Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter by Carrie Fancett Pagels Page B

pulled the cap over her eyes and bent her head obsequiously as she went about helping her tormenter.
    “I’m here to retrieve Suzanne Richelieu from this estate. She’s my brother’s fiancée and I will bring her back to him.” His deceitful tone grated.
    Suzanne stiffened. Her mind, clear after a good night’s sleep, recognized the lie. “Monsieur?” she feigned ignorance.
    “MademoiselleRichelieu? Where is she?” Pierre shouted, entered the stall, and cuffed Suzanne to the ground.
    Stunned and in pain, she still held her cap to her head. No one had ever struck her. Ever.
    Fury snorted and sidestepped toward Pierre, nostrils flaring.
    Pierre backed out of the stall as Fury lowered his head and moved between him and Suzanne.
    How she wanted to stare into Pierre’s face and read what she suspected was true–that this man betrayed her father, and thus, her now dead mother. And he would’ve done so with her brother had Rochambeau not called him. She needed Guy—him and his sharpest sword. For now, though, Fury performed an excellent job of keeping the monster at bay.
    “MonsieurLeFort!” The stableman ran in through the back of the stables. “I’ll have the groom take care of your horse, but there are soldiers here who wish to talk with you.”
    Oh, no, those two from yesterday—they’d come back. It sounded as if an entire regiment marched into the stable behind them. Did it include the two men from yesterday, and would they demand to see the phantom nephew?
    She had to get out. Now.
    “What happened to you, LeFort?” a cheerful voice called out.
    “Looks like you took a tumble?” a different soldier taunted.
    “And do you need help getting away from that stallion?”
    Snickers, insults, and profane jeers continued until Suzanne took hold of Fury’s reins.
    Pierre exited, cursing under his breath.
    These soldiers were different men than the day before. Their uniforms were impeccable; boots spotless, whereas Monsieur Kull indicated the others were slovenly.
    “What are you doing here, anyway, LeFort? We’ve been looking for you.”
    “I could ask you the same question. What brings you so far from your camp?” These last two words were spoken like an epithet. Pierre was well known for being one of the few men to have successfully avoided service to his king.
    Guillame, however, had been chomping at the bit to go for as long as she could remember.
    “We, monsieur, were tasked to bring home the body of Madame Richelieu, for burial—something we had to strongly persuade your friend, Monsieur DeMint, to allow.”
    How she wished to see her mother interred, there next to Grand-mère and Grand-père. But she couldn’t risk arrest. She mounted up and urged the horse into a trot, away from the stables. Suzanne gritted her teeth, awaiting a call from one of the soldiers or a shot overhead to warn her. Nothing. What would keep them so preoccupied with Pierre?
    On she rode for what seemed like hours to her next destination. Chilled through by the damp forest air, Suzanne inhaled the blessed scent of wood smoke. She sighted the woodsman’s cottage as she exited the forest into the clearing. Suzanne patted the stallion’s neck.
    Fury displayed his temperamental nature at every opportunity, and her arms and thighs ached from the constant effort she had to exert to control him.
    Dread, her old companion, kept her mood in a dark place. Had Rochambeau betrayed their family, also? Had he sent Guy out to his death?
    The arched doorway to the house swung out, a young man filling its frame, shaking his shaggy head of gold-brown hair. His dirt-colored clothing appeared shabbier than her own and much too small for his stomach and chest. But he had a presence.
    “Welcome, stranger!” He was far too cheerful-looking to suit her foul mood this day.
    Suzanne peered back at the big oaf, who seemed delighted with her arrival. The woodsman’s relation had no idea who she was, yet he welcomed her with joy. She frowned. Why