Page 35 of The Rebellious Countess (The Ruined Duchess #2)

Elias nodded and continued his visual search of the interior as he casually walked the inside of the building to ensure no soldiers were lying in wait of an unsuspecting Englishman hellbent on rescuing an earl.

Another stone hung through a hole to the second floor above them, the cogs of the turning mechanism visibly engaged to a sister wheel made of wood hanging above it.

There were ropes and pulleys throughout the entire space and made captaining of a ship look easy.

The interior room was lined with bags of flour stacked against the walls, with a smaller room the size of servants’ quarters bordering it.

Peeking into the space, Elias observed two bunkbeds, and a hammock like the sleeping quarters aboard ship.

The accommodations were small and tight, a place that would make most sailors feel right at home.

Only one bed contained bedding that looked like he had awakened the man from his slumber.

The other bed frame even lacked a mattress.

A well-used trunk sat at the end of the bunkbeds, and a small washstand stood on the opposite side of the room.

The room lacked personal touches beyond a bar of soap and a wash basin.

He looked back at the priest. “You work alone?”

“Yes. The farmers bring the grain, and I work the mill.”

There was no fireplace for warmth or to cook by. He understood the desire to keep fire away from the grain, but wondered where the monk cooked or how he kept warm in the winter.

Steps leading to the second floor hugged the exterior wall. “What’s on the second floor?”

“That is where the grain is brought in and sent down toward the stones.”

Elias raised his brows and pointed toward the steps. “Do you mind?”

“Be my guest.”

“I will be done shortly.” Keeping an eye on the priest while he ascended the steps, Elias listened for additional creaks in the floorboards that might disclose the presence of another.

The second floor of the mill contained the chute for the grain, along with numerous wooden wheels which made the mill functional as a one-man operation.

He had no doubt the monk worked long, hard hours, and suspected the robes concealed more muscle than fat.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he returned to Father Charles. “Hag—Aventine said you would have a gift for her.”

The priest paused and looked at him as if the man had no idea what Hag wanted.

A warning skittered down his spine, and he slowly reached for the knife on his belt as the priest tapped his chin in contemplation.

Elias took a half step back and removed his knife from his belt when the priest suddenly raised his hand in triumph.

“Of course! I have been holding it for some time.”

Without a misstep, Father Charles went into the small sleeping quarters and Elias followed. The priest glanced over his shoulder and Elias shrugged. “I need to ensure you’re not getting a weapon.”

“We all have our weaknesses, Elias. My guess is that yours is trusting others.”

“Hazard of the job, Father.” Until a month ago, the only weakness Elias had was his mother. Now there was another woman who could bring him to his knees much faster than Hag.

The priest pulled a box out of the trunk at the end of his bed, opened it, and dug around inside it, before finally pulling out a chain with a delicate medal attached.

Elias didn’t need the medal. He just needed the priest to tell him who was on the medal. If he truly was Father Charles, the man Hag said he could trust to take him across to Mont-Saint-Michel, then he would have a medal of Saint Nicholas of Myra for him. “What saint is on the medal father?”

Father Charles held out the medal. “The patron saint of children. She said one day you would come back, and she wanted your child to have it.”

Elias pointed the knife at the priest. “That’s not the answer I was looking for. Who are you really and what have you done to Father Charles?”

The man pulled his chin back and looked confused, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. Holding his hands out to the side with his palms open, he played the part of innocent well. “I don’t understand.”

“That is not what Aventine said you would give me.”

“Of course it is. Saint Nicholas of Myra. She accidently left it at Mont-Saint-Michel when you came as a family. I wrote to her and told her and she told me to hang on to it when you came back with your own child on pilgrimage.”

“I’m not on pilgrimage.”

“Of course not. No one goes on pilgrimage to Mont-Saint-Michel anymore. It is a prison, but she wrote me last week and said you were coming and would need my assistance. What else could I possibly have to give you?”

Elias hardened himself to do what he had to do and firmed the grip on his knife. “You tell me, Father, or you will die before your next breath.”

“I don’t understand. This is all I have for you.”

Elias took a step toward the priest.

