Friends and Foes (20 page)

A distant splash gave them away.

Philip turned his spyglass out to sea. Sorrel watched, holding her breath. They’d waited in the dark shadows of the small cliff top above a remote cove along the Kinnley coastline for what must have been an hour. Sorrel had long ago begun to feel the cold, though she didn’t remark on it. She’d barely managed to convince Philip to allow her to come, in hopes of identifying the man she’d seen in the inn two weeks earlier. She didn’t dare show any signs of weakening to her task.

“Small rowboat,” Philip whispered, his voice hardly loud enough to be heard.

“How many men?” the man Philip called Rob queried with the same expert quietness.

A moment passed as Philip peered through his small retractable telescope. “Three,” he finally said.

“But are they the ones we’re looking for?” Rob asked almost soundlessly.

Philip pulled Sorrel to him and motioned her to look through the spyglass that he’d kept astoundingly still during their shift of positions. She followed his unspoken instructions and searched the magnified boat just off center in the telescope’s line of sight.

“Can you see them?” His breath tingled her ear.

Sorrel nodded, not trusting her voice to be as perfectly quiet as the men’s around her.

“Hold this.” He brought her hand around the spyglass. She joined it with her other. “Tell me if any of them look familiar.” Sorrel felt his arm settle around her waist, a gesture so comforting she involuntarily leaned back against him as she searched each face in the boat, one by one. Then she lowered the spyglass to her lap.

“I’m sorry, Philip.” Sorrel whispered as quietly as she possibly could. “He is not in that boat.”

“I didn’t expect him to be,” Philip answered, so close she felt his jaw move beside her own. “The man you saw should be waiting for that boat.”

“On the beach?”

Philip’s gaze scanned the crescent-shaped beach brightened by the full moon and cloudless night. Sorrel shifted the spyglass to one hand and slipped her other one into Philip’s warm grip. He squeezed her hand gently but with a strength she needed.

She sat there, hand in his, her head resting against his shoulder, eyes shut to the night around her. If she didn’t think too hard on the reason for their unusual circumstances, the situation was almost peaceful. If she weren’t so blasted cold, she might have simply drifted off to sleep.

She felt Philip suddenly tense.

“Just down there, Sorrel.” He motioned slightly with his head to their right, down on the sand. “Something moved in the shadows.”

Sorrel scanned the beach with the spyglass for a moment before finding a pair of silhouettes crouched at the base of the cliff in an indentation where the moonlight barely illuminated their solid figures.

“Two men,” she whispered as she studied them closely.

Philip didn’t speak nor move. She knew he was waiting for her to identify one of them. Sorrel almost hoped they would be unfamiliar. She hoped Crispin’s tenants were not only drawn to the beach on moonlit nights but tended to row about in the ocean, as well. The first man was rotund and almost entirely bald.

Her view of the second man was not terribly revealing. He had the right physical build, and his hair appeared the appropriate shade of brown, though the shadowy quality of the light made that debatable. The man shifted slightly, and a beam of moonlight passed momentarily across his face.

Sorrel jerked back, clasping the spyglass to her chest. Philip’s arms closed tightly around her.

“You recognized him.” It was a statement, and a grave one at that. “The man from the Dove and Crow?”

Sorrel nodded mutely.

“Should we ride for team two?” Rob asked.

Sorrel jumped again. She’d forgotten about the three others lurking in the trees around them.

Philip took the spyglass from her and began searching the horizon. Apparently settling on what he sought, Philip kept the glass steady and remained quiet as the moments dragged on.

“No time,” Philip said. He motioned over his shoulder with his head, and the group slowly, silently rose to their feet. Philip kept an arm possessively around Sorrel as he helped her join the others a few feet further from the low cliff edge, safely hidden behind a thick hedge.

“Check your arms,” Philip instructed the men. A heavy silence descended over the group. He turned his attention to Sorrel. “You remember where the land agent’s cottage is?”

She nodded. He’d pointed it out as they’d ridden past it what seemed like an eternity earlier.

“And you’re sure you can dismount on your own?”

Another mute nod.

“Do not come out,” he instructed, cupping her face in his hands. “No matter what you hear.”

“But, what—”

“No matter what,” he repeated sternly.

“Philip.” Her whisper cracked with emotion.

“Do not turn missish on me, Sorrel.” Philip walked her back toward a waiting Kinnley mount. They moved slowly, lest her walking stick slip on the snow-covered ground.

