Susan Johnson (19 page)

An escape route had been planned through the church and down the narrow alleyway, back to the stables where their horses were already saddled. If Mingen interfered they’d kill him.

They had only to wait for Duras to circle round the table so he’d be well within range. For optimum success they needed him a few feet closer. They were patient men and it was still early. Should Mingen return to their lodgings, he would find nothing amiss; they’d left their saddlebags in the groom’s quarters. Teo was secreted away elsewhere—in a small storage room at the back of the stables.

Mingen was talking in a precipitous rush as he walked, desperate to convince the skeptical, silent troopers of Duras’s danger. He told them of Korsakov’s orders, of his own contradictory mission—revealing more than he wished, but required by circumstances to convey the full magnitude of Duras’s vulnerability.

Neither man responded to him; they only forced him
along with the jabbing butt of their rifles. “Not the front door,” Mingen protested as they approached the intersection leading to the street running by headquarters. Stopping abruptly, risking a bullet in the back, he explained in rapid phrases that the Chechens would see them or
possibly
see them. They couldn’t take the chance.

With seconds crucial, he almost screamed with frustration as he waited for the soldiers to make a decision, their contemplation measured, deliberate. Then motioning him forward, they turned down the mews behind the building and Mingen broke into a run, oblivious to the danger of being shot. If Duras died, the consequences would be disastrous to Prussia.

Cholet had asked for clarification of a phrase he was transcribing from Duras’s recitation, and moving around the table to see what Cholet had written, Duras finally came within target range. “Now,” one of the Chechens murmured, bringing his rifle up to his shoulder. His colleague followed suit with well-drilled teamwork. The men sighted in, adjusted their stance minutely, carefully took aim …

Duras looked up as a commotion erupted in the corridor outside and he’d already turned toward the door when it burst open.

“Down!” Mingen screamed, diving for Duras.

A rifle shot smashed through the window, followed by a second. Glass exploded into the room, spraying the two men in a tangle on the floor.

“Korsakov,” Mingen rasped, rolling away from Duras.

The single word was enough to bring Duras instantly to his feet, uncaring about the rifle fire blasting away outside. “Get the gunmen!” Duras shouted. “Find them and bring them back!” Turning to Mingen, who was scrambling to his feet, he brusquely said, “Tell me everything.”

“They’ve taken the countess.”

It was possible for Moorish skin to blanch. “When?” Duras said, his voice whisper soft. He didn’t ask to whom he spoke.

“A few minutes ago.”

“Who took her?” Duras was already striding toward the door, his own safety not at issue.

“Korsakov’s Chechens.”

“He’s a dead man,” Duras murmured, motioning for his personal guards to follow him, pulling a rifle from the stand near the door. “Where are they taking her?” he curtly queried, picking up a handful of ammunition, sliding the charges and balls into his pocket.

“They’ll go to Bregenz if they manage to get away.”

“They won’t get far.” Duras strode toward the open door. “Where are their mounts?”

“At the Grafenhausen inn.”

Duras ran full-out, leaving Mingen behind, leaving his men behind, panic-stricken, not allowing himself to consider the grim possibility Teo might be already dead, thinking instead of finding her—and of revenge.

He must protect her more closely once she was with him again, he thought. Keep her near, take more precautions. Condemning himself for carelessness, he realized he should have known better. Korsakov wasn’t a man to underestimate.

And once Duras had Teo back, he’d kill him.

When Mingen and his guards caught up with him, Duras was threatening the ostlers and grooms, interrogating them in a clipped, crisp staccato. Where were the Chechens’ mounts? Had they seen the men? Had Teo been sighted? And when Mingen reported the Chechens’ horses were missing, Duras barked, “I want a cavalry brigade here in five minutes,” his order sending several of his men racing away. “Search the stables,” he brusquely commanded the remaining men, before he raced after Mingen, who was taking the stairs to the loft at a run.

The groom’s quarters were empty.

“Whom do you work for?” Duras asked only then.

