Lost Lords: No Longer A Gentleman Part 4

"I'm not leaving without him," Grey said flatly as he slid the key into the lock.

"Very well, then." The woman might be old and drab, but she knew when not to waste time arguing.

Grey's hands were shaking as he tried to unlock the door. Such a simple action, yet deeply unreal after ten years when he had done nothing so simple and normal. But the cold iron key was solid in his hand, and that throw to the floor had been very real.

"Who are you?" he asked as he jiggled the key in the stiff lock.

She shrugged. "I have had many names. Call me Ca.s.sie or Renard."

Ca.s.sie the Fox. Given that she'd managed to enter the castle and release him, it was a good name for her.

The door swung open and Grey finally met the man who knew him better than anyone else in the world. Laurent was lying on his pallet. On the stone wall above his head an irregular brown cross had been drawn in blood. The priest's personal shrine.

Pere Laurent levered himself up on one arm as the door opened. He was thin, white haired, and ragged, but Grey would have known him anywhere by the calm wisdom in his face.

"Grey." The priest smiled luminously as he stretched out a hand. "At last we meet in person."

"Meet and escape, courtesy of this lady here." Grey took his friend's hand and pulled him to his feet. "We must move quickly. Can you manage?"

The priest swayed and would have fallen without Grey's support. He exhaled roughly. "I fear not. You must go without me. Better you escape than all of us be captured."

"No!" Grey slid his arm around Laurent's waist. The older man was just skin and bones, seeming so fragile that he might break, but once again, human touch was a pleasure deeper than words could describe. "I leave with you or not at all."

Ca.s.sie frowned. "Pere Laurent is right. We must escape from the castle, avoid pursuit across France, and travel back to England. The good father doesn't look as if he can climb the stairs."

"I'll carry him!" Grey spat out.

"He is very stubborn," the priest said mildly to Ca.s.sie. "But if we can get away from the castle, I can be left safely with a niece while you two run for your lives."

"Very well." Her eyes were worried. "But we must move quickly. Sergeant Gaspard could return at any moment."

As Pere Laurent reached out and touched the blood cross in a gesture of farewell, Grey hissed under his breath, "I hope the devil does return."

Luckily Ca.s.sie the Fox didn't hear him.

Chapter 11.

Ca.s.sie's instincts were screaming that they must move faster as she led the way down the pa.s.sage, and those instincts had saved her life several times over. But with Wyndham half carrying the priest, they moved slowly. She wondered if he'd be strong enough to carry Pere Laurent up the stairs after years of abuse and inadequate food.

Her unease spiked when she heard irregular footsteps ahead. At a guess, a man descending to the guardroom. "Someone's coming," she said in a low voice.

She was reaching for her concealed knife when Wyndham said with icy menace, "Gaspard. That's the sound of his peg leg. Here, take Pere Laurent."

Wyndham caught up with Ca.s.sie and transferred the priest's weight. She automatically took Pere Laurent's other arm so he wouldn't fall. Which meant her knife hand wasn't free.

Before she could protest, Wyndham swept past her with an expression so savage she was stunned to silence. He moved like a wild beast that had been released from a cage, his loping stride taking him to the guardroom in seconds.

The peg-legged man appeared in the door at the bottom of the stairs. His jaw dropped as he saw a prisoner racing toward him. "Merde!"

Snarling curses, Gaspard pulled a pistol from his greatcoat. Before he could c.o.c.k and aim the weapon, Wyndham was on him with a growl that was barely human.

There was an audible snap as Wyndham broke Gaspard's neck. The sergeant dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The end had come so quickly it couldn't even be called a fight.

Ca.s.sie must have made some sound because Pere Laurent said quietly, "I am not a violent man. But I will say that Gaspard got less than he deserved."

Reminding herself that Wyndham would have learned Hindu fighting skills at the Westerfield Academy, Ca.s.sie swallowed her shock. But as she supported the priest along the last stretch of the pa.s.sage, she wondered if she'd released a mad wolf to run wild.

By the time they reached the guardroom, Wyndham had pulled the dead man out of the stairwell and was rapidly stripping off his clothing. "Pere Laurent, these garments will keep you warmer," he said tersely.

A practical man, Wyndham. Ca.s.sie said, "I put the guard behind the desk. He should still be unconscious. He's taller so his clothing would be a better fit for you. Just don't kill him, please."

Wyndham piled Gaspard's garments on the chair, then pulled out the still-limp guard. "You do good work," he said with approval. "First I'll help Pere Laurent dress."

Ca.s.sie could understand that an aging priest might not want a woman's aid. She bent over the guard and released his bonds so she could undress him.

He was starting to stir, so she knocked him out again. She was careful not to cut the blood flow so long that his mind would be damaged. She did her best to avoid hurting or killing anyone without a good reason.

