a
child at Lady Ursula’s knee. Never again would he wear a silk shirt without
remembering the eerie sight.
Past
one open doorway after another, his slender, boyish-looking guide slipped, as
silent as the shadows that concealed her. Past one open doorway after another,
Tristan followed her, careful to keep the flickering candle within the lantern
hidden from view beneath her jacket.
He
had just begun to congratulate himself on making it through this den of
Bonapartists without mishap when they came to an area where two huge rolling
carts laden with hundreds of ells of silk fabric blocked the passageway outside
one of the apartments.
There
was nothing for it but to move one of the carts enough to give them room to
squeeze past the doorway. Handing over the lantern, Tristan bent his shoulder
to the task. Fortunately, the cart rolled easily despite its size;
unfortunately the ancient wood wheels creaked loudly in protest.
The
stocky, middle-aged canut instantly stilled his spindle and looked up
from his loom, staring mole-like into the darkened alley. Madelaine Harcourt
flattened herself against the stone wall, her eyes wide with terror in the
shifting shadows, and Tristan drew his pistol, fervently praying he wouldn’t be
forced to use it.
A
terrible, waiting silence ensued. Tristan could see the horror etched on his
young companion’s face as she stared at the lethal weapon in his hand, could
sense her quick intake of breath when he cocked it and raised it to the ready.
Then, just when his nerves were stretched to the breaking point, the weaver
gave a typical Gallic shrug and returned to his work—and the two fugitives
slipped silently past his doorway and continued their flight to safety.
“One
more potential disaster circumvented,” Tristan whispered, returning the
pepperbox pistol to the pocket of his cassock. Madelaine Harcourt didn’t answer
him—didn’t so much as glance his way—and a new weariness engulfed Tristan, born
of the knowledge that she now found him more fearful than the enemy they were
trying to elude.
He
was in no mood to pacify a squeamish female. He had been awake since dawn and
it must be near that hour again. His head was pounding, his feet dragging, and
the hellish trip through the traboules had sorely tested his belief in
his own manhood.
To
add to his dilemma, much as he hated to admit it, his admiration for the young
woman in his care was growing by leaps and bounds. In the past few hours, she
had lost everything in life she held dear. Any other female he knew would have
been utterly devastated by the tragedies she had faced. Instead she seemed to
gain in courage and stamina with every passing minute—two qualities he himself
had been hard put to equal. In truth, he was beginning wonder who was rescuing
whom in this bizarre partnership they’d formed.
At
long last they left the lofts of the silk weavers behind and found themselves
standing on the bank of the Saône River just as the first pink-hued rays of the
rising sun tinged the horizon. The acrid smell of smoke filled Tristan’s
nostrils. Behind him, the sky glowed red from the fires consuming the homes of
Lyon’s few remaining Royalists; before him lay the grove of trees, just as
Forli had described it.
As
he listened, a cheer rose from hundreds of throats. He heard snatches of the
Marseillaise and the voices of men chanting names like Friedland, Marengo,
Austerlitz, and other battles fought in the name of the emperor, and he knew
that, as predicted, Lyon had fallen to General Cambronne’s grognards .
Madelaine
Harcourt covered her eyes in a gesture of despair. Instinctively, he reached
out to her, offering the meager comfort of one stranger to another. “Unless my
eyes deceive me, Forli’s horse and carriage awaits us in the grove yonder,” he
said to divert her attention from the happenings in the city.
She
lowered her hands and raised her head to gaze where he directed. At the same
moment, a lone figure detached
child at Lady Ursula’s knee. Never again would he wear a silk shirt without
remembering the eerie sight.
Past
one open doorway after another, his slender, boyish-looking guide slipped, as
silent as the shadows that concealed her. Past one open doorway after another,
Tristan followed her, careful to keep the flickering candle within the lantern
hidden from view beneath her jacket.
He
had just begun to congratulate himself on making it through this den of
Bonapartists without mishap when they came to an area where two huge rolling
carts laden with hundreds of ells of silk fabric blocked the passageway outside
one of the apartments.
There
was nothing for it but to move one of the carts enough to give them room to
squeeze past the doorway. Handing over the lantern, Tristan bent his shoulder
to the task. Fortunately, the cart rolled easily despite its size;
unfortunately the ancient wood wheels creaked loudly in protest.
The
stocky, middle-aged canut instantly stilled his spindle and looked up
from his loom, staring mole-like into the darkened alley. Madelaine Harcourt
flattened herself against the stone wall, her eyes wide with terror in the
shifting shadows, and Tristan drew his pistol, fervently praying he wouldn’t be
forced to use it.
A
terrible, waiting silence ensued. Tristan could see the horror etched on his
young companion’s face as she stared at the lethal weapon in his hand, could
sense her quick intake of breath when he cocked it and raised it to the ready.
Then, just when his nerves were stretched to the breaking point, the weaver
gave a typical Gallic shrug and returned to his work—and the two fugitives
slipped silently past his doorway and continued their flight to safety.
“One
more potential disaster circumvented,” Tristan whispered, returning the
pepperbox pistol to the pocket of his cassock. Madelaine Harcourt didn’t answer
him—didn’t so much as glance his way—and a new weariness engulfed Tristan, born
of the knowledge that she now found him more fearful than the enemy they were
trying to elude.
He
was in no mood to pacify a squeamish female. He had been awake since dawn and
it must be near that hour again. His head was pounding, his feet dragging, and
the hellish trip through the traboules had sorely tested his belief in
his own manhood.
To
add to his dilemma, much as he hated to admit it, his admiration for the young
woman in his care was growing by leaps and bounds. In the past few hours, she
had lost everything in life she held dear. Any other female he knew would have
been utterly devastated by the tragedies she had faced. Instead she seemed to
gain in courage and stamina with every passing minute—two qualities he himself
had been hard put to equal. In truth, he was beginning wonder who was rescuing
whom in this bizarre partnership they’d formed.
At
long last they left the lofts of the silk weavers behind and found themselves
standing on the bank of the Saône River just as the first pink-hued rays of the
rising sun tinged the horizon. The acrid smell of smoke filled Tristan’s
nostrils. Behind him, the sky glowed red from the fires consuming the homes of
Lyon’s few remaining Royalists; before him lay the grove of trees, just as
Forli had described it.
As
he listened, a cheer rose from hundreds of throats. He heard snatches of the
Marseillaise and the voices of men chanting names like Friedland, Marengo,
Austerlitz, and other battles fought in the name of the emperor, and he knew
that, as predicted, Lyon had fallen to General Cambronne’s grognards .
Madelaine
Harcourt covered her eyes in a gesture of despair. Instinctively, he reached
out to her, offering the meager comfort of one stranger to another. “Unless my
eyes deceive me, Forli’s horse and carriage awaits us in the grove yonder,” he
said to divert her attention from the happenings in the city.
She
lowered her hands and raised her head to gaze where he directed. At the same
moment, a lone figure detached
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