Pale Moon Rider (27 page)

Renée fought to keep hold of her senses. How much had he seen? How much had he heard? They had been twenty paces from the coach at the very least and whispering. And it was dark. The moon was just a faint suggestion of illumination above heavy banks of cloud and the lamp had been deliberately hooded.

“I … w—was only following your orders,” she stammered. “You told me to do whatever was necessary to win his confidence.”

“So you
kissed
him?”

“H—he was going to leave, you must have seen that. He was angry. You must have seen that, too, when he pulled me from the coach. H—he suspected it was a trap, that I w—was doing it for the reward. He had only come to tell me he was not going to go through with the robbery, that it was too dangerous.”

“And you thought a
kiss
would change his mind?”

“I did not know what else to do. Use every means at my disposal, was that not what you told me?”

He crowded her painfully close against the side of the coach. “And if that hadn’t worked, what else would you have done to persuade him? Would you have dropped to your knees and kissed him somewhere else?”

Whether it was just a reaction to the recent, explosive violence, or because she was Renée Marie
Emmanuelle
d’Anton and he had finally pushed her too far, she swung her arm up sharp and fast, slapping him across the cheek with the flat of her hand.

The crack of flesh on flesh was as loud as one of the gunshots and Roth jerked back, startled as much by her audacity as by the strength behind the blow. He was also, clearly, not accustomed to being struck by anyone, let alone a woman supposedly at his mercy. His reaction was instinctive and savage, and he returned with a vicious backhand, catching Renée on the side of her jaw with enough force to send her reeling sidelong into the enormous rear wheel of the coach.

Up to that moment, she had forgotten the velvet-wrapped bundle she clutched in her hand. Thrown against the spokes, she reached out to save herself from the fall and the bundle went flying out of her fingers, landing in the gravel at her feet. The velvet had not been bound tightly around the brooch, and she stared in horror at the winking sparks of the serpent’s bright eyes where they glittered in the pool of lantern light.

The next instant, Roth was spinning her again, shoving her back against the coach. His hand was under her chin, his fingers were digging into her throat, and his face was close enough to spray hers with spittle as he spoke.

“I believe I warned you once before about testing the limits of my patience.”

She tensed her body in anticipation of another blow and was convinced it would have come had they both not been distracted by the rumble of approaching hoofbeats. Within moments, a full patrol of dragoons emerged from the darkness behind them and halted abruptly enough to cloud the road with rolls of dust.

Roth leaned forward and hissed at her one last time. “We are not finished with this conversation, madam. Not by a far cry.”

He thrust her aside and stepped back just as Corporal Marlborough dismounted beside them and offered a smart salute.

“We heard shots and came at once, sir. Good God … your face!” He started forward, but a glare from the amber eyes stopped him cold. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Fine, blast you. Did you see him?”

“No, sir. We were less than a quarter mile back and saw no one. Was it him? Was it Captain Starlight?”

“It was him,” Roth said, staring over the officer’s shoulder.

Renée, pressed against the spoke of the wheel, edged her toe forward so that the hem of her skirt smothered the sparkle of the brooch. She dragged it back, careful not to look down or to draw the attention of any of the dragoons, but she needn’t have worried; most of them were waiting for Roth to speak again.

“Are the rest of the men in position?”

“Aye, sir.”
Marlborough
nodded curtly. “As per your orders, there are pickets set up every fifty yards from the crossroads forward, encompassing a two square mile perimeter. A flea could not pass through the line without us knowing it.”

Roth’s grin, stained red with blood, was pure malice. “So much for the wisdom and advantage of choosing flat terrain. Remember, I want him alive. Wound him if you have to bring him to ground, but I want the bastard alive!”

He walked to the closest dragoon and without preamble, reached up and pulled the man out of the saddle. “I want you, Marlborough, and four men to escort Miss d’Anton back to Harwood House. You are to remain there, alert and on guard, until further notice. As for you, my dear,” he swung himself up on the horse and turned to glare down at Renée, “be
assured
we will continue our discussion when this is over.”

He offered a brusque, insolent bow and jerked the reins around. A shout started the horses racing away in another boil of dust, into the same darkness that had swallowed the fleeing highwayman.

Corporal Marlborough, his shoulders easing slightly out of their enforced stiffness, looked decidedly uncomfortable when he glanced at Renée. She took a step toward the broken door of the coach, seemed to stumble a moment, but when the young officer rushed forward to assist, she straightened and glared away his offer of help.

“I am quite all right,” she said coldly, tucking her own hand beneath the folds of her cloak. “It was just a pebble under my shoe.”

As cold as Renée had been on her way to the rendezvous, she was twice as chilled on the seemingly endless ride to Harwood House, not the least because of the shattered coach door. She had nearly fainted before boarding the coach, certain
Marlborough
had seen her retrieve and conceal the brooch. Her jaw ached where Roth had struck her, and while it came as no surprise that he was an animal and a brute, it was still a shocking blow to what few shreds remained of her composure. She had never, in all her twenty years, been struck or manhandled and Roth had done it twice now. She had no reason to doubt he would do it again, or to doubt Tyrone Hart’s warning that if Roth suspected her of double-crossing him, she would see a side of him that would make his previous acts of brutality look mild by comparison.

When the coach rolled to a halt in front of Harwood House, Finn was there, lantern in hand, waiting anxiously to greet her. From the look of utter and abject mortification on his face, she guessed he had been almost beside himself with guilt, and worry. From the wide gash on his temple, she assumed he had not agreed to the substitution peacefully.

“Mad’moiselle, I had no idea—” he began.

“It is all right, Finn. It is over and done, and everything is all right. Where is Antoine?”

