The Falcon and the Sparrow (43 page)

The Frenchman’s face became a bloating mass of scarlet. He glanced over his shoulder as if searching for someone then snapped his gaze forward again. With a snort, he puffed out his chest. “On the contrary, monsieur. We will keep these documents and promptly kill all of you and your men.” Keeping his gaze fixed upon Chase, he slowly retreated.

In all his years in command, Chase had learned the scent of fear on a man, and the stench coming from the Frenchman overwhelmed him. “I am afraid I find your terms most disagreeable.” Chase gave the man a sardonic grin. “Surely you cannot expect me to abide by them.”

“Non,” the Frenchman retorted. “I expect you to die.” He snapped his fingers.

A musket fired.

Chase ducked and fired his weapon as a shot zipped past his right ear. Its ominous buzz echoed through his head. Far too close.

“Fire!” he yelled to his marines. Drawing his other pistol, he shoved Dominique behind him, pushing her to the ground.

Gunfire cracked like feral whips all around him.

Waving aside the smoke, Chase aimed his pistol toward the Frenchman.

But the viper had already disappeared into the forest.

Dominique.
Dropping behind a boulder, Chase peered through the acrid haze, coughing. Finally, he saw her. She and her brother had sped into the trees for cover.

Confident they were safe for now, Chase fired at one of the French soldiers. The man clutched his shoulder and dropped to the ground.

More shots thundered through the clearing. Then the firing ceased. Nothing but the coughs of the living and moans of the wounded filled the air. Chase knew he must not give his enemy time to reload.

“Swords!” he shouted, and the swish of blades against scabbards bounced through the dissipating smoke.

Plucking out his own blade, Chase sliced through the thick vapor and forged toward the infantry, taking on the first man he came upon. Blade against blade they parried, the clang of their swords echoing through the night air. Sidestepping the Frenchman’s lunge, Chase brought his sword about and ploughed it into the man’s arm. With a shriek, his opponent clutched the wound before flinging the tip of his blade toward Chase in a whirlwind of steel. Chase countered the attack with an ease born of practicing his swordplay until exhaustion relieved the tension of his unrequited affections for Miss Dawson.

A look of dread cast the poor Frenchman’s face in gray as no doubt the realization hit him that he was outmatched. As Chase drew up his sword for another charge, the man simply dropped his blade, turned, and fled into the night.

With a shrug, Chase scanned the area for another enemy but found that either his men had dispatched them or the rest had run away.

He stormed across the clearing. “Grab the lanterns. Gather the wounded and ready the boat,” he ordered the men, kneeling to check on one of the marines who had been shot. Still alive, thank God.

Dominique. Oh Lord, let her be safe.
A wave of terror struck him.

Grabbing a lantern, he dove into the forest, frantically brushing aside branches. Then he saw her, crouched behind a bush with Marcel.

“Chase.” She raced into his arms, and he swallowed her up in his embrace, taking in a deep breath of her and finding it the best
scent he had ever smelled.

“You came for me. After what I did,” she sobbed, looking up at him, her eyes glassy pools of wonder.

He brushed a curl from her face and eased it behind her ear, but he could not find the words to tell her how he felt.

Over her shoulder he saw Marcel rise to his feet.

Dominique’s gaze shot down to Chase’s arm. “You are hurt,” she gasped, peeling back the fabric of his shirt.

Following her gaze, he saw a red stain marring the white linen. He had not even felt it. “It is nothing. We must go. I am sure there are more Frenchmen about.”

Marcel laid a hand on Dominique’s shoulder. “I am so sorry, Dominique.” He dropped his gaze to the ground. “What have I done?”

“Never mind that now.” She brushed her fingers over his cheek.

Chase took Dominique’s hand and led the way, holding the lantern before them. They had only to get to the cliffs then climb down to the shore, where not twenty yards to the north, his longboat awaited.

As they emerged from the trees onto the top of the embankment, a blast of salty air struck him. He took a deep breath, hurrying Dominique and her brother along as fast as he could over the rocks and thorns.

