Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (33 page)

She presented him with her back,
and Ty began to gather the hair from her nape. The pads of his fingers brushed
her skin, burying themselves in strands still damp from the crypts. He took
longer than was necessary, finding comfort in the simple contact of their
bodies. Olivia felt it too, he was certain, judging by her gentle sigh and the
way she leaned into his touch.

He could kiss her right now, brush
his lips down her shoulder, follow wherever it led. The thought jumped unbidden
into his mind, and just as quickly he shook it off. Olivia had asked to be reassigned,
and whatever her reasons, he would show her respect. Ty slid the cap down over
her hair, then turned her around to inspect her appearance. “We have a problem,
Olivia.”

She glanced down at herself, and
shook her head. “What problem?”

A very uncomfortable problem, as
far as his body was concerned. Since fleeing the Verriere, it hadn’t crossed
his mind. Forced now to take stock of their situation and assess their
disguises, he couldn’t pretend ignorance.

Olivia, absent her stays and
feminine undergarments, and hugged by the odd fit of masculine clothing, was
very
visibly
a woman. That fact alone was bound to draw attention on
their return, had she been average. Olivia was well
above
average, when
it came to her figure. To anyone looking for a man and woman venturing back
into the city together, they'd stand out like a sore thumb. “Your breasts.” He
stumbled, never before at such a loss. “They are…” He waved toward her bosom
without looking, hands drawing a vague curve. “They
are
.”

“Oh.
Oh
!” Wrapping arms
across her chest, Olivia glanced around. “What should we… Should I wear your
coat?”

“That might hide certain
details
,
but not the general design.” He bent and opened the flap of his shot bag,
finding a length of flannel bundled inside. Faking confidence he was struggling
to summon, he cleared his throat. “Here. Take off your shirt.”

Olivia didn't hesitate, or even
question. She turned her back and flipped the garment over her head in one
fluid motion. He might have been touched by proof of her trust if the dryness
in his mouth hadn't been so distracting. They had been in all sorts of
intimate, compromising situations, but he could not recall ever seeing her even
half naked. Something tightened deep in his gut. She was tall, making the line
of bare flesh from her shoulder to the small of her back even more illicit. She
raised both arms, adjusting the cap back over her hair, revealing a half globe
of each breast. Ty groaned inwardly, wondering how to manage the operation with
as little touching as possible. Finally, he reached the strip of flannel over
her shoulder. “If you would just settle that across...”

Olivia held the fabric to her
breasts, and Ty began to wrap, tugging the flannel snug with each turn and
knotting the ends together. Then he turned his back. “All right. Shirt back
on.”

“Shouldn't you make certain this
worked, before I go to the trouble?”

“No. No. I’m sure it’s fine.”
Inhale. Exhale. “It will be much easier to tell, if you have your shirt on.”

A rustle. The brush of fabric being
tucked into a waistband. “There. Survey your handiwork.”

The situation had not significantly
improved. Buckskin hugged the flare of her hips, and the flannel fought a
losing battle against the strain of her breasts. They would just have to travel
quickly. How had he ever thought to pass her off as a man? “My God, woman.
There are statues in Rome that are jealous of you.” The words were out of his
mouth before he realized it, and his heart lodged in his throat.

A bit of color to her cheeks said
she didn’t mind overmuch. “Hush and give me your coat. This will have to do.”

Turning his face away, relieved, he
handed over the garment without another word.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

There was an inherent danger to any
movement through Paris these days. If they kept to the main roads, the odds of
being recognized by anyone watching for them were high. Alleys and corridors
offered more concealment, but were also the natural home of gangs and
criminals. Each band held its own territory with no tolerance for the intrusion
of strangers or opposition.

These dark thoughts had been at the
forefront of Ty's mind when he became aware of footsteps – not his or Olivia's
– scuffing lightly behind them. First one set, then two.

They were drawing unwanted
attention.

