Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (27 page)

“No, it’s not,” the admiral grunted. “tis the cardinal’s doing, that, none of mine.”

“How did you find me, Michel?” Robert queried.

“I sought you everywhere, and then, the vendors—”

“You weren’t seen?” Robert begged him, interrupting.

“No, no. Give me some credit,” the magistrate replied, “ergo, the disguise,” he added, holding his mantle wide. “I never wear the damnable thing. It makes me look much fatter than I am, but it fitted the occasion today.”

“My Lord Admiral, may we speak privately?” Robert requested. “Could the guards not wait outside while seigneur and I converse? Have pity. Where can I go?”

“Surely you jest,” the admiral chortled. “There shall be no more ‘speaking privately’ here now.”

“Very well, then,” Robert snapped. “Since you insist.” He switched his glance to the magistrate. “He has Violette, and means to set her free. She cannot be set free here now with no one to protect her. The cardinal’s men will kill her!” Before he realized what had happened, the whole twisted coil unraveled then and there. He didn’t stop speaking until he had told the magistrate all that had occurred since their last meeting. Halfway through, Montaigne lost his color, and the admiral vacated the Glastonbury chair and let him sink into it, backing away at the mention of plague. Finally, Robert in conclusion said, “…and he has her here somewhere, and means to set her free—on her own! She has
passed the crisis, thanks to Doctor Nostradamus’s lozenges, but she has fever still, I felt it myself. I fear relapse if she is misused.”

“Look here, you told me naught of
plague!”
the admiral thundered, backing farther away. The two sentries had vaulted from the coffer, edging toward the door, their eyes pleading with their superior to be dismissed from the cubicle.

“You needn’t fear contagion from me,” Robert assured him. “If I have not come down with it by now, the doctor’s pastilles have made me immune, for I have been in the thick of it several times. Pestilence is rampant in the south.”

“You mean to hold him to this jealous madness?” Montaigne demanded of the admiral.

Coligny gave a crisp nod. “I do,” he retorted unequivocally. “You have no jurisdiction over me, Montaigne.”

“No, I do not, but God does, and I leave you to Him.” Dismissing Coligny, he turned to Robert. “I will take the girl, and keep her ‘til you come,” he said. “And you
will come,”
he intoned, hard eyes upon the admiral, “or the king will know why. Have I made myself plain, Coligny?”

“As I have just told him—I am no Charles de Guise,” the admiral reiterated.

“Yes, well, we shall see,” Montaigne snapped. “Now, bring the girl, and leave us. We shall let these two lovers meet and say their farewells in peace.”

"W
e haven’t much time” Montaigne said in hushed tones.
“You have your tale of plague to thank for that. They will want her quickly away now.” They were alone, the others having fled, and his speech was replete with animated hand gestures.

“Where will you take her?” Robert asked him, struggling to a sitting position.

“To my home on the coast,” said the magistrate. Reaching into the folds of his mantle, he produced a crudely drawn map. “Memorize this, I cannot give it you,” he said. “Should things turn sour, ‘tis best that they do not know your exact destination, or your means of reaching it. We do not know which way the wind blows here now; it changes so capriciously, it is best to trust no one.”

“God’s bones!” Robert seethed, remembering. “Uncle Aengus! Doctor Nostradamus has smuggled him out of Paris, and, even now, takes him to your home in Bordeaux! If you are not there to admit him—”

“Take ease, take ease,” Montaigne soothed. “My steward will admit them.”

“Hah! Like Alain admitted Violette, and I? The door was literally slammed shut in our faces.”

“Gaspard, my steward on the coast, is well acquainted with the good doctor. All will be well. How do they go?”

“By carriage.”

“How long ago?”

“Two days—three…I have lost track of time.”

“I will give you some time with the girl, and then set out with her at once.”

“On horseback? No! She cannot ride. In her blindness—”

“Shhhh, Robert,” Montaigne soothed. “Panic serves you not. I, too, have a carriage, remember? It is not how I planned to travel. I purposely left it behind when I began my first journey to the coast in order to save time, but that cannot be helped here now, and it is fortunate that I did leave it, as it turns out. You must put the girl, and all this from your mind now, and concentrate upon what lies before you. It will be difficult, fighting with one shoulder just mending and the other freshly wounded.”

