The Curious Rogue (21 page)

Whenever his eyes fell on Elizabeth, a hunger appeared.
Ah, men,
Marie-Thèrése sighed to herself.
Does one ever really know them?

Elizabeth rose from her chair gulping the last of her coffee. She grabbed the duffel bag she had set beside the table and went to the door. Glancing back, she saw Martin put his arms about Marie-Thèrése, and hurried out.

He joined her in a few minutes and, signalling for silence, took her hand in his and led the way. Ducking through alleys and around houses, Martin made his way to a low, sagging building. “Wait,” he hissed and disappeared into it. Moments later he reappeared leading two horses.

Thank the Lord for these breeches,
Elizabeth thought as she took hold the saddle and put her foot into the stirrup. She struggled awkwardly to heave herself up into the unfamiliar French equipage.

Martin watched for several moments, then took hold of her waist and plopped her into the saddle. Vaulting onto his mount, he motioned for her to follow.

They moved at a slow pace until the last cottage was behind them. With the first rays of the sun shooting over the horizon, Martin spurred forward, leaving Treguier behind them and heading for open country.

Periodically throughout the morning he slowed the pace to rest the horses. Elizabeth was thankful that they no longer walked and querulously thought he was far more careful of the dumb beasts than he had been of her.

Around noon Martin reined to a halt before a stream and told her they would rest for a short time. He pointedly ignored Elizabeth as she crawled down from the saddle and moved painfully to the stream.

“Is it much farther?” she asked when she had finished drinking, her joy in riding lessened by the aches it produced.

“No, an hour more at most,” Martin told her curtly.

“Where is my brother?”

“In the prison in Saint-Brieuc.”

“Will there be great danger for us?”

“Us?” he scoffed. “You are going to remain at the cottage. There will be trouble enough without you to worry about.”

Elizabeth caught the loaf of bread he tossed her. “I have tried to... not to be a nuisance.”

“The only way you would not have been is not to have come,” Martin told her coldly, anger edging his words.

“You have made your point quite clear,” she retorted, tearing the loaf in two. “But I am here and I see no reason for you to continue to be so abrasively ungentlemanly about it. Perhaps you have never loved someone enough to take risks for them.

“How was I to know, other than by being here, that you would do your utmost to free my brother. He means nothing to you,” she argued.

“There is no reason to shout. You will do nothing but announce our presence. I hardly think you would wish to explain what you are doing here.”

“Would you?”

Martin turned his back. “It is time we move on.”

Elizabeth threw the two hunks of bread at him in a fit of anger. They bounced harmlessly off his back and fell to the ground.

With a low curse Martin swung around and glared at her. The proud tilt of her head and her long dark hair cascading about her face in disarray heightened her natural beauty and accentuated her dark, flashing eyes. “You try me too far,” he breathed. Striding forward, he crushed her to him, his lips descending upon hers with savage demand.

Struggling, Elizabeth found that his strength was too great. She was pulled into a whirlpool that swept away her reason. The emotions Martin’s lips evoked came in surging swells, threatening to drown all thought. Elizabeth resisted but felt her will weaken, her spirit respond to his passionate appeal. Certain she must surrender, she was only saved when Martin drew back.

His eyes were black pools of desire as he picked her up and carried her from the stream’s side to a blanket of grass beneath an aged oak.

A warning clanged in Elizabeth’s mind, his intent clear when his lips claimed hers once more. “No,” she protested weakly when he laid her down and pressed his body to hers. “No.” She tried to twist away from him.

“You do not mean that, Elizabeth.” Martin caressed her cheek while his other hand unfastened the buttons on her shirt. “You wish this as much as I,” he breathed.

“It should not happen this way.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I do not love you.”

“I do not believe that.” He moved to kiss her, but she twisted her face away.

“I am not like your Marie-Thèrése,” she choked out. “You can have her—any woman. Why must you force me?” A lone tear trickled down her cheek.

Martin forced Elizabeth to look at him. “But I am not. Can you deny that you feel the need—that you do not desire me?” he asked harshly.

