Page 5

He slackened his grip and wound an arm about her shoulders. “Come upstairs, then.” He chuckled. “I’ll show you several strong fellows who just unenlisted.”

Deserters. Of course, Belle thought. That explained the furtive attitude of the inn’s hostess. Damn Lefranc. Where was the swaggering sergeant when she really needed him?

She had no choice but to deal quietly and efficiently with this drunkard herself. Belle stiffened her frame, hanging back as the soldier attempted to propel her up the first step.

“What’s the matter?” she taunted. “Don’t you think that you would be man enough for me?”

The deserter flushed beet red. “Show you who’s man enough.”

But with a deft movement Belle ducked from beneath his arm.

“Not here,” she said, forcing a coy laugh. She could handle the man far better if she could get him outside. Here she ran the risk that he would be missed and joined by his friends at any moment.

Managing to evade his groping hands, Belle darted forward and retrieved her muff. The soldier grunted with frustration and seized her about the waist with a bruising grip.

“Out back,” she said. “There’s a barn with a hayloft,”

“Let’s get on with it, then.” Yanking her with him, he flung open the door and pulled her through it, his breath hot upon her cheek.

After the stifling atmosphere of the inn, Belle welcomed the cool darkness of the yard. Although sickened, Belle pretended to sigh with pleasure when the soldier pressed wet kisses against her neck. As they staggered around the side of the building, his hand pawed at her breasts.

Belle set a slow pace, wriggling her fingers inside the muff toward the pistol, then rejected the notion. The noise would be too great, and she had an aversion to shedding blood unless absolutely necessary. Besides, the stream of moonlight had just revealed to her a much better weapon.

Stacked neatly beside the inn was a cord of wood, one particularly stout log balanced on top of the load. It would serve. This fool’s head was not that thick.

But she needed to act quickly before the aroused drunkard tried to take her in the dirt beside the vegetable patch. He already strove to hike up her skirts.

Hiding a grimace of distaste, she braced one hand against his hairy chest to hold him off. “Oh, dear. I seem to have dropped my purse.”

“Forget it. Can find it later.”

“But I have twenty golden louis inside.”

The hand tugging at her gown hesitated. “T-twenty?” He moistened his lips with greed. “Did you say twenty gold pieces?”

“Yes, if you could only get down and help me look?—”

“Take your filthy hands off her!” The piping voice rang out.

Both Belle and the deserter turned to stare at the slender figure who had crept up behind them. Phillipe looked absurdly youthful, his face taut with anger, the sword wavering in his hand.

“I said get away from her, you cowardly dog.” The boy advanced closer. “Prepare to defend yourself if you are even half a man.”

Belle stilled a groan. She tugged at the soldier, attempting to draw him away from Phillipe. “Pay no heed to him. He is just a foolish boy.”

But the deserter shook her off with a vicious laugh. He faced Phillipe, drawing his own weapon. The man’s mouth widened into a wolfish smile. “Why, you strutting bantam. I’ll cut you in two.”

Phillipe trembled, but held his ground.

“No!” Belle cried. She attempted to step in between the two men, but the soldier’s arm lashed out, knocking her aside. She lost her balance and fell heavily to the ground. Before she could roll over, she heard the horrible rasp of steel against steel.

Struggling to a sitting position, she saw the deserter beating back Phillipe’s blade.

Whatever the Chevalier Coterin had taught his son, it certainly could not have been how to use his sword.

Even drunk, the deserter was more than a match for the boy.

The man easily slipped past Phillipe’s guard and nicked the boy’s cheek.

So much for handling this matter quietly, Belle thought. She shoved herself to her feet. Drawing the pistol from its place of concealment in the muff, she cocked it.

“Stop!” she commanded. “Both of you. Put up your swords.”

But with one deft movement, the soldier sent Phillipe’s weapon flying from his clumsy grasp.

Belle took aim at the soldier. “Hold or I’ll shoot.”

The man didn’t seem to hear her. Like a beast, crazed by the scent of a kill, the soldier drew back his sword. Phillipe flung up his hands, bracing himself.

Belle fired. The report of the pistol was deafening, the shot reverberating through the still night air. The soldier wavered, his sword arm yet upraised. He blinked, staring down at the flow of crimson splashing down his chest. Then the man staggered, collapsing into a heap at Phillipe’s feet.

Belle froze, but only for an instant. She ran to Phillipe’s side and caught him by the sleeve. “Back to the coach. Hurry!”

But Phillipe didn’t move. His face white, he stared at the fallen soldier, then at the smoking pistol in her hand.

The shutters of a window above them banged open. Another soldier thrust his head out, his blue coat outlined by the light shining behind him.

“ Qu’est que c’est ca ? Jacques? Is that you?”

“Come on!” Belle wrenched Phillipe, nearly setting him off balance. He snapped out of his trancelike state.

Both of them tore off running and stumbling through the dark.

The distance back to the stableyard seemed endless.

Belle’s heart hammered, her lungs aching by the time she drew within sight of the carriage.

She cried out with relief to see the new team hitched in the traces, Feydeau pacing in a fit of impatience.

“Where the devil—” the old man started to growl.

“Get us out of here,” Belle gasped.

Although Feydeau glared, he moved quickly to obey. Belle all but shoved Phillipe into the carriage. She scrambled up after him, slamming the door shut just as the coach lurched forward.

As the vehicle swayed into movement, Belle reached for the pouch stuffed in the corner of the seat.

“What—what—” Madame Coterin started to wail.

“Be quiet!” Belle drew forth some powder and shot, struggling to reload in the semidarkness of the jouncing coach. Between Madame’s praying and Sophie’s whimpers, Belle strained to hear the outcry of pursuit.

When the pistol was loaded, she scooted to the coach window and peered out. The village of Lillefleur had receded into darkness, the night quiet except for the rattle of the berline. No tocscin rang from the church steeple to alert the countryside, no gallop of mounted riders took up the chase,

The minutes ticked by, marked by the rumble of wheels putting distance between them and the posting station. Holding a handkerchief to his injured cheek, Phillipe also glanced out.

“Why is no one coming after us?”

“Probably because the people of Lillefleur know how to tend their own business better than I do,” Belle muttered. As for the deserter’s comrades, likely they had been too drunk.

Belle’s fear gave way to anger at herself for taking such a stupid risk by leaving the coach in the first place, and anger at the guileless young man seated opposite her. The moonlight accented Phillipe’s pale face as he regarded her gravely.

“You killed that man,” he whispered. “You shot him down and never looked back.”

“If I am not mistaken, isn’t that what you intended to do?”

“I fought him honorably, in a sword fight—but to use a pistol like that! It wasn’t fair.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let him butcher you? If you had stayed with the carriage as I ordered, the killing would not have been necessary.”

“I came to look for you because you had been gone so long. Then I saw that man dragging you away. I only wanted to defend your virtue.”

“What makes you think I have any virtue to defend? I went with him of my own choice.”

Phillipe flinched as though she had struck him. His lips moved, but no sound came. The look in his eyes was stricken as he shrank away from her.

Her words had been brutal, borne out of her own rage and self-reproach. But Belle refused to take them back. At least she had put an end to Phillipe’s idiotic adoration of her. It was better for him this way.

Yet for the remainder of the journey, each time she saw his unhappy face, she wondered. Gazing at him was like looking into a mirror, watching her own youthful illusions shatter all over again.