By Fire and by Sword (5 page)

The driver nodded at her as she passed, then buttoned his heavy caped coat and gathered the reins in
his rough hands. The door of the coach was closed with a bang. Captain Fischer handed her inside, and without anything further to be said, he closed the door with a loud snap, while the horses stamped restlessly as the postilions scrambled onto their backs. At that moment, the sudden clang of church bells began to ring throughout the city. She waited until they stopped, then leaned forward so her face was framed in the window and said, “Goodbye, Captain Fischer.”

Before he could reply, she heard the driver crack his whip, and they were off with a sudden lurch that had Kenna grabbing for a handhold. She looked out the window and saw Captain Fischer was smiling, and then he gave her a salute.

The sun was beginning to warm things a bit by the time she was completely settled in the coach. She had placed her traveling bags on the opposite seat, after she verified that her money and jewelry were still there.

She was now ready to face the second part of her journey. With a sigh, she leaned against the well-padded cushions and considered herself off to a new beginning, and a new life. She thought of the purpose that had taken her away from her family, and brought her to France, but such thoughts were painful, and she forced her attention, instead, to what she would be doing once she arrived in Paris.

She relaxed, serenaded by the rattle and clank of chains, the crunching of wheels skimming over rocks, the snorts of straining horses as they worked to gain momentum and settle into their collars.

In spite of her anticipation of the future she was racing
to meet, her thoughts fell back to the most recent past. A whispering of a name flitting through her consciousness…

Colin Montgomery.

She imagined him lingering in the shadows, sphinx-like. Colin Montgomery, an enigma sifting through her mind like dust through a locked window—an ingenious assembly of handsome features that both attracted and frightened her. And then it vanished like the flash of a falling star, gone before she could gauge its brightness.

He stood alone now, enclosed in the purple shadows of her attraction, his appeal strong and magnetic, drawing her deeper into her fascination with him. She knew it was the unknown quality that was seductive, for what woman would not be drawn toward a man surrounded by mystery as thick as a Highland mist?

She recalled the way he looked, his body long-shanked, hard and aggressively male, the image sending a shivering quiver of awe and fear spiraling down her spine. Her body coiled tightly at the memory of his dark, glossy hair, tied back, the lean hardness of muscle, the perfect symmetry of elongated bone, the startling contrast between broadness of blade and slimness of flank.

She gave pause to the direction of her thoughts. Just why was she still conscious of him; why, after their brief meeting, was her mind still held captive? Was it because he was part rake, part rogue and all masculinity? The coiling thread of desire wrapped itself around her when she considered the truth: it was because he
was a man who indulged without restraint in all the physical pleasures of life.

Even in his inebriated state, he stood out among the men she knew, and he had come out of nowhere, like lightning that strikes from very far away. Insistent, powerful and easily read, it was the soft seduction in his eyes that captured her.

“That is why a woman in possession of a face and body such as yours should never travel alone. Some men find the combination irresistible.”

Even now, the sonorous sound of his voice enticed her. Puzzling, inexplicable, he was a challenging
riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

And she was simply enraptured.

She was smart enough to realize being besotted with a man she would never see again was a futile undertaking, so she forced her thoughts away from him to focus on the reason she was in France. It was just as well, she thought, for she did not need herself to be distracted by a devilish rogue when her life was at stake.

She could not hide the excitement she felt within at the thought of holding a foil in her hand once again. She was determined that she would work twelve hours a day, or if necessary, fourteen—whatever it took for her to become even more skilful than her fencing master, and then, when that hungry-faced villain, her murderous enemy, Lord Walter Ramsay, appeared on the scene, she would show him that she was no longer the young, inexperienced girl she had been when he murdered her father and three brothers, and became the guardian, and chief tormenter, to her and her sisters.

She had foiled the hollow-eyed bastard once, when Lord Walter had kidnapped her sister, Claire, and held her captive in a deserted castle, where he tried to starve her to death in a dirty dungeon. Claire’s crime was to refuse to hand over their father’s title and the family fortune to him, by way of marriage to the son of Lord Walter’s accomplice. It was Kenna’s daring ride through the night, from her home to Edinburgh, to get help that saved Claire’s life. The Grahams, led by Jamie, the Earl of Monleigh, and his brother Fraser, hurried to rescue Claire, who was close to death by the time they found her.

