The Spymaster's Lady (13 page)

“D
O NOT GIVE ME FAMILY PARTIES OF
D
UTCH,
with their three children and a grandmother.” One hand on the reins, the other clenching a rolled list, Leblanc sat stiff in the saddle. “Or schoolgirls. Or two old men who tune pianos. This is useless.”

“These have passed today. No one else.” The corporal of militia stood stolidly.

“I tell you again, you are looking for a blind woman. Young, dark-haired. Very lovely. It is inconceivable no one would notice. There will be a man with her. Tall. Brown hair. Brown eyes.”

“There may be another with them. A young man, wounded,” Henri added.

Leblanc scowled him to silence. “Forget the others. We have to find the blind girl. She will come this way. She must.”

Henri's mount crept forward, planning to take a bite out of the corporal. Henri kneed it back into line. “Or they may strike south.”

“She won't. She knows every foot of this coast. And it's the best route to England.” Leblanc tore the list he had been offered into pieces. They fluttered to the ground and danced in the wind around the hooves of his horses. “How is she slipping past the patrols? How? Damn these peasants. Someone's helping her.”

“No blind women came by my post,” the corporal said stolidly.

Leblanc squinted across the barrens of pine and sand toward the slice of slate-colored sea. “That village?”

The corporal said, “Pointe Venteuse, sir.”

“It has an inn?”

“
Oui,
monsieur, a fine one. Madame Dumare is—”

“You will take your men, Corporal, and you will go through every house in that wretched village. You will go through every hedge and outhouse and cow byre searching for that woman. Then you will search them again. You will do this until I tell you to stop.”

“But—”

“Perhaps next time I will not hear so much of Dutch families. I will be at the inn. Henri…”

Resigned, Henri spurred forward.

“Let us make a lesson here. Pick two or three women and bring them to the inn for questioning. If the inn is indeed fine, I will spend the night there.”

So. It was to be one of those nights. Henri shrugged and motioned four of the troop to fall in behind him. Husbands and fathers would object. They would object more tomorrow, when they saw what was done with the girls.

“Dark-haired,” Leblanc called after him. “I want them dark-haired. And young.”

T
IME CRAWLED OVER HER AND AROUND HER.
S
HE
floated in endless swirling waters. When the heavy, dark weight of them receded, she was sitting up with a man's arm around her.

“Drink this.” It was Grey who said that, and what she was to drink was coffee. Very sweet coffee.

“I do not take so much sugar.” She shook her head, annoyed and barely awake. “It is too much. Really.” But she drank it because he put it to her lips and kept offering it to her until it was gone. Then he held her close to his chest as she spiraled into the blackness. It was like falling down into him.

Darkness gave way to the velvet times when she was full of mindless contentment and did ordinary things, but nothing was important in the least. She walked or stood or sat, and Grey was nearby, telling her what to do, guiding her through the moments of spinning bewilderment. Then she would lie down and sleep, in a bed or on the ground, wherever he had put her.

Once, she lay with the softness of a bed beneath her. Grey's body sprawled beside her, sleeping. The bed was warm with him, and his arm lay across her, heavy and relaxed. Desire uncoiled in her. Her skin stretched tight over a thousand humming feathers. She turned to him and slid herself against him, and it burned. Between her legs it burned and sang, and she pressed and pressed herself against him.

He woke. “Easy, Annique. You're dreaming. Don't…” He set her away from him. “No.” It was a whisper in her ear. “You're beautiful, Fox Cub. Sleep now. Just sleep.” But she held tight to him, wrapped around him. She felt, suddenly, an ecstasy that broke her into a thousand fragments. She cried out and fell, slowly, all the thousand pieces of her, into the warm, drugged ocean the opium had prepared for her.

Then she was in the coach, tucked against Grey's side, warm sunlight on her face. The
click click
of wheels and the jiggle and thump of the road had been with her a long time. Grey held her and stroked slowly down her back. It would be nice if he did that more. She slipped down to nestle into his lap. Now he would stroke her everywhere.

He ran his fingers softly across her forehead and into her hair. It was not enough. She rolled, inviting his hand across her belly.

“Like a cat,” she heard him murmur.

Adrian's voice came softly, nearby. “She wants it. Opium hits some of 'em like that. She's going to make some man deliriously happy, one day.”

“Not you,” Grey said.

“Unfortunately, no. But then, it's not my flag she's running up the mast, is it?”

Grey gave a deep growl. The vibration buzzed through him and into her skin. She rubbed her cheek against him and breathed him in. Through the rough fabric of his trousers, the muscles and the bones of his thighs emerged into her mind like rocks from sand. It felt wonderful, touching him.

