Petals in the Storm (46 page)

Instantly Rafe tossed the shotgun aside and went to stand by Robin.

Margot's face was white, and there was fear in her eyes, but she said evenly, "Don't let him stop you. It's only a single-shot dueling pistol, so he can't get all three of us."

"While the countess shows an admirable willingness for martyrdom, I wouldn't advise you to try anything, gentlemen." Varenne began backing toward the door, still holding Maggie firmly against him. "My men are concealed outside, and you would never escape. I have gone to this effort because I prefer to capture you alive, but I warn you, at the least move from either of you, I will blow the lady's head off."

When Oliver Northwood swam dimly back to consciousness, he knew that he was dying. There was too much blood puddling below him, and the final chill was reaching into his bones. At first he thought the voices were in his head. Then he realized that the people he hated most were talking only a few feet away, in the main stable.

Knowledge that his enemies were near galvanized him. Though the smallest effort exhausted him, he still had a little strength left, and by God, he would use it well.

An eternity was required to struggle to his knees, another to gain his feet. Northwood was gratified to discover that he still had Varenne's pistol. He cocked it, a time-consuming act since his fingers had no sensation.

The wound in his chest wasn't bleeding much—he must be running out of blood—but he was very clear about what must be done. Blinking to clear his eyes, he lurched the length of the harness room, one hand on the wall to steady his faltering step. He didn't have much time left, but he vowed that it would be enough to kill the one he hated the most.

To Rafe, the scene was a tableau from hell—he and Robin motionless with their hands up, Varenne inching back to the door, Margot's golden hair falling about her shoulders, the high cheekbones stark in her rigidly calm face. Though almost consumed by his fury, Rafe remained absolutely still, unwilling to risk angering the count.

Then, eerily silent, a blood-soaked figure staggered from the harness room behind Varenne. His face contorted with an ugly blend of hate and rage, Oliver Northwood raised a pistol that was a mate to the count's. The barrel wavered feebly as he tried to center the weapon between Varenne's shoulder blades.

For an instant Rafe was paralyzed, not knowing whether Northwood's intervention was more likely to help or harm Margot. Then he realized that if Varenne was shot, his hand would spasm and pull the light trigger of the dueling pistol. "Look out, Varenne! Northwood is behind you."

"I thought you were cleverer than that, Candover," the count sneered. "You won't trick me into turning away from you to look for a dead man."

Varenne wasn't quick enough to realize the significance of the fact that Rafe had called Northwood by name, but the flash in Margot's eyes showed that she understood.

Beyond hearing, beyond knowledge of anything but his goal, Northwood lifted his other hand to steady the pistol. Then, expression gloating, he squeezed the trigger.

The blast shattered the tableau. Varenne was knocked forward by the impact, his weight carrying Maggie with him. Alerted by Rafe's warning, she was already twisting frantically when Northwood's gun went off.

As she tried to duck away from the muzzle of Varenne's weapon, it fired, scorching her cheek with gunpowder. She hit the floor hard and lay stunned, pinned beneath the count's heavy body. There was warm blood on her face; perhaps she had been mortally wounded and was too numb to feel pain.

Then the count's body was wrenched away and Rafe lifted her to a sitting position. "Oh, God, Margot, are you all right?" Cradling her against his chest, he gently examined the side of her head, alternately swearing and praying under his breath.

She managed to say through dry lips, "I—I think the blood is Varenne's."

Rafe embraced Maggie so tightly that she thought her ribs would crack. She was shaking violently, and it was hard to breathe with her face buried against the scratchy wool of his coat. Yet despite the discomforts of her position, she wanted to stop the world and stay in his arms forever, safe and warm.

Robin's voice pulled her back to reality. "Any moment now, Varenne's men are going to come in here to investigate the gunshots. Though the count preferred us alive, his loyal followers will probably be less generous."

He retrieved Rafe's shotgun and cradled it awkwardly against his chest with his good arm. "How much ammunition do we have?"

As abruptly as it had begun, the embrace ended. Rafe released Maggie, a stark, unreadable expression in his eyes. As he helped her to her feet, he answered, "Not much. Margot, get the other shotgun while I saddle the horses. If we ride out together at full speed, at least one of us may get through."

Rafe's heart was hammering as he saddled the horses. If they didn't break out immediately and ride like fury, they would never make it to the embassy in time. He was glad to see that one of the horses was Rafe's own mount. It was an exceptionally mannerly beast and would be a good choice for Robin.

A shot crackled outside, followed instantly by a whole barrage of gunfire. A bullet came through the upper part of the door and Rafe instinctively ducked, swearing under his breath. Varenne hadn't been lying about having an army out there!