At his trial, Lord Walter, brimming with hatred, lashed out at Kenna, his mouth foaming, as he spewed his venom-laced curse, where he vowed to make her pay for what she had done, no matter how long it took. “You spawn of the devil, you will know no peace, for you will look for me in every dark place, and jump at the sight of every shadow, never knowing the exact day, or the hour I will come. But mark my words,
I will come!
”

When he had entered their lives, Kenna and her sisters were too young to know about such evil, or to ask what could transform a man into such a monster.

She still did not know the answer to that, but she knew the young should learn about villains and monsters from fairy tales, not real life.

The coach made one stop between Calais and Amiens at a post house to change horses. Kenna dined on a lunch of herbed chicken and potatoes, before they continued on. It was almost dark when they reached
Amiens, and she watched the shadows against the trees and rows of houses, cast by the coach lanterns as they passed. She spent Christmas Eve at the Golden Leg Inn, a modest but reasonably clean accommodation.

After breakfast, she was in the coach again, and as they had done the day before, they stopped to change horses at another post house, where she had her Christmas lunch—a lovely little meat pie flavored with onions and potatoes. Just when she thought she was finished, the waiter took her plate and replaced it with a luscious plum tart.

He told her it was a special “Christmas tart” and hoped it would make “Christmas away from home a happier one.”

She thanked him, so very touched that someone understood what it was like to spend Christmas away from family and country. To show her appreciation, she ate all of it, down to the tiny crumbs on the plate.

When the man returned he looked at the empty plate and said,
“C’est formidable, n’est-ce pas?”

She responded with a confident air,
“Oui, c’est formidable, formidable!”

Shortly thereafter, she was in the carriage again, and on the final segment of her journey to Paris. On they went, through sleepy little villages and dark, shaggy woods, across burns and bridges, until the rhythm of the coach overcame her and she was rocked to sleep.

Enter these enchanted woods,

You who dare.

—George Meredith (1828–1909),

English novelist and poet.

“The Woods of Westermain” (1883).

K
enna was uncertain how long she slept when she was suddenly awakened by the crack of a pistol that pierced the quiet. A shout—the sharp scraping of brakes—and the coach came to a sudden, jerky halt.

Seconds later, the horses began to snort and stamp about in confusion, their movements rocking the coach. She heard shouts, and parted the curtain to take a peek outside, but she could not see anyone. Suddenly, the opposite door of the carriage was yanked open, and a man leaped in and closed the door. She saw he was not much older than she, which made her bold.

The horses nickered. More shouts. “Have you murdered the coachman?”

“Murdered? Do I look like a murderer,
mademoiselle
?” he asked, and answered his own question. “Of course not. I have murdered no one.”

“I am not an imbecile. I distinctly heard a shot.”

“Only one shot,
mademoiselle
, fired to halt your coach.”

“And why, pray tell, did you do that?”

“How else would I stop it? Do you think I would be so foolish as to dash in front of a speeding coach and wave my arms? As for your coachman and postilions, my friends are keeping them occupied at the moment. They will not be harmed.”

“You have forced us to stop. I have reason to concern myself with that.”

“I assure you that you have no reason to be alarmed.” He had a soothing voice and honest eyes. That, and the fact that he did not look like a highwayman helped her relax somewhat—although she had to admit to herself that she had never actually seen a highwayman.

As for his face, he had a marvelous one, with high cheekbones and a refined, yet masculine nose. His eyes were a silver-blue, set in a tanned face framed with curly, dark blond hair. But it was his mouth that was so attractive, wide and sensitive, with the corners lifted slightly in a smile—and she could tell it was a mouth that did a lot of smiling.

“I mean you no harm, and I am not after your money or your jewelry.” He was elegantly dressed, poised and obviously accustomed to a life of wealth.

“That is just as well, for I have little coin and no jewelry,
but I cannot help but wonder, if you are not after money, then why have you stopped my coach,
monsieur
?”

“We were set upon and robbed by highwaymen, and our coach overturned. They took the horses, and left us with no transportation. One of my friends is hurt. We need to get him to a doctor.”

“He is the only one that is wounded?”

“
Oui
, unless you count the wounded pride of Alexandre, who tripped and fell while stepping out of the carriage and into a ravine he could not see in the dark. Took quite a tumble, he did, but I think his pride is wounded more than anything else.”

“And you wish to take my coach and driver and leave me here?”

“No, of course not.
Mademoiselle
, what do you take me for? A villain? We only wish to ride with you to Paris, so we can find a doctor for de Lorraine.”

“In what way is he injured?”

“I believe he has broken his arm, for it looks more like the letter
L
than an arm at the moment. He is in a great deal of pain.”

“Very well, bring him inside the coach, so we can make haste to Paris—and tell the driver I said it was all right to do so.”