I should not be doing this.
It was a faint voice, far beneath the dark waters of her mind.

“She's hurting.” Adrian's light words drifted across her, words with no meaning. “Why don't you give her a touch or two and let her fall asleep happy? She won't remember.”

“Why don't I kick you out in the nearest cornfield and let you walk home.”

“I can look the other way.”

“Shut up, Adrian.”

“Your sort always makes it complicated. She's coming out again.”

“Blast. You're right.” The universe shifted. She was sitting up. She heard Grey say, “Make it a half dose. Or less. Less than that.”

There was a glass to drink, very bitter. She did not want to take it, because they were giving her opium, but it was drunk before she woke up enough to fight. Then Grey let her lie down in his lap again.

“Go back to sleep.” He rearranged her on the seat. She curled around his hand, trying to pull it between her legs, for the touch of him. It kept slipping away.

“Sleep. That's what you want. Nothing else.”

She fell down into the darkness. The words fell in after her, melting on her skin like snowflakes.

H
ER
face was wet, which confused her utterly. She was in the coach, and Grey was slapping her. Why was she so wet?

“I wish you would not do that.” She tried to fight his hands off. “It is not at all necessary and very impolite.”

“Wake up.” He slapped her again. It was not painful exactly, but it was not a light tap on the cheek either.

“I am awake.” She took hold of his wrist so he could not strike her again. Everything was confused inside her brain, as if it were foggy in there. This was Grey. Grey was in the coach with her and wanted her to wake up. Where were they? She could not at all remember. “You do not need to keep hitting me. I am awake.”

“Good. I need you to be awake. Annique, the gendarmes are going to stop the coach. No, don't you dare go to sleep on me. You're going to stay awake and talk to them. Can you do that?”

She pushed the heels of her hands against her temples. Gendarmes. She was in France. Grey…Grey was the English spy. Leblanc was chasing her, hungry for her death. He had set the gendarmes after her.

She couldn't think. “Gendarmes?”

Grey switched to German. “Can you be Bavarian? We have to speak German. Can you do that?”

Terror peeled the layers of sleep off her. This was not Grey. This clipped, precise, intellectual voice. This German voice. Beside her in the coach was a man with Grey's shape and his smell and his warmth and his clothing…who was not Grey.

“Annique. Wake up and talk to me. Now.”

She put her hand to his mouth and felt his breath move with the words. The feeling of Grey was there, the shape of his lips, the stubble of his cheek, his smell. But it wasn't his voice.

“What is it?” His words, but not his voice. Grey, speaking German.

It was horrible and bewildering to hear a different voice come from Grey's mouth. It was inconceivably wrong. She was alone in the dark and she had lost the familiarity of his voice.

“No. I am awake now.” She shook her head.

She should not have shaken her head. It made her dizzy, and she could not think.
His voice has changed. That is all. He is still Grey.
She heard the ominous jangling that was armed men—leather and horse bits and guns slung across shoulders. Dreams and unreality clung to everything. She must wake up.
He is still Grey. Do not panic like a silly schoolgirl.

Grey knew what must be done. He was the still point in chaos. She would do what he said, and trust him, and think later. “I will speak German.” That was the easy part. She matched her accent to his. To a village she had lived in, a little farther east, midway between Munich and Salzburg. The lilting speech of hills and green valleys.

“Only German from now on, Annique. Your name is Adelina Grau. I'm your husband Karl. We've been married six months. Adrian is your brother, Fritz Adler. Your twin brother. You come from Grafing. I'm a professor at the University of Munich, going to London to give a series of lectures at the Royal Academy.” He slipped something onto her finger. A ring. It was too large for her, with a smooth cabochon stone. Adrian had been wearing that. She knew its feel. She turned it inward so the gold of the ring appeared a plain wedding band.

“Adelina. Karl. My brother, Fritz.” A hundred times she had done this. A hundred stories. A hundred different people she had been. Already she was trying to think in German. She could do all that was required of her. “The driver?”

“Blast. Yes. Josef Heilig. He's worked for me for ten years.

“Josef,” she repeated. Grey was holding her upright in the seat as if he were afraid she would collapse. She would not, not in the middle of her work. Never in all her years had she given way when there was work to do.

The coach rolled to a stop with much jangling of harness and Doyle telling the horses Germanic things. Grey started huffing away, complaining. She should probably have asked what he was a professor of, but it did not matter. If anyone questioned her, or even looked at her closely, they were lost anyway.

