Lady Scandal (3 page)

Merde!

Turning from the horse, Paxten looped the
reins over his arm, bent and grabbed the fellow by the shoulders of
his coat.
He dragged the fellow into a doorway, left him propped
there.
He could not afford to pay the fellow anything for the
horse—and the sot would probably only drink it away, he told
himself—but he dug out a coin and left it in the man's pocket
anyway.

Foot in the stirrup, he swung up, teeth
clenched against the burning in his side.
Grinning, he urged the
horse forward with his heels.
That made two commandments he had
nearly broken that night—how many more would he strain before the
dawn rose?

Giving the horse its head, he allowed it to
choose its own path—so long as it was away from the general and
Paris he did not care.
But he wondered if D'Aeth had alerted the
city gates to look for a wounded man who might be seeking escape?
If the general had, then one more commandment would need to be
broken—to keep his freedom, he would probably have to kill
someone.

#

Boots clicking on the marble floor and saber
rattling at his side, Captain Giles Taliaris strode away from his
meeting with the general.
His lieutenant, stationed at the
entrance, glanced at him as Taliaris reached the tall, wide doors
to General D'Aeth's mansion.
The man straightened and snapped a
salute.
"Orders, sir?"

Taliaris's mouth tightened.
He disliked the
situation.
He disliked his orders.
He did not think highly of the
general's wife, who flirted with every man she met.
However,
matters had gone beyond flirtation tonight.
The general's honor—and
that of his wife—had been tarnished.
A half-English dog had taken
Madam D'Aeth's coquetry for something more and had attempted to
rape her.

"She was nearly hysterical when the guards
came to her rescue," the general had said, his silver, military
side-whiskers bristling and his plump face reddening.
He had
clasped his hands behind his back and the gold braid on his
elaborate uniform glinted in the candlelight.
"She was naked,
and—"

He broke off, almost choking on his anger.
Taliaris knew better than to say anything.
The general's temper had
become legend to all who served under him.

The older man ground out, his tone savage,
"Find this Marsett.
Lisette said he has rooms near here.
Find him
and show him how we bring such English dogs to heel!"

Taliaris's scowl deepened.
Odd that Madam
D'Aeth would know where this man had rooms.
However, he did not
question his orders.
He had grown up with a fervor to serve France.
His dedication had brought him far, even though many considered him
too young, at only twenty, for his rank.
But was it not the age of
youth?
Of change?
Did not France need new ideals to make her the
foremost of powers?

Yes, and into a nation where women-abusing
filth such as this Marsett would not be tolerated.

With a nod to himself, Taliaris gave his
orders.
He would bring a smile back to his general, and he would
avenge the honor of a Frenchwoman who had been badly used.

Lieutenant Paulin's eyes widened as he
listened, and he blurted out, "But we are not to blockade the north
road as well as all the others?"

Taliaris lifted one corner of his mouth.
"To
snare a wolf, do you not leave open the door of the trap?
We leave
one road open—and then we know exactly where he must go.
Have
horses ready.
I want a checkpoint set up a quarter league beyond
the gate, and I want to be there when this Marsett shows his
face."

With a nod, Paulin hurried away to carry out
the orders.

Taliaris glanced back at the D'Aeth mansion,
an odd tingle between his shoulder blades and frowning.
Still
disliking his orders, he strode out of the elegant building.
France
was again at war with England, which meant that shooting this
half-Englishman was nothing more than a patriotic act.
So why did
his skin prickle?

Pushing back his shoulders, he strode into
the dark night.
France could not afford soft sons—not if she were
to keep her liberty and her power.

For France, he would do what he must.

#

It was cold, but not as cold as the Alps had
been when the army of France had crossed them.
And tonight's rain
had stopped.
So Pierre considered himself lucky enough to have
drawn this assignment.
Leaning against the white plaster wall of a
cottage, he wondered what name this tiny village had.
The residents
had seen the uniforms and wisely bolted doors and shutters.
On a
raw spring night, Pierre could almost wish himself inside one of
these half-dozen snug building.

They were not far from the Porte Montmartre,
the city gate, he knew, for they had marched up the road.
They
would probably stand here all night and then they would march back.
Ah, well.
What else did one do these days?
Still, better a solider
than a farmer, as his father had been.
The work paid well enough.
Or at least, it did most months.

With a sigh, Pierre shifted his musket so he
could lean on it.
The good days would be soon back again.
Of course
the marches could be long, but he smiled as he thought of the
battlefield—the terror of it, the excitement, and the pleasure
after, drinking with comrades, swapping harrowing stories,
or—better still—plundering a city that had resisted siege.
A
soldier could take what he wanted then, be it a woman, drink, or
any fancy thing that caught his eye.

Yes, far better to be fighting than standing
around with nothing to do but wait.

A drop of rain fell onto Pierre's
sun-hardened cheek.
He glanced up at the sky before he looked
around him, at the empty square and the muddy road.
Clouds parted
and a moment of silver moonlight turned the village bleak; a
half-dozen stone houses crowded together, one of them calling
itself a tavern, thought it sold nothing more than bad wine.
He
knew because he had bought a glass to warm himself.

Twenty-six other soldiers stood in the
shadows, like him, and somewhere their lieutenant and captain
waited—probably in the tavern with a fire and drink.