He left, and she heard the exchange of voices before the man returned to the coach a few minutes later. When the door opened, she could see he and his friend carried the wounded man, who was screaming from the pain in his left arm, which dangled, with the upper arm bone at an unnatural angle. She knew broken
bones were painful, and that there was nothing they could do for him to ease his pain, for there was not so much as a dram of whisky in the coach.

“Place him on the seat next to me,” she said, and they lifted him inside, with him howling anew with each movement.

She guided him, so his head was in her lap, to give him more room to stretch out. One of them told the driver to continue on, and the coach started up again.

She looked down into the face of de Lorraine, who was alternately cursing and praying with fervor, interjecting the name Macarius several times in his plea for the pain to be gone.

“Who is this Macarius?” she asked.

“It is
Macarius the Wonder Worker
, his patron saint,” the one with the dark blond hair replied.

“It looks as though he is getting no reply,” de Bignan said. “One should never mix prayers and oaths.”

The blond said, “Do not ridicule poor de Lorraine, although I am not convinced his writhing like a dying fish is doing much for his pain.”

Kenna, meanwhile, was doing her best to keep from laughing, and as a diversion, she looked down at de Lorraine, whose face was perspiring. She wiped his brow with her kerchief and pushed his hair away from his face.

De Lorraine mumbled,
“Merci, mon ange,”
then began to gasp with pain as he turned himself slightly, to look at his two friends. “When I am well,
mes amis
, I shall break both your arms and then tell jokes and wait for you to laugh.”

It was a good and much-needed chuckle, and when it ended, they fell quiet. The coach rocked along in silence, while she observed the other two men, noting that the three of them were all blessed with striking male beauty. She noticed the scratches on de Bignan’s face, and found herself wishing she could have seen him step proudly out of the coach and into the ravine. He was fortunate he received only a few scratches.

She noticed the blond was studying her in great detail. “You are not French,
mademoiselle.
”

“Is my French that bad?”

He laughed. “No,
mademoiselle
, it is excellent, but you do not
act
French.”

“That is as it should be, for French, I am not. I only arrived in France yesterday, and have hired this coach to take me from Calais to Paris.”

“You are English?”

“I am insulted to be called so.”

He laughed. “A Scot, then?”

“Proudly, I say that I am.”

“Aah, a supporter of the Pretender,” he stated, with a glance at his friend sitting beside him, as if he knew ahead of time that she was a Jacobite.

“I am a Presbyterian, and neither a Jacobite nor a supporter of the man whom you mention.”

“And therefore, you cannot tolerate even the sound of your Scots name for him… Bonnie Prince Charlie, upon your lips?”

“That I cannot.”

“May I ask why,
mademoiselle
?”

“For too many years his cause has brought chaos,
devastation and ruin to Scotland, and what happened at Culloden delivered us into the hands of the English. They are murdering clan chiefs and seizing their land. They are passing laws for the sole purpose of bringing the Highlanders to their knees by destroying the clan system. We have only begun to see the repercussions of it.”

“Conquered, but not convinced,” he said.

“Never conquered nor convinced,” she replied. “There is a difference between being conquered and being ruled. They have seized the Highlands by force, they will make us obey their laws, but they will never conquer our determination or kill our spirit.”

He laughed. “Well said, my little fire dragon. I thought I touched a nerve, but I see that I unleashed a lightning bolt.”

“What is your name,
monsieur
? Since you have taken over my carriage, I would like to know the names of the gentlemen who accompany me.”

“A slight oversight,
mademoiselle
, please forgive my discourtesy and allow me to correct it. The wounded man is Jules François Joseph de Lorraine, Comte de Lorraine. My friend who does not look before stepping out of coaches is Alexandre Antoine Auguste de Rohan-Chabot, Vicomte de Bignan, Baron de Kerguehéneuc.”

And you,
monsieur
?”

“Philippe Henri Louis Marie de Courtenay, Duc de Bourbon, Marquis de Marigny, Comte de Rochefort, Vicomte de Rohan…”

“‘De Bourbon’? Are you related to…” The moment
the words escaped her, Kenna realized she had committed a grave error and snapped her mouth shut.

“Related to whom,
mademoiselle
?” de Bourbon asked.

Her heart began to pound as she strived to think quickly, for this was a learned man she was trying to divert. She had made a terrible mistake asking that question. The duke was not an imbecile. Royalty cut their teeth on intrigue. He had Bourbon blood. That made him a relative of King Louis, which in turn, gave him some kinship to Sophie, who was Claire’s sister-in-law, who was also a cousin to King Louis.