“They are naturally officious, the French,” Grey said in his crisp, citified accent. “It was not this bad in the old days. I tell you, Fritz, the French have changed, and not for the better. No one in Paris appreciates my work. Here's another crew of dolts in uniforms, come to impede our progress.” All the time, his arm surrounded her, infusing her with the stubborn, indomitable strength of his.

When they were stopped, Grey gave her shoulder a last squeeze and flung the door of the carriage open. “Gentlemen, how may I help you?” His French was now Parisian, heavily accented with German, and he did not sound like Grey in that voice either.

Adrian touched her arm, letting her know where he was so she had one less thing to worry about. “We'll only stop a minute. Karl will take care of it, Adelina.” His German was every bit as flawless as her own, the accent close enough. He spoke low, into her ear, “Trust him. He'll pull us out of this. He never fails.”

Adrian was feeling better, she thought. His voice was strong. The arm that steadied her wasn't hot with fever. He was like a tough, wild animal, this one. He would live, if it happened the gendarmes did not kill them all. She wished saving Adrian's life was not such an ephemeral achievement.

Adrian continued in a whisper. A German whisper. “They're not suspicious. This looks like a routine document check. Seven men. Local troops, all of them with the weapons slung. Slouching in the saddle. Bored. We're safe enough unless they spot something. Nobody's going to offend Bavarians right now. They've just finished lunch, looks like. They'll be in a good mood.”

How many times she had done this, assessing soldiers, holding out forged papers with a confident smile? In her Vauban days she had been part of a team like this. She remembered how it felt, five or six of them becoming a single organism, depending on each other's wit and skill. The old feeling came back to her now. She could sense Doyle, up on the box, and Adrian, beside her. All their attention was centered upon Grey as he strolled toward the soldiers. They waited to take their cue from him.

It was good to be part of such things again. She felt every perception stretched toward Grey.

Some of the gendarmes had dismounted to talk to him. She heard boots on the dirt of the road. In the midst of the shuffling of horses, Grey managed to sound very much the stiff, patronizing professor, a pompous man, important in his own small world. “Papers? Of course you may see our papers. Josef, hand me down the red case, the Cordoba. I see no reason for stopping travelers in the middle of—”

There was a courteous explanation from one of the gendarmes. He spoke slowly, as one does to people who have not the good fortune to be French.

Grey said, “We hardly look like smugglers, my good man. Let me tell you, we don't have smugglers at all in Munich, and if you would only…Yes, Josef, that one.”

Adrian said quietly, “You're too pretty, Adelina. The lieutenant's seen you. He's coming this way, and he's very admiring. Trouble.”

“If Grey does not want lieutenants to look upon me, he should not put me in this dress. I must be out of the carriage so I am below his eye level. Can you do this?”

“Natürlich,”
Adrian said at once. She didn't know whether this was easy or not. It didn't matter. The important thing was that this gendarme did not realize she was blind.

Adrian played his part skillfully, of course. They would see him being solicitous as he helped her from the carriage. They would not notice that he shielded her from view with his body and found her a place to stand where she could just touch the coach, where no one could come up behind her. It was useful, too, that young women of family were treated like idiots, so it did not seem unusual he should hover over her. He leaned upon the carriage beside her. For support, she thought. He would be weak, so soon after the bullet was dug from him. Three days, four…She did not know how long it had been.

“The subprefect in Rouen signed the
laissez-passer
himself,” Grey was saying. “A pleasant man. He was most interested in my calculations upon the refraction of light in liquids. I gave him a copy of a lecture I delivered at Würzburg on the subject. He sealed my documents with his own hand. It is impossible that all is not in order.”

“It is not that your papers are not in order,” the gendarme said, very patient. “There is not the travel stamp from Marley-le-Grand.”

“Travel stamp? What is this travel stamp? I was told of no travel stamps.”

A pair of boots, no doubt carrying the admiring lieutenant, came closer. She kept her eyes down to the road and put her palm flat on the middle of her belly. “I think I will be sick.” She spoke German in a firm, carrying voice. “I was better when the carriage was moving. At least there was a little wind.”

“Ah.” Adrian rose to the occasion. “Poor Adelinachen. Do you think something to drink would help?”

She shook her head decisively and the hand upon her belly subtly became the unmistakable, eons-old gesture of protection for a child beneath. There would not be one among these men who would miss the significance. French gendarmes were naturally courageous as lions, but it would be a brave lieutenant indeed who pressed attentions upon a woman in the throes of morning sickness.