“In his room, asleep. I thought it best not to worry him unnecessarily.”

She nodded, grateful for at least one small mercy, and started toward the door.

“Miss d’Anton—?”

She stopped and stiffened but did no more than tilt her head to
acknowledge
Corporal Marlborough’s address.

The young officer moved haltingly forward, daunted as much by the small, square shoulders as he was by the threat of murder on Finn’s face. “I … would just like to say that I—I am sorry if you were inconvenienced in any way tonight. I disagree wholeheartedly with Colonel Roth’s methods. He is
not
representative of His Majesty’s government and—and if you were insulted in any way or if he said or did anything untoward, I swear on my sword and on my family’s honor …”

Renée whirled on him so unexpectedly, it was a wonder he did not damage himself snapping to attention. She said nothing, however. There was nothing she could say, either to express the full measure of the contempt she was feeling or to alleviate the young corporal’s indignation.

Finn did so with a righteous sniff as he turned and followed Renée into the house. He took the lead when they reached the stairs, exchanging the lamp for a candelabra as they walked down the long corridor to the east wing. Without waiting to be asked, he lit additional candles in her room and added another fat log to the fire blazing in the hearth.

Only then, when it was bright enough to see the dried streaking of tears on her cheeks, did he notice and dare to question the fine drops of blood on the front of her cloak.

“It … is not yours, is it mad’moiselle?”

Her eyes required a moment to focus.
“Pardon?”

He pointed tentatively to the blood. “Not yours?”

She looked down as if seeing t
he droplets for the first time. "No, not mine."

The whisper was more unnerving than the sight of the blood, and Finn quickly assisted her out of the cloak and bade her sit by the fire. He fetched a glass of wine from the sideboard and forced it into her chilled fingers.

“I can only hazard a guess as to what happened after that insufferable Colonel Roth had me manhandled to a back room.”

“He took your place,” she said quietly. “He wore your coat and a gray wig. Even I thought it was you, and
le capitaine
… he would have had but a brief glimpse and assumed it to be you as well.”

Finn’s upper lip twitched. “We should have anticipated something like this. Roth is definitely not a gentleman, not in any sense of the word.” He paused discreetly to refill the glass. “And the captain?”

“We were talking, and—and he must have seen something, for the next thing I knew he was pushing me aside and drawing his guns, and—and …” She looked up into the craggy old face. “He must have thought you were attempting to defend my honor, for I do not think he aimed his shots to kill, not at first. But then you … Roth … fired again, and he—he …”

“Assumed, perhaps, that it was not your honor I was attempting to defend, but rather the reward of two thousand pounds I was hoping to gain?”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “The look on his face in that last moment … it was very terrible to see.”

“Dear me.” Finn straightened and ran a finger around his collar to loosen it. “I can well imagine. Lucky for both of us, then, that he is dead.”

Her head jerked up. “The
capitaine
is dead? How do you know this?”

“Did you not just say he had a—a ’last moment.’ ”

“Oui
, before he called to his horse and rode away.”

“He rode away?”

“Oui.
He fired his guns and forced Roth to duck behind the coach, then called his horse and escaped.” Her shoulders sagged forward again. “Of course, I do not know how far he went, for Roth had men waiting all around the fields. They seemed quite confident he would not be able to get past them.”

“Then that should teach you not to put too much stock in the British army,” said a voice from behind them. “They were equally confident they could defeat Napoleon in
Flanders
and look what happened.”

Finn jumped, sloshing wine out of the decanter as he spun around. Renée dropped her goblet on the floor, scarcely able to believe her eyes as the door to the dressing room was nudged open by a tall black boot and Tyrone Hart stood facing them, the twin snaphaunces primed and cocked in his hands.

“M’sieur!”
She gasped and leaped to her feet. “What are you doing here? How did you get past the soldiers?”

“I am sorry to see you
have
lost all faith in me, mam’selle. Or did you think I would be so distracted by your sincerity and innocence that I would fail to take the simplest precautions?”

She did not know what to say. The multiple collars of his greatcoat were folded back, the closure itself flung wide to reveal the silver-gray waistcoat and loosened jabot of frothing lace he had worn so primly at the soiree tonight. His face had been wiped hastily clean of cosmetics, but the swarthy, sun-bronzed complexion only served to emphasize the overall menace in the squared jaw and pale, blazing eyes. Once before Renée had compared him to a jungle-cat and the image was even stronger now, only this time, the jungle-cat was on the loose and in a full rage.

“I did not betray you, m’sieur,” she whispered. “Neither Finn nor I knew what Roth was planning to do tonight; you must believe that.”

Dark, thickly lashed eyes held hers for a moment, then flicked to the elderly valet. When they focused on the gash in his temple, Finn touched it gingerly with a forefinger and scowled.

“Mad’moiselle speaks the truth, sir. I was silenced and brought back here without so much as a by-your-leave.”

Tyrone glared a moment longer then aimed one of the snaphaunces at the decanter in Finn’s hand. “Is there another glass?”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

“Why have you come here?” Renée asked again. “There are soldiers downstairs and likely to be more on the way when Roth discovers you have escaped his trap.”

Tyrone cast a stony glance in her direction. “He could not set a trap to catch himself. And I came here, mam’selle … to have another taste of Lord Paxton’s fine wine. If you object to my company, you need only scream to bring young
Marlborough
here at a run.”

She blanched at his sarcasm but did not back down from his steady gaze. His face was glistening with sweat and as she watched, a slick, fat bead ran from his temple to the collar of his coat. Where his hair curled forward over his brow and cheeks, it formed damp black corkscrews against the bronzed skin.