Kenna tried to think of a way she could gracefully extricate herself from the situation she had created. When no reasonable way out came to mind, she supposed it did not hurt to tell him about Sophie, who was now married to Jamie Graham, the Earl of Monleigh. It was not likely that this Frenchman would cross paths with Lord Walter.

No, she thought, no more than you would cross paths with someone related to Sophie. It was sober learning, and she prayed she would not commit such a faux pas again.

“Who were you thinking of,
mademoiselle
? Perhaps it is someone I know.”

“Oh… I was distracted a moment, trying to remember the name. It was someone I met once, in Edinburgh…at a ball, I believe, although the name now escapes me. She was quite charming, as I recall.” The moment she spoke the words, she realized she should not have revealed so much. Now he knew it was a
woman. She noticed, at that moment, a gleam in his eye that said his quick mind had already made a connection, all because of her foolish mistake.

A large smile seemed to wrap itself across his face in a cleverly skillful way. “I am certain I know who it is,” he said, with confidence so strong one could walk on it. “Sophie Victoire de Bourbon, the daughter of Louis-Alexandre de Bourbon, Comte de Toulouse, Duc de Danville, Duc de Penthièvre, Duc de Châteauvillain, Duc de Rambouillet—made an Admiral of France at the age of five, and later he became the Grand Admiral of France. Is that the person you met in Edinburgh?”

She wished she could step into a ravine herself—anything to get out of this predicament. Her heart beat triple time as she tried to maneuver out of and minimize the significance of her blunder, for well she knew, such mistakes had upon occasion served to change the course of history.

“I truly cannot say, Your Grace.” She tried to discount it with a little humor. “With such a long title, I may have dozed off before they got to the end of it, and forgotten the name completely.”

He did not seem to find that amusing, so she added, “It was a short introduction that took place a few years ago. Much suffering and sorrow has come to Scotland since those days.”

“But the Bourbon name must have been familiar to you, no?”

Aah, flattery, she thought, and proceeded to use it. “Bourbon blood flows in the veins of the kings of many great countries. The illustrious House of Bourbon has
been one of the most powerful ruling families in Europe for centuries. Its famous name is known to everyone the world over, and I am certainly no exception. As for the woman I was trying to remember, I have no way of knowing if she is the one you speak of, because our meeting was such a minor event. One does not always attach a great deal of significance to every introduction.”

“Of course,” he replied, but she could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, cranking out possibilities.

“Was there something particular that I said that made you think it was the woman you mentioned?” Kenna asked. “I only ask because I am certain there must be many women with Bourbon blood about.”

“I thought of this particular woman for two reasons,
mademoiselle:
her Bourbon blood, of course, and the fact she lives in Scotland. I know of only one woman who fits both descriptions. She is a Bourbon, and she married a Scottish nobleman—a duke, or an earl, I believe. And yes, she is related to me. My uncle was the Duc du Maine, a natural son of Louis XIV. King Louis was also Sophie’s grandfather.”

“Aah, I understand now, how you would think of her. Unfortunately, I do not know anyone married to a French-woman.” Kenna had nothing more to add to that, so she remained silent. If the duke wanted to discuss it further, then it would be up to him to broach the subject again.

“And your name,
mademoiselle
? You have not introduced yourself, and I cannot help wondering if that was intentional or an oversight.”

“I do apologize, Your Grace, but I am in a quandary, and I hope you will understand. I can tell you that I left Scotland for personal reasons, and cannot, therefore, divulge my name, or the reason I came here. I can give you a false name, if you like.”

The
duc
laughed, and his silvery eyes held a spark of delight.

Alexandre was smiling, but it was the
duc
who said, “I do believe that is the first time anyone has asked my permission to tell a lie.” He could not manage to say more, for at that moment he was overcome with laughter. “I would like to call you something other than
mademoiselle
, but I respect your decision to keep your identity secret. It is something I have been forced to do myself, from time to time.”

“I appreciate your honesty and indulgent understanding, Monsieur le Duc.”

Silence engulfed the coach; everyone was lost in their own thoughts, but there were no visible clues as to what direction those thoughts were taking.

After a short while, Kenna allowed her curiosity to get the better of her. “I am puzzled as to why the three of you are traveling on Christmas Day, instead of being home with your families.”

“We had plans to be back in Paris four days ago, but our carriage overturned south of Dunkerque,” the
duc
said. “We managed to set it upright, and made it to the next post stop. We sent for a blacksmith, who told us the good news, that we needed a new axle. We were forced to wait there until he could make a new one.”