“According to the admiral, we go to Normandy, and I am to be his hangman.”

“Mon
Dieu!
” the magistrate murmured. “And there is no way ’round it, I know him well, the admiral. He is rock-ribbed—unbending.”

“What manner of man is he…underneath all that bluster?” Robert queried, anxious to know what he was up against—just how much power he was dealing with in this man, who seemed no better than the cardinal in his ruthless-ness. “Was he appointed by the king, or the Queen Mother?”

“He is no mere appointee,” the magistrate returned. “He has earned his laurels. He came early on to Court, with designs upon rising in the ranks, and made a name for himself in the Italian Wars, at Ceresole, back in forty-four, when he was barely twenty-five—younger than us. That got him promoted to Colonel General of Infantry, and ten years ago, he became Admiral of France. He sways from side to side—first Catholic and now Huguenot, undoubtedly he sees some personal future in the rising tide of Protestantism, and then there is his hatred of the Guises. Whichever, his zeal is personal before religious or political. No matter which of his demons drives him, once he makes his mind up he is
immutable. Just remember this—there is no shame in retreat if needs must. This is not your war, Robert. Your fight is on a different shore. It is rumored that Northumberland—even now—is driving at your borders again, while Knox forces the thin edge of the wedge deeper, rending Scotland apart from within. You must live to return and defend your own, and take your Violette with you.”

“And you have managed somehow to escape this madness here,” Robert marveled. “I wish I knew your secret.”

“My Jewish faith, that to which I do subscribe, and would even if I did
not
in order to be of service to France here now has spared me from this ‘madness,’ yes.”

“You are a great man,” Robert said, sighing.

“History will tell if I am great,” Montaigne said wryly. “For now, I am content with being clever.”

Together, they poured over Montaigne’s map until Robert had committed it to memory. The magistrate pointed out the shortest route to Bordeaux from Normandy, highlighting the main arteries as well as the less-traveled byways, should there be need to avoid pursuit. Great attention was given to detail, every river, lake, and stream—every prominent village gone over again and again. And when the young laird had fixed it in his mind, the magistrate took the sheepskin back and tucked it away again inside his gown none too soon. He had scarcely concealed it, when the door burst open, and one of the sentries prodded Violette over the threshold with the hilt of his sword. His disdain for the chore was clearly visible on his pinched face—the mouth screwed tight, nostrils compressed, head turned to the side as though he held his breath, before he slammed the door shut at her back.

“Admiral says, be quick—and then away!” the soldier barked from the other side.

Robert vaulted to his feet, and staggered toward the whimpering girl, carving wide circles in the air in her blindness as she advanced. Montaigne quickly cupped her elbow,
murmuring soothing words as he handed her to him. The laird staggered, and the magistrate led them to the pallet, where Robert fell down embracing her, scarcely aware that Montaigne had left them.

First she groped his face, her tiny fingers feeling for the very thing that all else shrank from, and, wonder of wonders, delighting in her find. Traveling down his neck to his shoulder, they grazed the linen bandages, and her smile dissolved as the dainty fingers searched its perimeter, discovering dampness where the oozing blood had not yet dried.

“You are injured!” she cried. “This is not the same wound. It is the other shoulder. Did these that keep me do this?”

“No, lass, they have done me no harm,” Robert murmured. “Those that took you from the ruins did this whilst I was escaping. I had lost much blood by time it was tended, but it is not serious—not nearly as serious as the first.”

She settled down then, her posture relaxed somewhat as she lay beside him on the pallet where he’d fallen. Her closeness was excruciating ecstasy, every nerve ending in his lean, corded body awakened to the sensation of arousal invading his loins—every feathery light touch of her hands—her lips on his hair, on his face. In her innocent eagerness to express her sheer joy in his presence, wherever she touched him, she ignited a searing, swelling, all-consuming ache in the blood coursing through his veins—pounding relentlessly in his fogged brain. He was besotted with her, and, his pain forgotten, he drew her to him, fondling the softness of her breasts beneath the coarse homespun of her robe.

He took her lips, and her moan echoed in his throat as their tongues entwined. He wrenched her closer, fully aroused, and her gentle hand explored him. It was unimaginably sweet agony, the feather-light touch of those fingers inching beneath his codpiece. His heart leapt, and he groaned, wrenching her closer still.