“Desire is not love,” she returned in a hoarse whisper.

Martin sickened at what he had almost done. He rose angrily.

Sitting up, Elizabeth wiped away the tears in her eyes with the back of her hand. “I... I do not understand what I felt, only that it was somehow not right, not here. I must have time to think. We have known each other but a few days...”

“Love does not need thought,” Martin answered sharply and turned away. He paced a few steps away and turned back. “It is your English prudery that makes you hesitate,” he told her. “I shall not press you now, but think on it.” He came back and took her hand, drawing her up. “You will see that your need is as great as mine.”

A whinny sounded in the distance.

“We must go.” He pulled her towards the horses. After helping her into the saddle, Martin vaulted into his and, spurring, led the way once more.

* * * *

After dusting off the backless chair in the deserted cottage, Elizabeth sat down. She was glad to have some time for reflection while Martin went to finish his arrangements for the rescue. So much had happened to her in so short a time. It was difficult to focus on her brother’s plight amidst her turmoil.

I am certain he shall be rescued,
Elizabeth thought.
Martin will not fail.
She had no doubt in his ability; her confidence in him was complete.

If it could be done, it would be.

But what of yourself?
she asked
. What shall you do?
Her response to Martin’s passionate embrace had evoked but a promise of what could be, she realized, and it seemed to lend credence to his words.

Why should you not surrender yourself to him? an inner voice prompted. Why not grab at this chance, experience the fullness of passion. Do you think Comte de Cavilon will ever thrill you as this man does?

“Cavilon,” Elizabeth murmured. He had said that ardour was tiresome. Indeed, in all his protestations of love, she had seen no hint of ungentlemanly passion.

And yet
, she thought, there
were moments when something lingered in his gaze, when I thought he would say... do... more
. There had been tenderness in his gaze, in his gentle kisses that had not left her unmoved. Elizabeth had thought she hated him, had sworn she despised him, and yet...

Can he ever compare to Martin, ever move you as this man can? the voice returned.

But desire is not love,
Elizabeth told herself. The words she had uttered so boldly to Martin no longer convinced.
If I loved either, would these questions plague me
? she asked.

You have promised to wed Cavilon, her conscience told her, entering the fray. Will you not keep your word? Could there not be affection between you in time?

But you don’t have time,
Elizabeth reminded herself. And Martin was so much more a man.

* * * *

Riding from Saint-Brieuc, Martin’s excitement grew, as it always did when he was about to dare fate. His plans had been altered by what he had learned. It would not be two days hence, but this night.

Learning that new guards had arrived early this afternoon at the prison had changed everything. Even now the guards, old and new, were drinking deeply, using the arrival as an excuse to celebrate. Many would never reach their posts. Those who did were not likely to care what happened. Better to act this night than on the next, when thick heads would make them suspicious of any noise.

Martin was certain that his new plans would please Elizabeth. Now she must take part in the venture. Thoughts of her stirred a feeling deep within him. Had Cavilon lost?

Throwing back his head, a harsh laugh escaped him. “Have you become two men instead of one?” he questioned aloud. “Which are you?”

Do you even know anymore? Has the game gone on so long that you have forgotten what and who you truly are? What has happened? His troubled thoughts ran freely. In seeking identities that could never be connected, or even vaguely suspected as being one, have you gone too far? Why this preoccupation, this insistence that Elizabeth chooses between the two? Are you not one man? He shook his head.

Why does Cavilon tease her while Martin attacks? Why the anger? Answers eluded him.

He laughed softly. It mattered not, perhaps. Martin, it appeared, would triumph. His stomach knotted at the thought, and, unbidden, Rosamon sprang to mind. She had had a choice between him and a wealthy weakling and had chosen the latter.

Since that time he had never given away his heart. Martin had broken many. Through the years it had always seemed that women chose the stronger or the richer. How much easier it seemed for them to choose strength, especially if attached to wealth. How much greater must a woman’s love be to accept a man’s weaknesses and love him in spite of them.