He was heavy, but Ca.s.sie was a lot stronger than she looked. By the time she had the garments off, the priest was dressed and sitting at the table gulping down a bowl of stew. As she poured wine for him, he said apologetically, "We weren't fed since yesterday morning."

"Almost everyone in the castle is ill," Ca.s.sie explained. "I volunteered to take trays around, which is how I was able to find you."

"I suppose Grey and I must be thankful that no one ever came near us, which seems to have spared us the illness." Laurent wiped up the last of the stew with a piece of bread. "Le bon Dieu works in mysterious ways."

Ca.s.sie had seen plenty of evidence of that, including the fact that the deity seemed to have a wicked sense of humor. She asked, "Grey?"

"My Christian name is Greydon Sommers," Wyndham said tersely. "I haven't felt much like a courtesy viscount in quite some time, so I prefer you call me Grey."

She understood that very well indeed. She poured the last of the wine into a gla.s.s for Grey, careful to keep her gaze averted as he pulled off his ragged garments. The worn, thin fabric would have been transparent if not for the layers of dirt.

"Ready," he said.

She turned and saw that the guard's clothes were loose enough to go around his waist twice but the height was close and the outfit was clean and warm compared to his old clothing. If not for the matted tangle of hair and beard falling halfway to his waist, he would look normal. Except for the chancy light in his gray eyes.

"I'll head out and bring my pony cart to the entrance," she said. "There's a landing at the top of the steps. Wait there until I come for you. I'm hoping we can get away without being seen."

Wyndham lifted a bowl of stew and began scooping it out with his bare fingers like a jungle savage. "The cart will take a few minutes, so I'll eat first."

"Just don't delay our departure." She headed up the stairs, her steps quick. She hoped the men wouldn't gulp down the food so quickly they'd become ill.

On the landing at the top of the steps, Ca.s.sie opened the door and peered out cautiously. Silence. She headed toward the back door, walking softly. She had to pa.s.s through one end of the kitchen to get outside. Madame Bertin was at the far end, snoring audibly in her chair by the fire.

Hoping that would last, Ca.s.sie left the castle and crossed the yard to the stables. The wind was sharper and even more bitter than when she'd arrived. There was a storm coming; she could feel it in the air.

Her pony waited patiently, having finished the hay Ca.s.sie had appropriated from the stable supply. She pulled off the pony's rug. It was warm and smelled horsy, but that was a minor issue compared to how the prisoners smelled.

She'd had the cart built with a false bottom capable of carrying useful cargo, and people when necessary. It was reached by a panel that opened along the side. She tossed the rug in. The compartment wasn't comfortable, but there was clean straw and the horse blanket would add warmth and cus.h.i.+oning. It was big enough for two men, barely.

After driving across the courtyard, she tethered the pony by the back door and went inside again. Madame Bertin still snored.

Wyndham-Grey-and the priest waited on the landing at the top of the stairs, the priest supported by his younger friend. She touched a finger to her lips in a gesture for silence.

Pere Laurent looked as if he'd never make it to the cart without collapsing. She bit her lip but needn't have worried. Grey scooped the old man up as if he weighed nothing and carried him quickly and silently across the kitchen. It was like a Restoration farce, with characters tiptoeing across the stage unseen.

Wondering how Grey had maintained so much strength under prison conditions, Ca.s.sie opened the outside door and looked around. The courtyard was still empty. Giving thanks for cold winds and influenza, she held the door open so Grey could carry the priest out.

He stepped outdoors-and froze, his gaze riveted upward. A rapid pulse beat in his throat. He whispered, "I never thought I'd see the open sky again."

"It's been here waiting for you." She lifted the panel that opened the false bottom. "And the sooner we leave, the better the chances that you'll be able to enjoy it for a long time to come."

Grey stared at the compartment. He looked like a skittish colt ready to bolt. Guessing the problem, she said, "I know the quarters are tight, but it's needful."

He drew a ragged breath, steeling himself. Then he carefully laid his friend in the compartment. The priest said to Ca.s.sie in a thin voice, "Take the main road south from the village. That is the direction to my niece's farm."

"Very well. When we're safe away, you can give me more detailed instructions." She glanced at Grey. "Your turn. Does it help to know that you won't be locked in? The compartment can be unlatched from the inside."

"That does help," he said tersely before climbing into the compartment. "I always thought I'd leave this place in a b.l.o.o.d.y coffin," he muttered. "Seems I was right."

She almost laughed. It appeared he'd retained some sense of humor, so there was hope for the man. "This coffin has fresh air, and it won't be for long."

Ca.s.sie latched the long door and swung up onto the seat. The first flakes of snow were drifting softly down as she set the cart in motion.

She drove out the castle gates, hoping they'd find shelter before the snow became serious. And that the priest's niece was still alive, well, and would welcome them as he believed.

Stage one, the rescue from the castle, was successful.

Now came the hard part.

Chapter 12.