They were looking for a man—an injured one.
He did not know why, and he did not care.
It was enough to have
something to do after too long of parading about Paris like toys
pulled out for a little boy's amusement.

Another raindrop fell on his face, and
Pierre shifted his stance.

At least he had had his dinner.
In the
field, food could be stale bread that had to be eaten on the march.
Now, if only they could catch this man that the captain hunted,
perhaps he could find himself a bed and a woman to go in it.

He wondered if the captain was old enough to
have even had his first woman.
He grinned at the thought, and he
almost called out to Henri a crude joke about the captain being too
young to do more than suckle at a woman's breast.
Six months
serving under Taliaris made him think again.

The captain might not be inside the tavern,
and might hear such a comment—and he had not looked in a mood to be
amused.
In fact, whoever they hunted tonight must be an unlucky
bastard.

A low rumbling had him glancing up at the
sky again, thinking of thunder, but he heard the jingle of
harness.

Straightening, he called a soft alert to the
others—to Henri and Colmar, and that lazy Anatole.
He hefted his
musket to the ready.

As others stepped next to him to block the
road, his blood quickened, his senses sharpened.
He forgot the
aches left by too many other battles, by age, by too many nights
spent sleeping on the ground, by long marches up and down mountains
and across icy rivers.
He glanced at Henri and winked.
He could
hardly wait to be back on a real battlefield again.

The coach slowed as soon as it came into
sight of the torches carried by Colmar and Anatole.
Pierre lifted
his musket, but the driver pulled on the reins, bringing the tired
horses to an easy halt.
"Too bad," Pierre muttered to Henri.

The other man glanced at him.
"What did you
expect?
You would try to drive through more than two dozen armed
men?"

Pierre grinned.
He might try.
Just to see if
he could.
Musket lowered, he moved forward with the others to
surround the coach.
His interest quickened as a pretty blonde
leaned out the lowered window to demand, "Why do we stop?
Is
something wrong?"

At once, the lieutenant stepped forward and
opened the carriage door.
"Step out, mademoiselle."

For a moment, the girl disappeared back into
the coach.
Pierre leaned closer to Henri.
"Maybe she'll refuse and
we'll have to drag her out, eh?"

Henri grumbled an answer about never having
such luck.
As he did, the carriage door opened and the girl
reappeared.
She hesitated and the lieutenant barked an order to let
down the steps for her.
He stared at Pierre as he spoke.

Now, I'm a footman, am
I?
Pierre kept the complaint to himself.
He
forgot about it as the girl stepped from the coach and into the
torchlight.

A dark cloak covered most of her but parted
to show glimpses of a figure still plump with youth.
Golden curls
flashed from under a bonnet with a curling feather and what looked
to be silk ribbon.
She had an oval face—a pretty one, Pierre could
see in the flickering torchlight, though he could not make out the
color of her eyes.
But what did they matter.
His blood moved even
faster.

Another woman stepped out, satin rustling
and bringing a faint hint of spiced perfume with her.
Taller than
the girl, she carried herself with the assurance of experience, and
the hard angles of her face put her past any blush of youth, even
thought the slender figure he could glimpse under her cloak seemed
young.

No meat on this one.
And she thought too
much of herself.
She glanced around her, her straight nose up a
little.
She, too, wore a rich bonnet, and she made him think of the
aristos years ago on the way to meet Madam Guillotine.
He had been
in the Revolutionary Guard back then and had been happy to see
those aristos loose their proud heads.
Most had had this look—this
arrogant tilt to their chins, the slightly raised brows as if
faintly insulted.
They thought themselves better than everyone, as
if they, too, did not have to piss into a chamber pot.

She looked straight at him and he became
aware of the stubble on his chin, and the wrinkles in his uniform,
and that he smelled of garlic from his dinner, and had not bathed
in a week.

He glanced away, looking back into the
carriage and seeing one more shadow.
"You—out!
You heard the
lieutenant!" he ordered.

The figure in the coach cringed and Pierre
looked at the lieutenant for permission, eager now to give these
too-proud women a show of real power.
The lieutenant gave a nod,
and Pierre leaned into the coach, grabbing for a hold on the
shadowy figure and hoping he would pull out the man they sought.
Maybe they would even make him a corporal again, eh?

His hand closed over a slim arm and he heard
a muffled whimper.
He dragged out a small, dark-haired girl.

After the golden beauty, she seemed
scrawny—nothing but big eyes and a pale face.
A maid, he decided,
his mouth pulling down.
He let go her arm and rubbed his palm down
his trouser leg as she huddled into her dark, woolen cloak.
The
Revolution had made all of France into citizens—but the old ways
crept back; those in power needed to have their boots washed for
them.
Better to be a farmer even, than a servant.

The lieutenant started barking orders again.
"Search the coach.
I want every bag opened.
You there, driver—step
down!
And you two at the back as well!"

Pierre did not wait for the driver to come
down, but went up after him, thrusting him from his seat.
He
climbed up to unlash the trunks on the top.
The pretty blonde
protested, her words shrill, but the older woman stayed oddly
silent as they pushed the trunks down to the road and spilled out
frothy lace and silken dresses.