Chapter Twenty-two

“Elizabeth,” Martin whispered as he stole into the cottage.

“Here,” she answered, rising.

He stepped towards the sound of her voice, and his hand met hers. Martin drew her to him and felt her reluctance. “I have news which shall please you. Your brother shall be free this night.”

“You are certain he still lives?” she asked. Excitement and fear mingled at his words. “Can it really be?”

With his arm about her waist, Martin guided her out into the moonlit night. “I cannot say for a certainty that he lives, but his name is on the prison manifest. It is more a feeling, knowing it. I have survived many years through much danger with my instinct alone to preserve me. It does not lead me astray now,” he assured her.

“The Captain Paraton whom Cavilon spoke of is also listed. I was told to bring him out if I could. In truth, I may need his aid if your brother is as ill as he wrote. But,” he placed his hands on her shoulders, “I shall need your help also.”

“I will do anything,” she answered fervently.

“Anything?” he felt compelled to tease.

Something in his tone struck Elizabeth as oddly familiar and yet not of his usual mien.

Martin saw the question. He quickly pulled her to him and kissed her. “For luck,” he laughed, and dropped his hands and took hold of hers. “Come.” His love for the adventure sounded in his word, showed on his features.

“The Lord preserve us,” she murmured as he drew her towards the horses.

Oh, I do hope you have enough courage for both of us,
she thought as Martin helped her mount. Riding through the darkness, Elizabeth fought the stomach-churning fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

Signalling for her to rein in beside him when the lights of Saint-Brieuc appeared before them, Martin drew a ragged cloak from behind his saddle. “Put this on,” he ordered. “We don’t want to have to explain that English complexion.

“Whatever happens, keep your eyes downcast. Don’t look directly at anyone, and stay close to me.” When she had the cloak securely fastened, he urged his mount forward.

A new wonder at his calmness struck Elizabeth as they rode through the streets of the city. He rode leisurely as if the place was well known to him, with no fear.

Surely this is too daring?
she wondered as they passed other riders and moved around carriages and coach, which she could have touched had she wished. Her heart sank when Martin turned into a small inn’s courtyard.

“Ah,
monsieur
, you have returned.” A thin man with an apron across his flat stomach took hold of Martin’s reins as he dismounted.

“
Oui.
Do you have everything in readiness?” Martin asked, signalling Elizabeth to dismount.

“Then you are going ahead as planned?”

“
Oui.
Our brother still lives. God grant he will yet see our parents. But we shall not be able to halt until well out of the city, so we shall not return as I thought. They fear the disease will spread.” Martin spoke in tones of hushed confidence. “The cart?”

“Just as you wished, and the team is the best I could find on such short notice.” The innkeeper matched his tone. “But they are
très cher
in these times. Napoleon takes all our good horses for the army.”

“Let me see the pair. Wait here,” Martin instructed Elizabeth.

The innkeeper handed her the reins and led Martin into the stable wing of the courtyard. Several people came and went before the two emerged, leading an aged, swaybacked team pulling a rickety two-wheeled cart.

That both men looked very pleased amazed Elizabeth, who could see no use in the beasts or vehicle.

“Tie our horses to the cart,” Martin ordered her as he climbed onto the wooden plank that served as a seat. “Come along.” He motioned for her to join him when she had finished.

“What can you mean to do with these dispirited beasts? They could not go fast enough to evade a child, much less soldiers.”

“Français,”
Martin spat. “Until we are out of the city you must speak only French,” he continued, taking his own advice.

Elizabeth marvelled at his accent just as she had when he had spoken with the innkeeper. She had taken him to be an Englishman, but his French was that of a native.

There is so notch I don’t know about this man, she thought.

A short time later Elizabeth looked about the narrow alley they had entered. “Why do we stop here?” she asked. There was nothing in sight that she could see that would be of aid to them on this night.

Taking the reins Martin handed her, Elizabeth watched him untie their mounts and lead them through an open door into what she had thought to be a house. “Why did you do that? Where have you taken them?” she asked when he returned.