Then the sounds of firing diminished, as if the combatants were moving away from the stables. Puzzled, Rafe led two of the horses forward into the front of the barn. Before he could go for the third, the door eased open. A voice called in French, "Surrender! Resistance is futile."

Margot raised her shotgun and Rafe grabbed the other, but they held their fire. Whoever was entering was moving with the same kind of caution Rafe had exercised earlier. It was a tall man, silhouetted against the bright yard, the unmistakable shape of a pistol drawn and ready in his hand....

Maggie was the first to identify the uniform and fair hair of Colonel von Fehrenbach. She lowered her weapon, almost dizzy with relief. "I hope you are here to rescue us, Colonel," she said unsteadily, "because we certainly need it."

Recognizing her voice, he lowered his gun and swung the door open, revealing that General Roussaye was right behind him. With a slight smile, the Prussian said, "Then we came in time. Madame Sorel will be pleased."

"You're in time for us, but if we can't reach Paris in the next hour, the foreign ministers meeting at the British embassy will be blown to kingdom come." Rafe gave a staccato summary of the situation as the three of them led the horses outside.

The sound of firing still came from the right, away from the main road out of the estate. Roussaye said, "Our men are herding Varenne's back to the river. They won't last long without a leader. Some have already surrendered."

Maggie mounted, then watched with concern the effort that it took Robin to get into the saddle of his horse. "Will you be able to manage, love?"

"The horse will be doing most of the work." He closed his eyes for a moment, his face as pale as parchment. Then he opened them again and managed a reassuring smile. "I might be useful at the other end, since I know the embassy better than you or Rafe."

That was undeniable, so she said no more. If Robin wasn't up to the whole trip, she and Rafe would manage on their own.

None of the horses carried sidesaddles and Maggie was astride, her long legs visible. The animals pranced nervously as the acrid scent of gunsmoke curled through the air.

Von Fehrenbach asked, "Should I send an escort with you?"

Rafe shook his head. "We have fresh horses, and three of us can travel faster than a larger group. Wish us luck. I'll send word if we're successful."

Then the three Britons put heels to their horses and galloped out of the stable yard.

The details of the ride were never clear in Maggie's mind afterward. She had waved reassuringly at Helene as they dashed by the gatehouse, but hadn't stopped for explanations. There was a mad exhilaration in racing toward Paris with the two men she loved most in the world. They had survived one set of horrors, and for the moment she felt invincible, as if no amount of gunpowder on earth could harm them.

Though they made excellent time through the countryside, the heavy afternoon traffic around the city slowed them down. Rafe was in the lead, setting the fastest possible pace. Maggie kept a concerned eye on Robin. He rode with grim determination, never slowing the other two.

As they got closer, Maggie's earlier exultation faded, leaving exhaustion, and a fear that tightened her nerves like steel wires. When they finally cantered down the Rue du Faubourg St. Honore, their horses sweaty and shaking with fatigue, she heard a church tower clock striking four times, proclaiming that the fatal hour had arrived.

They jolted to a halt in front of the embassy and swung off their horses, leaving the reins for any street boys close enough to grab them. They raced up the steps, Rafe helping Robin with a hand on his good arm. He ordered, "Margot, when we get inside, you go up to Castlereagh's chamber and get them to evacuate.Give me Northwood's keys so Robin and I can reach the gunpowder."

She nodded and tossed him the keys. Wryly she recognized that his gentlemanly instincts were still functioning—upstairs, she would have a better chance of surviving an explosion than he and Robin. If they died, she wasn't sure she would want to go on living, but this was no time to argue the point.

The guards at the door recognized them in spite of their dishevelment. As the corporal in charge saluted, Rafe snapped, "There's a plot to blow up the embassy, and the explosion will go off at any moment. Go with Countess Janos and help her clear people from the area of the bomb."

Maggie ran through the foyer, the befuddled corporal gamely following.

'To the left," Robin panted. With a superhuman effort that showed on his face, he began to run at a speed that nearly equaled Rate's. They bolted past startled embassy servants, not stopping for more explanations.

Down a stairwell. Left, right along a passage, through a door, left again. Without Robin's guidance, Rafe would never have been able to find his way.

"Here," Robin said tersely, stopping beside a door.

Rafe had studied the keys as he ran, and he shoved the most promising one in the lock. Precious seconds were wasted while he tried to make the key turn, but it was the wrong one. He tried another. The pungent scent of a guttering candle was noticeable. How much longer—minutes? Seconds?