“You have to promise me you will be careful,” she said. His warnings to her about the dangers of this mission came flooding back into her mind.

“I am always careful.” All hints of emotion had left Philip’s voice. “Up you go.”

Philip’s hands encircled Sorrel’s waist as he lifted her into the saddle. It was not a sidesaddle, but they’d planned on that, having found a gown in the Kinnley attics with the very full skirt of decades earlier, dark enough to help hide her in the darkness of midnight. More of her dark-stockinged legs showed than was strictly acceptable, but, considering the peril of their current situation, Sorrel hardly noted it.

Philip slipped the cottage key into Sorrel’s palm then closed his fingers around her hand. He kissed her fingers softly, caressingly. Sorrel had to bite her lip to keep them steady. He’d asked her to remain in control, and she vowed she would. For a moment he stood silently holding her hand to his cheek. One more brief kiss on the back of her hand and he stepped back, though he did not yet let go.

“Lock the door,” Philip instructed.

Sorrel nodded.

He squeezed her hand then released it and stepped away. She slipped the key into the pocket of her coat.

Sorrel took a deep breath before heeling her mount to a slow, quiet walk just as Philip had instructed as they’d ridden out. It was vital, he’d explained, that they not make any more noise than absolutely necessary.

She didn’t look back as the horse walked away, knowing her heart would sink if she turned around to find he’d slipped out of sight already. Not a single sound other than the distant waves broke the night as she slowly made her way from the coast. She’d thought she’d come to understand helplessness in the two years since her unfortunate incident. She’d been wrong. Never had she felt as helpless as she did then, leaving Philip moments from storming a group that outnumbered his own, a group probably every bit as heavily armed, perhaps more so.

Dismounting was more difficult than she’d anticipated, having no experience with anything but a sidesaddle. Her skirts snagged as she slid her stiff right leg over and tore as she tugged to free herself. Battered from the jarring ride and aching from the bitter cold, her leg simply gave out as she alighted, and she landed on the ground with a thud.

The horse startled at the sound but did not run. Sprawled on the wet snow, Sorrel managed to shift enough to avoid the horse’s hooves. With tremendous effort and more than a little pain, Sorrel pulled herself to her feet, grateful she’d managed to keep her walking stick in her hand.

“Come on, then,” she cooed to the horse, hoping to keep it calm. One of them needed to be. “To the trees.” They moved slowly, snow crunching beneath her, toward the back of the cottage. Just as Philip had promised, a heavy woolen blanket sat waiting on a small bench beneath an ancient tree. Sorrel pulled the horse closer to a low, sturdy branch and wrapped the reins around it.

Her leg protested every step and threatened to drop her again. She stumbled toward the bench and picked up the blanket. Sorrel rested against the tree trunk for a moment. Then, with a deep breath of determination, she moved to the side of the horse with which she’d been entrusted and draped the heavy blanket over its back.

Sorrel left the horse with a rub on the nose and struggled toward the cottage, praying she’d find a heavy blanket inside for herself. She reached the back door, her leg on fire with pain. Her boots were caked in mud. Philip had emphasized the importance of leaving the cottage with no trace of having been there. Muddy footprints would be a giveaway. Sorrel struggled a moment, but managed to get her shoes off. She set them beside the door then fumbled through her pocket for the key. As she did so, Sorrel leaned her forehead against the door, exhausted. She pulled the key to the lock.

Somewhere in the distance, a gunshot split the air. Sorrel’s heart raced in her chest, her breath suddenly lodged deep in her lungs.

She slid the key into the lock and turned. A tear ran unbidden down her cheek. This was what Philip meant by “no matter what.” She stepped inside the dark cottage.

Another shot reverberated. Sorrel closed the door, turned the lock, and collapsed to the floor. In the next moment a third shot sounded, dulled somewhat by the thick walls around her. She refused to allow her mind to dwell on the scene playing out on the beach. Instead, she focused her thoughts on navigating through the darkened house, finding a candle, at least.

Unsure of her limbs and completely unfamiliar with her surroundings, Sorrel slowly lowered herself to her knees. Knowing from experience that crawling with a cane in hand could be remarkably difficult, Sorrel abandoned her
affectation
not far from the back door and crawled, her bare palms against the frigid floor, extending her arm now and then to feel for furniture nearby. She felt certain the Kinnley land agent would have a lamp in his home. A little light would dispel some of her nerves.