He knew what they were waiting for.
Two streets ahead, the alley widened into an old courtyard where the back side
of a bakery formed a natural wall to the north. Its only exits were a wide blue
gate to the east and an alley hardly generous enough for two men to walk
abreast leading south. It was just the sort of place where thugs loved to
corner their quarry.

Still, if their pursuers believed
they were herding easy prey into a trap, they were in for a surprise. He
glanced at Olivia, already giving him her usual sideways eye. They were ready.

He recognized the bruiser who stood
with his back to the gate, tall as he was wide, his arms crossed as though he
were only waiting for the afternoon stage. He was watch captain who patrolled
this very district at night. Clever, Ty admitted. The man knew the area, who
came and went, and what they were about. He was demanding protection money.
Protection from
him
. A brilliant means for supplementing his
less-than-brilliant wages. The sort of man who would steal the blessing from
holy water.

Ty rubbed his hands together. He'd
been at the receiving end of plenty of abuse for three days.
Le Capitan
looked like just the target for a lot of unspent frustration.

The man sauntered up with the
absolute confidence of someone who’d already won. Fingers were hooked in his
belt, not bothering to reach for his knife. “You lads must be lost. Certainly
wouldn't be up to no good in my little kingdom.”

He nodded at Olivia. “My friend is
ill. I'm taking him to Val de Grace to get him some decent care.”

“Soldiers, huh? Then you should
know better than to come my way.”

Ty ran through the steps, readying
for a scrap he had no doubt was coming. Flexing muscles, stretching as much as
he could without being obvious, balancing his weight. If push in fact came to
shove, he would be ready. “Didn't know this was your way. Can't see the harm in
sharing it with a brother.”

“Ignorance ain't an excuse for
stepping afoul of our rules. Gonna have to pay the toll.” The man looked Olivia
up and down. “Or make us a part of something lucrative.”

“I told you, we're on our way to
the hospital.”

The captain moved closer and
stabbed a finger at Olivia, who was hunched and staring at her feet. “But he
ain't told me shite.”

“He cannot speak!” Ty reached out
and jerked up Olivia's chin, pointing rapid fire at her split lip and a gash on
her neck before letting her head drop. “Hasn't said shite in three days.”

A sneer. “Maybe he ain't had the
right motivation.”

One of the lackeys piped up. “They
come in by the customs gate, LaMott. Just the two of 'em.”

“Sneakin' in through the gate.
Soldiers, did you say? Or you deserters, friend?” LaMott grinned, revealing a
gap in his bottom row of teeth that said he was no stranger to a physical blow.
“Deserters fetch ten francs apiece. Maybe we just found your value.”

LaMott was expecting them to beg,
negotiate. Ty was done talking. Men like the captain took pleasure in the
mental torment of their banter, a cat batting at a mouse, and Ty had no
interest indulging him any further.

“I'll let your mother know how
clever you are, when next I see her.”

Lamott's eyes widened, struggling
to absorb that someone had dared show resistance. “What did you say?”

Ty shrugged. “You heard me
clearly.”

One meaty hand palmed a fist. “I
don't think I did.”

Ty cast a glance over his shoulder.
“Well, I didn't want to use coarse language in front of these fine lads, but I
said
your mother is a whore.”

Lamott swung high, and he would
have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t busy dodging.
Predictable.
The stocky
ones almost never went for the midsection. Ty's uppercut caught the soft flesh
behind Lamott's chin, closing his throat with a gravelly cough. Flesh tore
across the back of one knuckle, and he reveled in the hot sear of pain
spreading up his finger.

Lamott stumbled back into the gate,
hands clutching his neck, already gasping for breath.

Fingers clamped Ty's shoulder. He
turned on the foot pad and danced back, taking stock of his newest opponent. He
was a man whose face was already a patchwork of old, new, and infected wounds.
Tall and wiry, he was little more than sinew stretched across a skeleton. Ty
suspected he made his place by swinging fast and hard.

