No Longer a Gentleman by Mary Jo Putney

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