How she wished she could light a fire. The air inside the cottage felt nearly as cold as that outside. Sorrel shivered despite her heavy coat.

She reached a wall first. She felt along it—perhaps she’d find a sideboard or wall table. Her hand slid along a doorframe, then a door. She stretched for the knob then turned it. The door opened easily, though the hinges protested with a high-pitched squeal. Inside the room the windows were uncovered and the bright moon illuminated a sparsely furnished bedroom.

She might very well find a candle inside. But she might do well to stick to the outer room if she could pull back a drapery or two.

A scratching at the front of the house froze her midthought. Philip? Had he come for her already?

She heard the sound of the doorknob being twisted anxiously. Then the door violently shook.

Philip had a key. Someone else was trying to get inside. The French spy and his counterparts immediately crossed her mind.

Panic gave way to stark determination. Sorrel pulled herself to her feet, despite the agony such movement caused, and stumbled inside the bedroom. She needed a place to hide.

Too late.

The sound of splintering wood signaled the arrival of her unwanted guests.

Sorrel held her breath and kept as still as she could manage.

“You will be lucky to not have woken the household,” an unfamiliar voice loudly whispered. The man could not possibly be anything other than French, though he spoke English.

“The household will be lucky if they haven’t awoken.” That voice turned Sorrel’s blood to ice. He was the man from the inn. His voice was stamped in her memory, so often had she relived his conversation.

If they haven’t awoken.
A tiny seed of an idea sprouted in her mind. She moved slowly, cautiously, willing herself to stay upright, commanding her leg to get her to the bed. She vowed never to ask another thing of her broken limb if it simply didn’t fail her.

The room was quite small. Only a few steps saw her to the low bed. She took slow, calming breaths then pulled back the coverlet. The bed creaked quietly as Sorrel slid on it. She carefully, slowly pulled her feet up.

“Find some bandages,” the Frenchman said. “And see if they keep any horses.”

He groaned as he spoke, the sound one of a man in a good deal of pain. Had he been injured in the gunfire Sorrel had heard? Her thoughts turned immediately to Philip. How had he fared? Was he injured as well? She refused to ponder a far worse possibility.

She heard footsteps. The men were searching the house. Would they check the room she was in? Had they heard the bed creak?

Sorrel pulled the blanket to her chin, hoping she was a good enough actress to convince them she was sleeping despite her pounding heart and strained breathing. She reached up and pulled the pins from her hair and ran her hand frantically through the knot, letting her tresses fall messily around her. She laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes just as the footsteps halted outside her room.

She’d left the door open, too afraid it would squeak to risk closing it. If either of the men stood in the doorway, they would be looking directly at her in that moment. The idea sent a wave of dread over her.

“A woman back here,” the man from the inn called out in a hoarse whisper. “Asleep.”

Sorrel held as still as possible, offering up a desperate prayer. If only the men let her be, chose to let her sleep, she might yet escape.

“A woman? Is she alone?”

“She appears to be,” the man at the door answered.

Sorrel’s pulse pounded in her neck, fear setting it racing hard. She was, in that moment, completely alone. Alone. Unarmed. Crippled.

“Wake her,” the Frenchman ordered.

With those two words, Sorrel’s fears escalated. She hadn’t the security of pretending to be oblivious. She couldn’t attempt an escape undetected.

“Do you really want a witness, Bélanger?”

Bélanger. That was the name she’d been trying to remember from the conversation in Ipswich. Bélanger was the French contact Mr. Garner had been trying to apprehend for years and the man Philip believed to be at least as dangerous as Le Fontaine.

“Wake her.” Bélanger repeated his orders with a growl.

Footfall immediately sounded, drawing closer to the bed.

“Help me,” Sorrel silently pleaded with the heavens. She could hear the man breathing, he stood so close. She’d never been so frightened in all her life.

“Wake up, woman!” the man barked.

She pretended to be startled awake. If she kept her movements slow and groggy perhaps the man would believe she’d been asleep. In the moment before she opened her mouth to speak, she realized the ruse had to go beyond appearing tired. They’d found her in the cottage of an employer of the estate. If the men realized she hailed from the upper classes, they’d grow instantly suspicious. Far better that they think her of little importance.

“Who are you?” She did her best to imitate a lower-class accent. “What are you doing in m’ house?”

“Get up.”

Slow and groggy,
she reminded herself. Sorrel sat up and made a show of being a bit disoriented. She set back the blanket and moved to slip her legs off the side of the bed.

