Page 42 of The Rebellious Countess (The Ruined Duchess #2)

Seventeen

Dearest Aunt and Uncle?—

I am scared. Father is dead. The man protecting me is very ill. I think he will die. The soldiers watch…waiting for him to falter. He is the only reason I still breathe. They say I must pay a fine or forfeit my life. Please help.

Your loving nephew,

Sébastien

—A letter from the son of a spy killed by double agent Henry Greasley.

The letter was sent from a cell in Mont Saint Michel, where the eight-year-old boy watched over the Earl of Astley.

Greasley would have killed Sébastien had Astley not stopped him by surrendering himself.

A monk delivered the letter to the boy’s aunt and uncle, who burned it upon receiving it, too frightened for their own children to risk saving their orphaned nephew.

M áira looked up from Simon’s unconscious body. “ He’s got a broken arm, fingers, possibly some ribs. He has head and facial injuries and more that I cannot discover without him being conscious.”

“They beat him daily, until they all began to get sick.”

Máira winced at the boy’s words, wondering what he had witnessed but continued, “He is also gravely ill.”

“I’ve been sneaking him what the women in the kitchen have been giving the soldiers, but he can’t keep it down.”

Máira studied the expression on the boy’s face.

“You have done a wonderful job of caring for him. I suspect he would not be alive if it weren’t for your care.

” She dug in her bag and took out a small sample of the herbs and root she had collected along the river.

“Give this to the women. Tell them these herbs are from Dinan?—”

“Marseille,” Elias interrupted. “We were in Marseille when you collected those.”

The intensity of his gaze told her not to argue.

He did not want the boy or anyone else to know where they had been, so despite not knowing if the flowers grew in Marseille or not, she agreed.

“Of course, my mistake. It…it was Marseille. How silly of me. The innkeeper’s wife asked us to check on her family in Dinan, but we never made it. ”

The boy shook his head and looked at Elias. “She is a terrible spy.”

Elias winked at the boy. “Sébastien, go show the women what to look for and where to get it. The innkeeper’s wife in Marseille said to mix it in wine and give it to the sick. But then come back here. We will need your help getting out of here.”

The boy nodded and took off with her mixture of herbs and plants that would hopefully help heal the sick.

“You’re helping the men who did this to Astley,” he informed her.

“Not all of them are guilty.”

“Not all of them are innocent.”

“We will never know which ones did this to Simon. I do know I cannot leave without offering a bit of aid, but I did not mix the herbs with wine. I mixed them with water from the river.”

“We don’t know if the water supply on the island isn’t the problem.”

She agreed and then turned back to Astley. “How do you suggest we get him out of here?”

“Since he can’t walk, I’ll carry him.”

“But his ribs—if they’re broken it could kill him.”

He nodded in agreement as he stood watch at the door for any soldiers coming their way.

“And if I don’t carry him, he will most definitely die.

I didn’t come here to recover his body. I came to give the man a fighting chance at survival.

Wrap his mid-section as best as possible. When the boy returns, we leave.”

She knew he was right. At most, she would give Simon a thirty percent chance of living.

Sébastien returned a few minutes later, his mood anxious as his gaze darted back at the door.

“What’s wrong?” Elias asked.

“There are new soldiers coming to get the earl.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I overheard the women talking, but then the cook saw me and slapped me for eavesdropping.

I told her I was just waiting for them to finish talking, but I don’t think she believed me.

I told her one of the monks gave me the herbs to heal the sick and after a bit of grumbling, she told me to go collect the plants. ”

Elias frowned. “When did she expect you to return?”

“She wanted me to get a couple guards from Chapel Saint Aubert. That is where the healthy guards are staying. I’m to return at the next low tide.”

Máira breathed a sigh of relief. That would give them several hours before the boy was expected to return. They could drop him off at the mill, provided Father Charles made it back?—

“Bloody hell.” Elias cursed, not even sparing a look at the boy. “The damn fool is going into a den of angry men.”

“Who?” The boy asked.

“Never—”

Máira gasped. “Father Charles was headed to the chapel.”

Elias threw his hands in the air. “Stop talking.”