The priest put his hands up as if to stop Elias’s attack with his bare hands. “Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of children, brewers, archers, sailors, merchants, repentant thieves.”

Elias froze. “Did you say ‘sailors’?”

Father Charles swallowed visibly. “Yes, Saint Nicolas of Myra is the patron saint of sailors.”

Elias’ shoulders dropped. “Bloody hell, why didn’t you say that first?”

“Because Aventine bought it for her child, not a sailor.”

“Aventine told me the medal was the patron saint of sailors.”

“Your lack of knowledge of your religion nearly cost me my life.”

“I’ve had very little reason to believe in your religion, Father.”

“I suggest you start.”

Elias turned around and walked out of the room. Sacré bleu! He’d nearly killed a man of God because of Hag’s cryptic instructions.

“This is yours,” Father Charles said, as he scurried up behind him.

“Keep it.” He didn’t want the bloody thing.

“Your mother bought it for her son. Maybe you should keep it for yours.”

Elias froze. His child. He could have a child. Twice now, he’d lost his head and hadn’t taken any precautions to keep Máira safe. He turned around and looked at the priest who was holding out the chain with the medal of Saint Nichoas of Myra attached.

Patron saint of sailors and children.

He took the medal and pocketed it as he shrugged. “Can’t hurt.” He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “When can you take me to Mont-Saint-Michel.”

“Are you going after the earl?”

“Why do you ask?”

““Rumor has it that a certain English earl is to hang in three days. I can only assume that is your purpose of visiting the abbey.”

“Hang?” Mon Dieu . That was not part of the equation. “And you’re willing to help?”

“Your mother knows where my loyalties lie, otherwise she would not have sent you to me. Of course I will help.”

“It could get messy.”

The priest looked at the knife on his belt. “Messier than nearly losing my life?”

“Yes.”

Father Charles sighed. “If it is to save a life, I must assist.”

“And if it means you must take a life?”

“I will not.”

Elias nodded; he understood the priest’s limitations. “I also need to house someone here while we’re gone.”

That gave the priest pause. “Who?”

“My wife.”

“Your wife? You brought your wife here on a mission that could get you killed? Get us all killed?”

Elias sighed. “It was the lesser of two evils.”

Father Charles scoffed. “This is no place for a woman.”

“It’s the safest place for her.”

“I disagree.”

“I don’t.” The female response caused them both to jump.

Elias was the first to recover, even as his eyes drank in the delectable dishevelment of her hair and her rumpled gown, both reminding him of the passion they shared a few hours earlier. “Do you ever listen?”

“I heard your conversation, if that’s what you’re asking.” Máira closed the door to the mill and locked it behind her.

The priest frowned. “I’m pretty sure I locked that.”

Máira shrugged. “You did.”

The priest looked at Elias with a knowing look. “Now I know why you brought her.”

Except that wasn’t why he brought her. If his wife had a hidden talent for breaking into places she wasn’t supposed to be, it was news to him.

“No.” He shook his head. “No.” He nearly growled.

“She’s not coming with us.” He turned toward his wife.

“Where did you obtain tools to unlock the door? You had nothing while aboard ship, otherwise you would have broken out of your cabin.”

“When you went to confront Peter, I obtained them from Hag.” She wore the smug expression of a devious woman, and he could picture the look on his mother’s face when she gave her the tools. Damnation.

“Her skills would be most useful.” The priest interjected.

Máira beamed. “See. You could use a woman like me on your team.”

“This is not a team.” His voice turned into a growl.

“What would you call it?”

“A one-man operation!”

That made the priest laugh…when he finally stopped and caught his breath, he laughed again. To make matters worse, Máira joined him. It was as if the two of them had planned to change his tactics from the very start.

“She is not going.” He insisted.

The monk sobered. “We need her. My contact inside Mont-Saint-Michel is no longer available.”

“Why not?” Elias demanded. “The man can just make himself available. I don’t give a damn if he suddenly thinks there’s too much risk involved. I’ll pay him double, that will change his tune.”