Almost there.

He squeezed her hand and said a prayer of thanks to God for saving her.

The cock of a pistol, ever so quiet, clicked behind them.

Before Chase could turn around, Marcel uttered a loud “No!” and flung himself in front of Dominique. The crack of the weapon reverberated through the night air.

Marcel crumpled to the ground.

Dominique screamed and dropped beside him.

When Chase looked up, he saw the Frenchman’s wicked grin leering at them from the trees to their right. “I was aiming for the girl, but killing the traitorous whelp will suffice.”

Chase set down the lantern and drew his sword. “You have proven you can shoot an unarmed boy. Now let us see how you fare blade to blade against a man.”

The momentary twinge of fear that crossed the Frenchman’s distorted features soon tightened into resolve as he swept his sword from its scabbard and held it out before him. “I warn you, monsieur, I have won many honors with my sword and beaten men far more skilled than you.”

“ ’Twill be a shame, then, for you to die at the hand of an Englishman.” Chase advanced over the rocky ground, a grim smile stretching his mouth.

Dominique’s stomach convulsed then tightened into a knot. She removed Marcel’s coat and pressed it upon the burgeoning circle of blood on his chest. “Marcel,” she cried. “Oh Lord, please do not take my brother.”

Marcel’s lids fluttered open, and he moaned. “Domi…” His breath grew ragged. The sharp scent of blood stung her nose.

“Rest now. We will get a doctor. You will be all right.” She kissed his forehead even as the ringing of swords behind her tore away the hope of her words.

She glanced over her shoulder. Chase swooped down upon the Frenchman, slashing a path before him as his foe jumped back in quick frenzied leaps. Darting to the side, the Frenchman swung around and sliced the tip of his blade across Chase’s chest.

Dominique shrieked. A line of dark maroon formed on his blue waistcoat.

Chase stood erect and confidently poised. “Is that your best, monsieur?” he asked, twirling his sword out before him, taunting his enemy.

The vicomte charged forward, his face the color of a sweaty beet, and once again the two swords clanked hilt to hilt. The men gritted their teeth and ground their swords together. The muscles beneath Chase’s torn shirt bulged under the strain. Fresh blood glistened from his wound.

Then, as if only waiting for the right moment, he shoved the Frenchman. The man stumbled backward over a boulder. Before he could regain his composure, Chase pummeled him with blow after blow, the man barely fending them off, so quickly they came.

Dominique had witnessed her father’s swordplay from time to time, but she had never seen anything like this. Chase fought with the skill and confidence of an admiral of the fleet and the ferocity of a savage. Terror sent her heart into a wild, uncontrollable beat. The Frenchman was not without skill himself. What would become of her, of Marcel, if Chase were to die? Glancing down at Marcel, she pressed down upon his wound. He uttered a guttural moan. A tear slid from her face and landed on his chest.
Oh Lord, do not let me lose both of them.

The ringing of swords drew her attention back to the fight, an eerie, ghoulish battle in the flickering light of the lantern. Chase sidestepped an overzealous thrust of his enemy then turned and met his blade from behind. She still could not fathom why he had come to her rescue. To hate her, to despise her, yes, but never to risk his life for her. Not after what she had done.

With a growl that made Dominique’s skin crawl, the Frenchman charged Chase, knocking him off his feet and tossing him to the ground. Chase’s head hovered over the side of the precipice.

With a maniacal cackle, the Frenchman raised his sword to plunge it into Chase’s heart.

Dominique screamed and sprang to her feet, intending to throw herself against the villain.

Suddenly Chase raised his feet, tangled them around the Frenchman’s legs, and toppled him to the dirt with a thud. Flipping upright, he grabbed his sword, kicked the Frenchman’s aside, then thrust his boot upon the man’s neck. Choking, the man stared at Chase with horror. Chase lifted his sword and pivoted its tip over the man’s chest.

“No, Chase.” Dominique touched his arm. No matter what the Frenchman had done, killing a defenseless man would not be right.