He hooked one arm overhead,
advancing on Lamott's henchman. India had taught him more than an appreciation
for martial fighting forms. It had taught him how to use them. Strike-step,
strike-step; Ty moved through the postures in a dance around his opponent's
fruitless blows. His mind recalled the forms, arranged them in quick order.
Chop to the chest.
One
. Fist to the ear.
Two
. Round an elbow into
the throat.
Three
. Sweep the shins.
Four
. In less than five
seconds, flesh met cobblestone with all the grace of a felled oak.

The other foot pad, not nearly so
physically imposing, had foolishly matched himself with Olivia, probably imagining
her an easy target. He was already down, and Olivia, panting, planted a boot to
his wiry midsection, delivering a final blow to his sprawled form.

Lamott recovered quickly, far
faster than Ty had anticipated. He shouted for Olivia, but too late. She was
intent on the thug she’d downed, and LaMott’s grip buried in her sleeve and
snapped her around, using inertia against her.

Ty surged forward, knowing he would
never reach them in time. Lamott's ham fist buried in Olivia's belly, pushing a
ragged hiss between her lips, like the last steam from a kettle. She dropped
with a grunt and didn't get up.

Something in him snapped. It
happened in his mind, but Ty felt it somewhere behind his ribs. A dam broke,
built from days of abuse and fear and frustration. Unchecked rage flowed out.

He ground momentum to a halt just
in time, ending on the point of a small knife which Lamott jabbed at his chest.
“Let's see you try that oriental black magic with a cutter in your face.”

Up to the challenge, Ty swung the
toe of his boot up between stout legs, deep enough into Lamott's groin to earn
a howl. The captain folded, but didn't drop.

He didn't have to.

Ty grabbed the arm with the knife
and bent it back, twisting the limb into a sort of goose neck. As Lamott's back
reached its full arc, Ty rammed the point into his side, chipped steel grating
over meat and bone. The inertia of his thrust and Lamott's flailing drove them
both back, stumbling, grasping. Lamott struck the gate, jarred by its planks,
and toppled under Ty.

Pinning a knee into Lamott's
throat, Ty swung with both arms. Meaty thuds became wet smacks. Blood and spit
stung his eyes, clouded his vision. Fists raised and lowered like pistons. He
felt more mechanical than man, capable of nothing more than repeating the
process until Lamott stopped writhing, stopped gurgling. His mind was a white
hot light, incapable of rational thought, focused on this one thing. A bone in
his left hand cracked. He heard it, but couldn't feel it.

“Tyler!”

The voice was far away. It came
from beyond the fish-lipped noises of Lamott’s pulverized face. Somewhere else,
beyond his immediate awareness, were shouts from further down the alley.

“Tyler, stop. Stop!” Olivia's arm
hooked him from behind, dragging him, tipping him off of Lamott's chest, who
now lay still. “Leave him! They're going to lynch us.” Her words were a
whispered sob. “Leave him, we have to go.”

Holding out his hands, Ty examined
the flaps of skin at his knuckles, Lamott's blood smeared with his own.
Enthusiastic crimson fans painted his shirt front, smeared into trails along
the fronts of his thighs. Murmurs grew closer, reaching a buzzing pitch, the
last sounds before an agitated crowd degenerated into a violent mob. Olivia
hauled on his arm again, lips trembling. “Please, Ty. Get up.”

Gears snapped together in his
brain. Ty came back together, and the fog of rage evaporated. Unfolding, he
grabbed Olivia's arm, pulling her behind him between the buildings.

She panted, struggling, and
clutched her side. “They’re gaining!”

Winded, he flattened against the
wall, shoving her past. “Run, Olivia. Just run.”

*          *          *

Olivia hunched, gasping, stealing
glances over her shoulder while Ty hammered for all he was worth on Grayfield's
townhouse door. Most of the rabble had broken off several streets back, once
they realized exertion beyond simple beating would be involved. But three
ragged men with the look of resurrected sailors, Lamott's men if she had to
guess, pressed on after them. They were just coming into sight now, cresting a low
slope in the road.