Mingen didn’t risk lying; he told the general in brief, breathless phrases, the motive and reasons for his journey. Duras asked him to repeat several details of his conversation with Korsakov, but questioned nothing else. “You needn’t accompany us,” he briskly said when his queries were satisfied, already turning to leave the room, his mind on possible escape routes for the Chechens. He knew the country much better than they; he knew every road and byway between the Rhine and Vienna.

“If you … don’t mind … I’ll follow along,” Mingen said, trying to keep pace with Duras who was descending the stairs in leaps.

“Suit yourself, but don’t get in the way.” An implicit threat underlay the statement.

“No, sir.” Winded after running to headquarters and back, Mingen panted in his wake. “But I’d like … to report the conclusion … of the … episode … to the king.”

“This isn’t a fucking
episode
,” Duras snarled, turning briefly to cast Mingen a withering glance.

“No … of course … sir, my apologies … sir.” His lungs were wheezing for air. “I could show … you the route … we took from Bregenz. They … may not … know another way … back.”

“They apparently know more than you think.” Duras strode out into the stable yard where several of his cavalry troops were already waiting. “Explain the route.” Gruff, impatient to be off, he began pacing.

As Mingen relayed the information, Duras’s charger was brought forward by a trooper. Duras nodded at the mention of each village and posting station, mounted swiftly during Mingen’s recital, and slid his rifle into its saddle holster.

Gesturing for a horse to be brought forward for Mingen,
Duras put spurs to his charger’s flanks and galloped from the yard.

Teo’s feet had been untied so she could ride astride, and she was seated before one of her captors, his chest pressed against her back, his arm holding her firmly in place. Still blindfolded and gagged, her bearings tentative, she knew only that the cobblestones of the city had given way after a time to a country road. It still appeared to be night or else her blindfold was especially dense for no light penetrated the fabric.

With her husband a minimum two days’ journey away with the state of the war, her only hope lay in her captors’ need to stop and sleep or eat eventually. Each minute of delay allowed Duras time to find her. She didn’t doubt his pursuit.

If he still lived, she mournfully thought.

But Andre had protection, she reminded herself; he was always surrounded by officers and staff. Praying that he’d survived the Chechens’ deadly skills, she implored all the gods of her childhood.

But hours later her spirits were less heartened, and as her body grew weary, her mind dwelled on the more depressing possibilities. Terrible images of Korsakov filled her mind, and in her melancholy, she didn’t know whether she’d outlast this abduction. Her husband was a beast without conscience, and despite her annual tribute of gold for his coffers, this time he might not be able to control his rage. He had to know she was with Duras, and if she was truly with child, she wasn’t sure in the full tide of Korsakov’s wrath whether she could convince him the child was his.

The bonds on her wrists were drawing blood; she could feel the coolness on her skin and the brutal pace they were maintaining was causing her stomach to knot into cramps. And when she first felt the slippery wetness on the
saddle after what seemed hours of hard riding, despair overwhelmed her.

Either her courses had begun, days late when they never were late, or she was losing Duras’s child. Tears welled in her eyes behind the tightly knotted blindfold; her hopes of happiness were dashed. And if Duras
had
been killed, she thought, wretched and despondent, she no longer cared to live.

At the first village they passed, Duras and Bonnay questioned a number of people, seeking information on the Chechens and Teo.

But no one had seen them.

“We’ll go on to the next posting station,” Duras said. “If they haven’t arrived there, we’ll backtrack.” His voice was grim; they’d lose valuable time if they were forced to retrace their route.

“Hired assassins aren’t likely to be conspicuous,” Bonnay said, wanting to offer comfort.

“Let’s hope that’s the reason,” Duras said, his expression closed. His whip came down on his horse’s flanks and his charger bolted forward.

At the next posting station two men matching Mingen’s description of the Chechens had changed horses. And although they’d seen no woman, one man wore a woman’s ring on his small finger. A pink diamond. And the scent of violets clung to one of the men.

“It’s them,” Duras softly said, marginally relieved. Teo’s scent would have been washed away by the wind by now if she wasn’t with them. “One must be riding double. How far to the next posting station?”

“Ten miles,” the ostler replied.

“Good,” Duras murmured, calculating time and distance. “Did everyone hear that?” he said, half turning in the saddle to address his men. “We have them.”