“You’re wearing a coat.” Suspicion touched the man’s tone.

Sorrel thought fast. “The night’s cold. A coat’s cheaper ’n burning coal.”

The man eyed her closely as she sat frozen on the edge of the bed. She knew some of her fear showed in her eyes—she couldn’t prevent it. But, she reasoned, any woman would be afraid to wake and find a stranger in her house.

“You’re fully dressed under that coat,” the man said. “Why aren’t you in night clothes?”

“It’s warmer.” She hoped he’d accept the same reasoning a second time. Thank heavens she didn’t still have her boots on.

Bélanger called out from the sitting room again. “What is taking so long?”

Though the Frenchman’s voice sent a chill down her spine, Sorrel felt the slightest hint of relief that his orders took some of his partner’s scrutiny off her attire.

“Come along.” The Englishman jerked his head in the direction of the corridor.

The idea of leaving the room felt far more dangerous than remaining. “I can’t walk,” she said. “I’ve a broken leg. M’father went for the apothecary.”

He seemed to debate with himself a moment.

Please let me stay. Please let me stay.

Without a word of warning or explanation, the man grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. Sorrel hadn’t a chance to correct her balance. Her leg simply gave out and she stumbled to the ground.

Her assailant muttered a curse, one even her father’s stable hands had only whispered when she was present. He yanked her upright once more. None too gently, he pulled her arm around his neck and wrapped his arm around her waist. The pungent smell of him threatened to turn her stomach.

She couldn’t match the breadth of his strides as he dragged her from the room and down the corridor. A lamp had been lit in the sitting room, illuminating the face of Bélanger. Fear wrapped its icy fingers around her heart. Even from a distance his eyes were hard and unfeeling.

“What is this?” Bélanger had clearly run out of patience.

“Says she broke her leg.”

The Englishman dropped her onto a hard-backed chair. She didn’t need to pretend his rough treatment caused her pain. Though her wince was entirely genuine, Bélanger looked unconvinced.

“Are you hoping to gain our compassion,
ma fille
? You are out of luck. We possess not a drop of compassion.”

He grabbed the edge of her skirt and flung it back enough to reveal her legs from the knee down. Sorrel understood, though she experienced the briefest moment of real panic. He intended to check her story.

“Show me,” Bélanger commanded.

Sorrel slowly tugged on the toe of the dark stocking covering her deformed leg. She made certain the men saw that doing so caused her very real discomfort. The stocking pulled free. She let it fall to the ground in a heap. The Englishman drew near with the lamp, its light spilling on her legs. Both men’s faces turned in surprise and disgust. Sorrel knew exactly what they saw. The break in her leg, though two years old, remained obvious. One could easily see where each of the bones had snapped.

“The girl said her father went for the gallipot.”

Bélanger stepped back. He spoke to his partner in French. “Then we’d best be gone before he returns.”

“And what of the girl?” The Englishman not only appeared to understand but answered in flawless French as well.

Sorrel listened, all the while pretending to have no idea what they said to one another. A young woman of the lower classes would not understand French.

“We will get what we need out of her, then we’ll take care of it.”

The Englishman nodded.

“Watch the window.” Bélanger still spoke in his native tongue. “The last thing we need is company.”

“And if the girl’s father returns?”

“Shoot him.”

Sorrel hoped, prayed, she kept her reaction to those instructions hidden.

“Now,” Bélanger addressed her in English once more. “Where do you keep your physicking supplies?”

Unsure if an uneducated woman would be familiar with that term, Sorrel pretended to be confused.

“Bandages. Medical powders.” Bélanger spat the words, frustration clear in his tense stance and unwavering glare.

Sorrel hadn’t the slightest idea where such things were in this house. Fumbling around through drawers and cupboards would give away her ruse in an instant.

“M’father works for the great house,” she said. “When we need those things, we go up there for them.”

“Then we’ll have to be creative, it seems.” Bélanger pulled off his mud-stained jacket inch by inch. His tightened lips and pulled expression indicated doing so caused him pain. “Tear a long strip from your skirt.”

“From my—”

“I need a bandage,” he snapped.

Sorrel pulled at the hem of her long, full skirts. Two decades or more in the attics had rotted the fabric enough to make tearing it possible. She took three inches off the entire bottom of her dark dress, her white petticoat showing underneath. Never had she been more grateful for her very practical taste in underclothing. Had her underskirt been trimmed with all the lace and ribbons Mother and Marjie favored, Bélanger would have seen in an instant she was not the poor woman she pretended to be.