“He died.” Father Charles made the sign of the cross, and Elias felt obligated to show that much respect for the man whose honor he’d just impugned.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Unfortunately, he is not the only one on the island who has become ill. Many of the guards are ill, along with the shopkeepers, but it can work in our favor. Many of the outposts are vacant, and with someone who knows how to bypass locked doors, our task just got easier.”

“What about the ransom? Why has Napoleon decided to hang the earl?”

“Hang? They’re going to hang Simon?” Máira’s face drained of color.

“We will get to him before they do.” Elias assured, as he reached out and squeezed her hand.

“The Minister of War would like to make an example out of the earl who came here to spy. He’s also received word that his own spy was executed by the English,” Father Charles explained.

“Who was that?”

“Lord Greasley.”

“He wasn’t executed. He was killed on French soil. In The Happy Hag to be exact, by a French woman.” Elias took off his stolen tricorn hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Why did everything circle back to Hag?

Father Charles nodded in sympathetic understanding. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?” Máira asked. She looked as confused by the events unfolding as he felt.

“Why the Minister of War said his spy was killed by the English.”

Except it didn’t explain anything. “Why would he say that?”

The priest searched his face as if he realized for the first time Elias was missing a crucial piece to the story. His expression dropped. “She hasn’t told you.”

It wasn’t a question, but Elias felt as if it was. “Who hasn’t told me what?”

The priest made the sign of the cross once more and turned away. “We need to prepare, otherwise we won’t rescue him in time.”

“Now?” Máira asked.

“Now,” Father Charles confirmed.

Elias was tired of secrets. Tired of attempting to figure out another person’s thoughts.

He’d been doing it too long, and after doing it with Máira, he had no patience for games.

He grabbed the priest by the arm and confirmed his suspicions about the man’s mettle.

“We’re not going anywhere until I understand all the cogs to this story, Father Charles.

Who should have told me something she did not?

” It really could have been every woman he’d ever met, he suspected, however, that it was his mother.

Father Charles huffed and closed his eyes as if he did not want to see Elias’s expression. “Your mother.”

“My mother?”

It wasn’t really a question, but the priest answered it anyway. “Yes.”

He didn’t want to ask the next question, but lives were at stake—Astley’s and most importantly, Máira’s. “What has Hag neglected to tell me?”

Father Charles closed his eyes and scrunched up his face like he’d swallowed something bitter.

Elias stepped closer to the man, crowding him, his own anger and frustration boiling to the surface as he bumped the priest’s chest with his own. “Out with it.”

“The Minister of War is your grandfather,” Father Charles said it so fast, it took a moment for the words to penetrate Elias’s anger.

Máira gasped.

Elias looked between her and the priest.

“ Mon grand père ?” It wasn’t possible. Hag had said both her parents were dead.

The only grandfather he’d ever known had been a general, but he’d died while Elias was in England.

He trusted her word to the point where he had not even looked for the man to kill him.

“That’s not possible,” he insisted, but the look on the priest’s face told him it was.

“Why did she tell me her parents were dead?”

The priest shrugged. It was Máira who filled in the answers that made the most sense. “Her parents probably disowned her when she married an Englishman. The same thing happened to my mother when she married a Scotsman in trade. It’s all in their hatred of bloodlines.”

“No,” he said, slowly shaking his head. The feelings of betrayal washing back over him after years of dormancy as he remembered his father pleading with mon grand père to take Elias away before the general killed him .

“That’s not it.” He dared to expose his pain to Máira as he looked into her deep blue eyes for an anchor to ground him as he explained.

“It’s because I swore to her that I would kill him.

” The hatred he’d felt for the man years ago returned with each word he uttered.

When she reached for him with tears welling in her eyes, he knew she felt the waves of grief washing over him, threatening to drown him.

He should have grabbed hold of the lifeline she offered.

But he couldn’t. He’d taken an oath, and as captain, he was going down with the ship he’d sworn allegiance to years ago.

He would not, however, take her with him.

He didn’t see the pain his rebuff caused her as he turned toward the door.

He was too caught up in his thoughts of revenge against the brutal French military man who still lived.

“I made a promise to my dead father as we fell from that tree together. I vowed the bastard who killed him would die by my hand. I made it once more to my grieving mother as she cried over his body. And it’s a vow I mean to keep.”