his, nor that the struggle in her breast was visible.
Watching the colour fluctuating in her face, Henri saw there was none of the comforting sweetness in her features at this moment.
It occurred to him he had mistaken her age.
Without the smile, there was maturity. A creature lacking conventional beauty, and cursed by some mischance of fortune. Yet what a spirit lurked within.
The thought died as she spoke again, a husky note in her voice. “You must do as you think right, Henri. But so must I. You have said you owe me your life. Well, I have not saved you to see you lose it, and I will do whatever I have to do to preserve you. Do you understand?”
A surge of feeling swept through Henri’s breast. A spirit indomitable! He could not resist the temptation to test it.
“Even if you discover that I am a spy, enfin?”
To her own dismay at the recognition of it, Grace answered him out of a set determination. “Even then.”
The darkness hung heavy within the curtains about Grace’s bed.
It was a hot night. Had it not been for the need to silence gossiping tongues, she would have left them undrawn.
Only Mab, she knew, closely questioned Jemima daily.
The maid would undoubtedly report on Grace’s actions and movements, now that it was no longer necessary for one of them to remain by Henri’s bedside through the night.
Closed curtains around the bed signified modesty to Mab, who would faithfully discharge her duty by disclosing this fact to any who dared question what went on at night in the little house at Wonts.
Not that it prevented Mab’s complaints. What she would say did she know her erstwhile charge was prepared to harbour a spy against her own country, Grace dared not imagine.
Not that she believed for a moment Henri was a spy.
To have realised that it made no difference could not but fill her head with question.
Here was a man she had known but a few short days.
Only it was far from an ordinary acquaintance.
She had been thrust into an intimacy that had nothing to do either with inclination or choice.
Nothing to do with friendship. Yet she felt as close to him as if she had known him for years.
He could mean nothing to her, yet he meant too much.
It was illogical, unreasonable and ridiculous.
Only because she had been instrumental in bringing him back from the brink of death?
Because of those cursed papers that she did not understand, of which she dared not break open the seals?
Impossible. Then why was it she felt inordinate relief when Mayberry did not come to the house today as expected?
If he had conferred with Ffrith, he must have had a good account of the patient.
Perhaps he was occupied with other matters.
He was a conscientious parish officer, re-elected every year since Grace had come to live here, and he had his farm to run as well.
It appeared as if he had refrained from going to Sir James. Or had he? Grace would not be at all surprised if the latter descended upon her tomorrow, along with Mayberry. And she was no nearer finding an argument that would permit her to hold Henri here.