Duras was silent as they raced through the night, confident
now of overtaking the Chechens, his only concern Teo’s safety. How frightened she must be, what a terrible ordeal for her to undergo. “I don’t want the Chechens killed,” he shouted across to Bonnay as their mounts galloped side by side.

Bonnay nodded.

And then Duras lashed his charger to more speed.

They caught sight of their prey as they exited a long stretch of forest road, the countryside opening up to them, falling away in rolling hills down to a silvery lake. Two riders, far off in the distance, were cresting a rise, the quarter-moon dimly outlining their shapes.

Not daring to openly pursue them, afraid the Chechens might harm Teo to extremity, Duras gestured to Bonnay, then wheeled his horse off the road. Riding cross-country, they could intercept the Chechens short of the next posting station.

After hours of hard riding, Teo was reeling in the saddle, only the Chechen’s strong grip holding her upright. It seemed an eternity since she’d begun bleeding; her thighs were slippery on the saddle, her stomach spasms agonizing. Light-headed, she couldn’t concentrate, logical thought always sliding away, her mind obsessed with the loss of her child. Even contemplation of her personal danger lapsed before her greater bereavement.

Half faint from her pain, she didn’t notice at first that the horses had come to a stop. But when she was lifted from the saddle and deposited on the damp grass, the chill ground revived her. With the sound of hoofbeats receding in the distance, she knew she’d be alone for a time but she also knew better than to hope: the Chechens would return for her as they had done before. She shivered in her light gown, the March temperatures cool, the dampness between her legs chilling.

She was losing all hope for her child, for the cruel pains were unrelenting. Her faith in being rescued was waning as well; they’d been on the road too long. And most devastating, the possibility that Duras had been killed gained more credence with each passing hour. Had he lived he would have overtaken her by now. Yielding to despair, she hiccuped and gulped, an ache filling her throat, but even her tears had run dry after so many hours of crying, as though her body had given up.

Attempting to bolster her flagging spirits, she told herself there had to be a way out. Reminding herself she’d always overcome adversity before, invoking those maxims of courage and resolution that had always given her hope in the past, she tried to remain stalwart. But the weight of her oppression was too much this time, the thought of losing the baby and Duras too tragic.

How cold she felt, how alone.

Concealed behind a privet hedge bordering the road, Duras and Bonnay waited outside the village, only moments ahead of the Chechens, their rifles trained on the curve in the road fifty yards out.

“Do we shoot the horses or them?” Bonnay whispered.

“Wound the men.”

Bonnay understood. Beyond interrogating Korsakov’s agents, Duras had his own personal agenda.

But when Korsakov’s men rode into sight a moment later, Teo wasn’t with them and Duras swore under his breath, an unreasoning fear flooding his mind. Astonished, Bonnay saw him move his mount into the center of the road, exposing himself as he aimed his rifle, as if he wanted them to see their assailant. And for a black despairing second before he pulled the trigger, Duras intended to kill them.

But logic prevailed; he needed their information to find Teo. A rifle shot exploded in the quiet of the night, quickly
followed by Bonnay’s almost simultaneous shot, and both Chechens struggled to hold themselves in the saddle. Looking for a means of escape, they forced their horses left and drove them through the hedge bordering the road.

Duras charged after them, his warhorse plunging through the hedgerow. Korsakov’s men were racing for the tree line on the far side of the field, whipping their horses, trying to gain the protection of the shadowed forest.

Digging in his spurs, Duras drew his pistol and, leaning forward over his charger’s neck, took aim. But the distance was too great for accuracy, and murmuring low, he coaxed more speed from his mount. Responding to Duras’s voice, with gutsy courage, his horse lengthened its stride.

The dark tree line loomed nearer; the possibility of losing the Chechens suddenly seemed ominous. Detesting what he must do, the twin barrels of Duras’s pistol flashed twice and both horses broke stride, stumbled a few yards and collapsed. Thrown from the saddle, the Chechens landed hard, their bodies bouncing several times before coming to rest on the stubble of last year’s crop.

Duras came to a halt beside the still bodies, his second pistol trained on the men, and when Bonnay arrived seconds later, he said, “Find the Prussian agent to interpret.”