“You may keep watch, you, in a more serious manner. And do not pander. It is unbecoming.” She pulled the cloak up so it covered him more securely.
“I’m warm enough.”
“Then you shall stay so. I am glad I did not make love to Grey. He annihilates any common sense I have, which is disturbing to me as a Frenchwoman, for we are a logical race. I am more a Frenchwoman than a spy. Did I tell you I am decided to retire from spying?”
“Really? Governments all over Europe breathe a sigh of relief. Will you do it any time soon?”
“The moment I deliver you to safety and perform one small final task I have set myself, I shall slip away to become obscure and harmless as a dormouse. Probably in your own England. It is a big place, according to the maps. I do not think your Service will find me.”
“It’s hard for a blind woman to hide.” He was warning her. Always, just an inch beyond their conversation, hovered the uncomfortable truth—that they were enemies.
“I shall manage. When we leave here, I shall take you to my smuggler friend up the coast, if he is not in prison again. He can be trusted utterly. We are here in his very domain, which is most fortunate for us. I do not think we could travel far, we two.”
“You know where we are.” He was amused.
“If this is the monastery of St. Honoré, I do. I hold many good maps within my head, little brother. It is a talent of mine. Also, I know the coast here well. When I was a child, we came to visit just this smuggler. He is an Englishman like you. One of my mother’s lovers. I have a picture of Englishmen not quite accurate, perhaps, from having met only spies and smugglers in my—”
A sound that was not wind or the fall of rain or the faint rumble of the surf slipped into the pattern of the night. A distant pounding. She stopped talking instantly.
Horses. They came from the direction of the coast. In a single surge of motion, Adrian was up, kicking the fire apart, smothering it.
The beat of hooves grew louder and slowed. The riders turned aside, coming into the monastery.
“It is better if we go separately,” she whispered.
“Of course. An escape route. In between picking apples, you cleared an escape route. I’d expect no less.” Laughter rippled in his voice. For Adrian, disaster would always be a game.
The monastery courtyard filled with clatter and men talking between themselves. They had come to search the buildings. The metallic scrape beside her said Adrian had gathered up the pistol and was checking it. Then came a small miscellany of sounds as he rooted through his bag. His knives would be finding their way to their accustomed spots about his person. One, in a sheath, landed in her lap.
“Take that and put it away,” he said. “This is what we’re going to do—”
“We will run. You go through the garden. I will—”
“Shut up, Cub, and listen. I leave first. I’m going to take these Frenchmen for a stroll in the woods. No telling what accidents might befall them there.” He could have been talking of a pleasant evening’s entertainment— stopping at a café, then on to the theater. “You,
If he walked silently into the rain, he would be safe. Instead, he would lead the hunters away from her. “Do not—”
“Money.” He snaked a smooth, cool purse into her bodice, between her breasts. “Buy something pretty. When you get to England…” He was fitting his boots on, fast. “…forget about hiding. Go to the British Service and turn yourself in. They’ll make a deal with you for the Albion plans. And they’ll keep you safe from Leblanc.”
“I will not, of course.”
“Listen carefully. In London, go to Number Seven Meeks Street, not far from Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Meeks Street, off Braddy. Remember that.”
“My memory is excellent. But I will not do it.”
“I’ll see you there. Stay alive. Grey will kill me if you don’t.” He pulled his coat from the bracken, awkward and rustling as he put it on, because one of his arms was not working.
He was most probably going to his death, so she used his true name. “Good luck, my Hawker.”
“Why are all the best women French spies? Bad planning on somebody’s part.” He set his open hand, briefly, on her hair. “I would kiss you good-bye, sister mine, but I don’t think I could stand the comparison with Grey. When I’m gone, count to fifty, get out the window behind you, and take that escape route you’ve laid out through the garden. I’ll be headed the other way. You have a chance, I think.”
Men approached the chapel. She could hear them. She took his sleeve to hold him one last minute and whispered, “The village of St. Grue is five miles north, up the coast. The smugglers are run by an Englishman named Josiah. The password is jasmine, like the flower. Tell him you are from me.”
“That’s where I’ll aim. Good luck, Annique
She heard his footsteps down the length of the chapel, then a scuffle as he climbed through one of the empty windows. A moment later, shots came. Two. Three. Four of them. He had showed himself to the men in the courtyard. Somehow, weak as he was, he must have made it over the wall. Men shouted and ran, yelling that he had escaped. Horses set steel on stones, riding for the gate.
She stayed quietly where she was and listened. Perhaps they would all be fools…
Sadly, they were not. One horse still shuffled on the stones outside. One man had remained behind to finish the search.
So. She would deal with him. She lifted her cosh and took her staff from where it leaned across the top of the altar. She had swept the floor clean in the path she must take. It was entirely silent to creep the length of the chapel and press herself flat against the wall behind the door. The searcher was in no hurry. Long minutes passed before she heard boots on the stones outside. The latch lifted and the door creaked. He crossed the threshold.
Paving stones crashed to the floor as the snare fell. He yelled. She was on him at once, using the cosh. It took only two blows to make him most thoroughly immobile.
She and Adrian had discussed at length where a man would fall, tangled and fighting in the web that came down upon him. It was a pleasure to discover how correct they had been. He was sprawled unconscious upon the doorsill itself. Her prize was breathing, so it was not even a murder on her conscience.
Altogether satisfactory. That was one man less to hunt Adrian. It had been worth the hour it had taken her to weave her trap.
She knew him by the smell of his clothing before she felt his features. How remarkably persistent Henri was turning out to be. She cut strips of his shirt with Adrian’s knife and tied him up before she extracted him from the strings of her trap. Then she dragged him the length of the chapel to the pillar she had picked out. He carried a useful knife, which she collected from him. She also helped herself to his money, of which there seemed to be a good deal. There is no rain which does not water someone’s turnips.
When she had finished, she wiped her hands on her dress—truly, she did not like touching Henri—and considered her alternatives. Should she go…or stay? Adrian might return. Grey would come, or Doyle, if either lived. Or Henri’s comrades might come looking for him. There would be visits from everyone, in fact, who was not lying in his blood out in the woods. This would be a most busy place, this chapel, if anyone survived.
Most certainly she should leave immediately. She had Henri’s horse. Within a few miles of this spot were fifty friends who would help her go to England. She was ruled by grave responsibilities. Whether she gave the Albion plans to England or remained loyal to France, she must not let them fall into Leblanc’s hands. It was stupidity beyond measure to stay in this chapel on such an eventful night.
If Grey came, he might be wounded. He might need help.
And so her decision was made. There were various small businesses to attend to. She walked outside into the cold density of rain, to lead Henri’s horse to an inconspicuous spot in the briar jungle behind the chapel. It tried, several times, to bite her and succeeded once. Then there was her trap to set once more, with rocks and rope, above the door. It was Ovid, after all, who said that one’s hook should always be cast, for there will be fish in the pool where one least expects it.
HAWKER crouched in the sand, feral and silent. They were closing in—not Leblanc’s men, but a gaggle of dragoons on patrol. Nowhere to hide. He was too weak to run.