Grey and Laurent slid a little toward the front of the cart as it rattled down the hill from Castle Durand. Still no shouts of pursuit, no gunshots. How long until their absence was discovered? A few hours, perhaps as much as a day.

Pere Laurent murmured, "I didn't believe I would leave that place alive."

"Neither did I. Much less that I'd be rescued by Ca.s.sie the Fox."

"That is her name? It suits her. She's clever like a fox."

That she was. Grey hoped that Ca.s.sie the Fox would continue to be as competent as she'd been so far. The way she'd knocked out and immobilized the guard was impressive. He closed his eyes so he couldn't see how cramped this compartment was. It would be embarra.s.sing to fall apart now that he was finally free.

He was grateful when the cart stopped. Sounds of rummaging above their heads, then Ca.s.sie opened the side panel. Her dark cloak was frosted with snowflakes.

Grey slid out with relief. Snow was starting to acc.u.mulate on the iron-hard ground and more was falling. Weather. Actual weather! Not just watching the light change beyond his tiny window.

As Grey helped his friend from the compartment, Ca.s.sie said, "I'll need your guidance now, Pere Laurent. This has the feel of heavy snow coming and I'd like to find shelter before the roads become impa.s.sable. If your niece is too far away, we need to look for an isolated barn to wait out the storm."

Laurent gazed at the horizon, where the blurred shape of Castle Durand was still visible through the falling snow. "From where we are now, we should be able to reach Viole's farm before the roads become difficult. She married a foreigner." He gave a fleeting smile. "A man who lives more than half an hour's ride away. Romain Boyer's farm is a prosperous little place hidden well back in the hills."

"If something has happened to your niece, will her husband also welcome us?" Ca.s.sie asked. "Much has changed in France in recent years."

"We will find shelter there," Laurent said confidently. "I must ride beside you, Ca.s.sie the Fox. The way is confusing and I will have to guide you."

"Very well." Ca.s.sie lifted a pair of scissors she'd been holding by her side. "But first I'll trim your hair and beard so you'll look less conspicuous."

She began clipping efficiently at Laurent's thin white hair. After she'd cut away the tangles that fell over his shoulders, he changed from a wild-eyed hermit into a shabby old man who wouldn't draw a second glance.

When she finished, Grey lifted his friend up into the driver's seat and bundled the horse blanket around him. To Ca.s.sie, he said, "My turn. If you give me the scissors, I'll do the cutting myself so we can get moving without more delay."

"You'd have trouble with the back." She began cutting below his left ear. His hair was much thicker than Pere Laurent's, so she took it in chunks. She was taller than he'd realized, average or a bit above. "This will only take a couple of minutes."

He stood still despite the closeness of the sharp blades. If he could shave his head and face completely bald, he'd be willing, just to get rid of the horrible, filthy ma.s.s of hair. During the years of imprisonment, he sometimes whiled away time by breaking off individual hairs. If he hadn't done that, the tangled mess would be past his waist.

Despite all the knots, she managed to quickly cut his hair so that it was above his shoulders, then did a beard trim. She'd left enough hair to keep his head from freezing, but removing the weight made him feel lighter and freer. Not cleaner, but that would come.

It felt strange to be so close to a female again. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and kiss her horizontal. He was embarra.s.sed by his intense reaction to a woman older than his mother. Dear G.o.d, how long until he could find himself a willing wench?

Forcing down l.u.s.tful thoughts, he stared into the snow. He might no longer be a gentleman, but at least he had enough self-control not to behave like a beast with the woman who had risked her life to save him. At least, he hoped he did.

"There." She finished tr.i.m.m.i.n.g his beard a couple of inches below his chin, then bent to scoop up the handfuls of fallen hair. "Mustn't show our direction by leaving a trail of hair." She balled up the greasy locks and stuffed them into a corner of the cart. "Time to get back inside so we can be on our way."

"No!" The word ripped out of him. "I can't bear being closed up. There's almost no traffic in this weather. I'll lie in the back of the cart under the canvas cover."

She studied his face. Her eyes were blue and shrewd and contained unexpected depths. "Very well," she said. "Be sure to stay hidden if we pa.s.s other carts or riders."

Thank G.o.d she was a sensible woman. Sighing with relief, he flipped back the canvas and climbed up into the cart. Given how she'd brought down both him and that great burly guard, best not to cross her. He'd had no idea how dangerous little old ladies could be. Well, there was his grandmother, the dowager Countess of Costain, but her weapons were words. With a pang, he wondered if she was still alive.

He settled in among the boxes and baskets. The s.p.a.ce was more cramped than the lower compartment and the corner of a box stuck into his side, but he didn't care as long as he was in the open air.

A homey equine scent wafted back from Pere Laurent's horse blanket. Grey didn't mind. He'd always loved riding. What would it be like to be on a horse again?

He'd probably fall off. How much of his life would have to be relearned?

The thought made him sweat despite the cold. He must proceed one step at a time. For now, it was enough that he was no longer a prisoner.