Sébastien shook his head. “A terrible spy.”

Máira looked at the two of them and then directed her argument to Elias. “You’re the one who said the fool was headed toward a den of angry men.”

“You’re the one who gave away the identity of your accomplice,” Sébastien interjected as if she’d been arguing with him. Which she certainly was not going to do. He was a child.

Elias raised his right hand, palm in the air as if he were serving the boy’s words on a platter. She stuck her tongue out at the two of them and turned to gather her satchel and supplies. A giggle sounded behind her, the joyous noise as strange as sunshine in the dark gloom of the diseased prison.

“He’s ready,” she told Elias, who closed the door and then moved over and sat down on the floor next to Simon.

With Simon’s good arm draped over one shoulder, Elias leaned over and pulled the earl up across his back, lifting one of the earl’s legs over his other shoulder.

Elias pushed to his feet and held Simon as if the earl was a cape covering his shoulders.

She expected Simon to cry out in pain or at least moan, but nothing fell from his lips.

Sébastien looked out the door and then opened it.

Elias followed with Máira picking up the rear, watching Simon for any sign of pain.

They moved swiftly and entered the refectory and Sébastien went to the right, not toward the cloister where they’d entered.

She watched the room, her nerves on edge as she waited for someone to yell, “Stop, they’re escaping! ” No one even glanced their way.

A raspy cough drew her attention to a soldier sitting up against the wall.

His finger was raised in their direction…

pointing. His mouth was open as if he was desperately attempting to raise the alarm, but the cough racking his body refused to allow him respite.

She paused and leaned over the man, but before she could utter a word, the soldier grabbed her by the front of her shirt.

Her hat tipped, her hair threatening to tumble out for all to see.

As if sensing she was not following him, Elias stopped and turned around slowly with the earl hanging like a limp rag doll on his back. His expression was as cold as she had ever seen it and she was afraid he would kill the soldier where he sat.

Máira took control and said in a loud voice, her tone turning scratchy as she attempted to deepen her words to sound like a young boy on the cusp of manhood. “The English scum died. He’s going to burn the body so he can’t have a proper burial.” Her French was flawless.

The soldier looked at the unconscious earl, his eyes squinting to clear his unfocused gaze.

A small lift of the corner of his mouth signified he believed her lie, before his coughing consumed him, his odorous breath worse than the air around them.

He released her shirt and bent over in desperation to catch his breath.

Too involved in his own fight for breath, the soldier paid no heed to their departure.

Sébastien waited for them at a doorway, then held it open for them to pass into the fresh night air.

“Where are we going?” she asked, as she quietly closed the door behind them.

“A different route.” Elias gave her no hint of where or why they weren’t returning the way they came.

“But—”

He stopped, turned around and glared at her. His left hand held the earl’s wrist and ankle together, his knuckles white with the strain. Then she saw the pistol in his right hand, not directed at her, but ready to face any threat with deadly force.

He had been ready to shoot the man in the refectory…for her, he had been willing to risk his rescue mission, himself, the boy—everything. She understood the anger radiating off him and the death glare that said, don’t push me .

She nodded, and he turned back toward Sébastien as they made their way along an exterior covered walkway on the north side of the abbey.

The sea breeze struck her in the face, fresh, briny, the weather cooler than it had been when they arrived.

Clouds still covered the sky, making the full moon completely invisible.

The motion of the tide hitting the rocks below made her pulse quicken.

They were late. Their pace increased, each one of them aware of what the crashing waves meant.

They reached the opposite end of the abbey, and at the corner of the cloister, Sébastien turned toward the sea, and crossed the open piazza that ran almost the entire length of the north side.

He stopped when he reached the wall. A heavy iron gate barred them from exiting.

She quickly moved forward and bent down to look at the lock mechanism.

It was similar to the lock that had broken her tool.

It was also in similar condition, if not worse.

Her satchel clinked as she set it down, and she suddenly remembered the bottle of holy oil she’d picked up off the ground and shoved in her bag when the Elias and the priest were carrying the dead soldier’s body.

She pulled it out and stared at it for a moment, wondering if she was damning them to hell.

She shrugged. They were damned if she didn’t.