“I want you to…have me,” she murmured against his
ear. Her breath was warm, and moist, and his manhood responded to its sweetness, throbbing against her hand.

Oh, how he wanted her—wanted to bury his longing in that exquisite body. But he could not have her, and he could not tell her why. He dared not admit to fear that he might not return from this new press—from this dreaded campaign in Normandy, under the yoke of Gaspard de Coligny. Then, what would she do?

She was ripe for it. He could allow his swollen member to relieve itself in her, answer the demands of the hot blood thrumming through his body, but that would make him no better than a randy goat. Spoil that sweet flesh for naught…
and leave her?.
Never. Every instinct in him warned he would be facing the flames of Hell itself if he were to die in battle after such as that, and justly so.

“No,” he panted, capturing the hand that had nearly exposed his member and made deliberation a moot point. “We cannot,” he said with a ragged sigh, lifting a hand to his lips. “There is no time, Violette.”

“You do not want me,” she despaired. “I knew it—I have always known it.”

“Are you mad?” he groaned, driving her hand down to his member again. “You can feel how I want you. But you are an innocent. Innocence must be taken gently…slowly, not like this.”

“I wish I never told you I was a virgin,” she pouted, pulling her hand away from his hardness. “Mayhap I’m not. Mayhap I
lied.”

“Oh, lass,” Robert chuckled. “You are too precious to be taken thus. I will bed you properly and well, you have my oath, but when we are wed…when there is time…when I am strong enough to do it properly. I have waited a very long time for you,
mon amour.”

He kissed her then, to make an end to her petulance and her questions—mostly her questions, fearing what
might come from that sweet mouth next. The worst was still before him. He had to prepare her for her journey with Montaigne. She would not want to leave him, and that happenstance was imminent.

“Violette,” he began softly, though his body tensed, “you trust me, do you not?”

She nodded acquiescence against his chest.

“You trust seigneur de Montaigne as well, is that not so?”

Again she nodded against him.

“That is good, lass, because you must go away with him to his château in the south, to wait for me to join you and take you home with me to Scotland.”

She bolted upright.
“Leave you?”
she cried. “I have just found you!”

“You must,” he said sternly. “Doctor Nostradamus has already taken my uncle there. If he has recovered enough to travel, he may have already returned to Scotland. If not, he will remain with you there until I join you, marry us, and we will—all three—go home together. Either way you will wait there, where you will be safe under seigneur’s protection until I come for you.”

“Why can you not come with us?” she asked, the picture of dejection.

“Because I am not yet strong enough and you cannot stay here until I am. The cardinal’s men seek you, Violette. You are safe here no longer, and Admiral Coligny has need of me yet awhile.” It was half truth, but he could not tell her more for fear of frightening her. “It will not be a long while, I vow.”

“You will fight,” she wailed, “and you will be killed. I will never see you again!”

Her cries brought Montaigne, who had been waiting outside. Motioning them toward silence, he came nearer, and Robert saw something in his eyes that demanded caution.

“We must leave,” the magistrate whispered. “Dusk has
fallen. Coligny gave me no more time than that. We are fortunate that he has allowed her to remain this long. I begged for it so that we might collect my carriage under cover of darkness. It isn’t likely that the château is being watched, since everyone thinks that I have long since left the city. The vendors’ quarter is certain to be under surveillance, and, more than likely, this village. We cannot be too careful.”

Violette began to protest, and the magistrate quickly took hold of her and clapped his hand over her mouth, while Robert struggled to his feet again.

“Child, you will stop that caterwauling at once!” Montaigne demanded. “I am trying to save your life—and his. I will take my hand away, but you must be still. Do I have your word?” She nodded, and he let the hand drop. “Good. That is a start. I will tell you what will be, so that you both know my plan. We go now to my château. There, I will gather provisions, collect my carriage, conceal you inside, and put as much distance between us and the city as possible before first light. I know less traveled routes south. We will make our way slowly, so as not to cause suspicion. You must do exactly as I say, Violette, and trust my discretion, and we will reach my vineyards safely, where we will wait for Laird Mack to join us.”