She held the strip of dark fabric wadded in her hands. Bélanger pulled another chair near hers and sat with his left side to her. He’d removed his jacket, and Sorrel could see for the first time why he needed bandaging. Blood stained the back and side of his left sleeve from just below his shoulder nearly to his wrist. He’d been shot.

“Wrap it tight,” he said.

For just a moment, she considered refusing. He’d eventually grow weak from lack of blood. But the strategy was foolish. Disobedience would likely get her killed faster than he would bleed out.

Without a word, she began to work. She made the bandage as tight as possible. Though Bélanger winced, he did not object.

“Have you seen anyone?” he asked his comrade at the window, speaking once again in French.

“There is movement, but at a distance. No one seems to be coming in this direction.”

Sorrel didn’t know whether she ought to be disappointed or relieved to hear that. No one was coming to her rescue. But the men might just as soon shoot her if it meant a faster, less complicated escape. As she worked on the man’s arm, her eyes scanned the room, looking for anything she might use as a weapon. She didn’t doubt the men were fully armed.

Her thoughts turned to the fire poker. But what good would that do against two men? Even if she managed to subdue one, the other would not give her the opportunity to do the same to him. No hunting rifle hung above the mantel. She did not see an ax anywhere near the small pile of firewood. Perhaps a knife could be found in the kitchen, but she would never be fast enough to get there before they stopped her.

“It is only a matter of time before they find us here,” the man at the window said, still not speaking in English. “They’ll not give up their search.”

Bélanger looked over at him, bringing his gaze closer to Sorrel as well. She made certain to keep her focus on the bandaging, lest he catch her searching the room.

“The English will scour this countryside at the mere thought of catching both Bélanger and Le Fontaine in a single night’s effort. But I did not come here to die like a dog at their hands. I will return to my homeland.”

Her shock pulled a gasp from her lungs. When Bélanger shot her a questioning look, she scrambled for an explanation. “M’leg pains me, sir.”

His attention returned to his partner, though Sorrel felt little relief.
Le Fontaine.
The Englishman, the one she’d somehow come to think of as less threatening than Bélanger, was Le Fontaine himself. Sorrel knew without a doubt in that moment that her chances of survival were exceptionally slim.

Bélanger watched her tie off the bandage. She tried not to let his scrutiny unnerve her.

“I’m not a doctor,” she said. “I can’t say if I did this correctly.”

“You’ve made a valiant effort,” he said.

Just as she pulled her hands back, his right hand snaked out and snatched her by the wrist. Bélanger pulled her hand closer to him and flipped it palm-side up. Sorrel tried to wriggle free, but his grasp was firm.

He slid one finger down the palm of her hand, sending shivers of revulsion through her.

“Isn’t this interesting,” he said, his tone oily. “So very, very soft.” His cold eyes bored into hers. “
These
are not the hands of a servant.”

Sorrel pulled hard, trying to free herself, but his grip only grew surer.

He tsked and shook his head. “Someone’s been telling lies.” His grasp tightened painfully. He spoke through his teeth. “I despise liars.”

Sorrel made no response. What could she say? He’d seen through her disguise, there was no point denying it.

He did not release her, but with his bandaged arm he pulled from a well-hidden sheath a short dagger. “Perhaps,
ma fille
, you’d like to tell me who you really are.” He set the menacing tip of his knife beneath her chin with just enough pressure for her to feel it there without it drawing blood.

The man meant to kill her either way. She’d maintain some control of her final moments, even if in no other way than deciding what he would be permitted to know about her. “I’d rather not.”

His expression remained impassive, calm. “Very well. I shall call you Jeanne.” His small smile proved utterly terrifying. “Adieu, Jeanne.”

Thoughts of Fennel and Marjie and the pain of never seeing them again passed swiftly through her mind. It was Philip’s teasing smile, however, that settled there. She hadn’t stopped in their last moments together to say she’d come to care for him, more than care for him. She hadn’t even bid him farewell. Now she’d never have that chance.

She felt a sting as the tip of his dagger pricked into her skin.

“Someone is coming,” Le Fontaine said, his voice a harried whisper.

Bélanger froze, the tip of his blade still pressed to the top of Sorrel’s throat. His gaze shifted away to his partner. “How many?”

“Two. And they are definitely coming this way.”