Finally, a tumbler grated behind
her, and a creased eye pierced them through the crack.

Ty hammered a fist against the
frame. “Piers, by God, let us in.”

The door shot back fast enough that
it might have been on springs. Piers, who more resembled a statue of a butler
than any living domestic servant, swept one long-fingered hand. His words were
even as a lake on a still day. “Inside, Major Burrell. Inside.”

“Thank God.” Ty crooked his head
her way. “Olivia, in quick.”

She couldn't stand, couldn't
straighten against the stitch in her side, and high piercing cramps radiated
from the spot beside her navel where Lamott's blow had landed. With one arm she
reached for Ty, clutching her belly with the other. Bracing a hand on the
second step, Olivia tried to push her way up. Instead, her knees went slack and
struck the stone walk. The men were closer, she could hear their shouts. “Go
in,” she rasped, waving at Ty. “Leave me.”

“Like hell I will,” Ty said, but
before he could move, Piers reappeared at the door. He waved a hand, urging Ty
to the side. The voices behind her grew louder, more urgent.

A loud report deafened her and
sulfur filled her nose, stealing her scant breath. The voices ceased. Hurried
footsteps faded away at her back, drowned by the murmur of an excited crowd.
Piers held the top stair, smoking pistol in his hand, staring like an
eagle-eyed duelist at the fleeing thugs.

Falling further onto the cool
steps, Olivia opened her mouth. She wanted to say something to Ty, to Piers.
Her stomach lurched. She turned her head, vomiting into the door yard.

Blood
. The coppery taste
coated her tongue, and she spit out a red gob to clean her mouth. She opened
her eyes to a crimson stain soaking the wiry brown grass.

“Oh God, Olivia. Come here.” Ty's
arms were around her, hauling her up. He was trying to help, but the pressure
set her gut on fire.

“Stop!” she managed, flailing until
she'd gotten an arm around his neck. He lifted her quickly, staring down at her
in desperation. “Just...” Swallowing back another wave, she cocked a head
toward the door. “Go.”

*          *          *

Piers, surprisingly efficient for a
man normally so glacial, had taken the matter in hand before they were settled
in the study. While a cook’s boy was sent for the physician, his mistress in
the kitchen was instructed by Piers to get them food with ‘unprecedented’
haste.

Ty wasn’t certain Piers’ employer
was so satisfied with his progress. Ethan, well aware they’d been missing for
two days, called for lunch, only to be defeated. He wiped palms over his
trousers after a single glimpse of Olivia’s raw fingertips, lacerated face, and
bloody spit painting her chin. Pounding on the desk, he’d barked for a doctor,
only to be greeted with a sigh and Piers’ thin lips murmuring against his ear
that it was already done. Ethan paced, swore, and chastised them, lowering his
tone each time he turned and caught another look at Olivia’s wounds.

Finally, more discomposed than Ty
had seen him in a long while, Ethan returned to sit at his desk, shifting agitated
against his chair. “You can imagine my concern, I am sure, upon hearing
dragoons had come and gone with La Porte and that a pair of my agents was
missing.”

Ty swallowed and held his tongue,
knowing Grayfield well enough to perceive his words as rhetorical.

“Well? Did you come through with
anything of value?”

Ty pressed a hand to his coat
pocket. “We did.”

“La Porte?”

He glanced to Olivia, staring out
the window as though she were alone, and shook his head slowly.

Ethan buried his face in his hands,
suffocating an ugly swear, but Ty was too preoccupied with Olivia to take much
notice.

She would come out all right. He
had to believe that, but it was difficult to convince himself of it at the
moment. Slumped over now on Ethan’s sofa, she was pale against the dark blue
velvet. One arm was crimped behind her head, limp beneath her tangled hair.
Where was the damned physician?
Her eyes, narrowed to angry slits, moved
between himself and Grayfield. That fact that she was alert enough to be angry
was cold comfort, but he would take it.

She raised an arm, holding out her
palm. “Are you going to give me the port, or no?”