As Chase looked at her, the fury melted from his eyes. Removing
his boot from the Frenchman’s neck, he sheathed his sword then brushed his thumb over her cheek.

Groaning, the vicomte rolled on his side.

Chase rushed to Marcel. Dominique knelt beside him as he lifted the blood-soaked coat and checked the wound. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. Dominique could tell from the stiff lines on his face that it was serious.

He hoisted the moaning boy over his shoulder without effort. “We need to get him to my ship immediately. I have a surgeon on board.”

“Will he live?” She clung to his sleeve. “Tell me he will live.”

“You must pray, Dominique.” He gave her an earnest look, his eyes filled with uncertainty.

Nodding, she grabbed the lantern and followed him down the same narrow pathway she had climbed when she had first arrived. Only this time, she did not concern herself with tripping or scratching her palms. She was not worried about the French. This time, Marcel’s curly dark hair swayed before her as his head fell limp over Chase’s shoulder. This time, she was consumed with the terrifying thought that her brother would die.
Lord, You could not have brought me this far only to watch him die. Please, Lord.

Her prayers fell silent, drowned out by the crash of the waves and the fear that choked the breath in her throat and jumbled the thoughts in her head. Instead, she concentrated simply on following Chase.

They scrambled over the jumbled labyrinth of boulders and reached the white fan of the beach. Before them, a sea of ebony stretched to the horizon, interrupted only by the moon’s reflection off the pearly froth atop the waves. Chase turned right, and Dominique followed him along the shoreline, their boots sloshing through the waves that clawed at their feet.

A bright flash lit up sea, followed by a thunderous boom. Dominique shot her gaze upon the dark waters where another flash of white revealed the dark silhouette of a ship before it faded into darkness.

Boom!

The roar pounded in her ears and sent a quiver through the water.

Chase halted, and she came up beside him.

“What is it?”

“Apparently my ship has encountered the French,” he said matter-of-factly. “We cannot return yet.” He glanced over the dark, jagged bluffs bordering the shore. “We must hide. This way.”

Chase strode toward the cliffs with a confidence that helped ease Dominique’s fear. In the face of so much danger and uncertainty, he never complained, never showed any fear, and never faltered in making a quick decision. She supposed that was why he was an admiral. Yet she had rarely seen this side of him at his home. There on land, amidst the shrill tongue of his sister and the comical badgering of Mr. Atherton, he had seemed naught but a fish out of water.

Still holding Marcel over his shoulder with one hand, he grabbed hers with the other and assisted her as they wove through the massive boulders littering the beach, dove around an uneven rock wall, and came upon a shadowy opening in the base of the cliff. Taking the lantern from her, he held it before him then ducked and entered a small cave.

He gently placed Marcel on the soft sand toward the back and put the lantern beside him.

“Stay here. I will alert my men and make sure the light cannot be seen from shore.”

A massive red blotch stained the shoulder of his blue waistcoat and seeped onto his shirt. Dominique knew it was not his blood.

He must have seen the terror in her eyes, for he stopped and lifted her hand, placing a kiss upon it. “Be brave for just a little while longer. It will be all right.”

When he left, Dominique felt anything but brave. Marcel groaned. “Dominique.” Dropping by his side, she squeezed his hand.

“Marcel.” She brushed the dark curls from his face, noting how white he had become. “I need you. Be strong, Marcel.”

Lifting the coat, she winced at the oozing pool of blood. Quickly
she pressed the coat back upon the wound, willing the flow to stop, praying with all her might that it would. Marcel did not even moan.
Oh God.
Her breath came in rapid spurts. The eerie, craggy walls of the cave began to spin around her.

“Dominique.” Marcel’s voice was weak, as if he spoke to her from the end of a long tunnel.

“Do not try to talk, Marcel. We will soon be on the ship.” She glanced at the dark entrance to the cave. “The surgeon will save you.” The surgeon must save him.
Oh Lord.
Her throat suddenly went dry. She began to tremble.