The Making of a Gentleman (22 page)

Felicity jumped back, but Armand did not hesitate. She watched in horror as he brought his knife up and slashed at the man’s face, slicing him across the cheek. At the same time, he pushed the man’s weapon against the wall of the stairwell, effectively preventing the soldier from firing.

The two men grappled, and Felicity looked for some way she might aid Armand. The soldier regained some strength and, blood streaming from his face, pushed Armand back. Felicity heard the comte’s head crack against the stone. But Armand looked unaffected. His foot reached out, catching the soldier under his ankle and bringing him down.

Unfortunately, the soldier took Armand with him. The two rolled down a half-dozen stone steps with Felicity chasing after them. Armand landed on top and, still struggling to keep the soldier’s gun inactive, he glanced up at her. “Go! Get out of here!”

“I’m not going to leave you!” She watched as the soldier reared up and Armand fought to keep the man’s arms pinned. Armand lost his knife, and Felicity heard it clank down several steps, into the darkness.

“I’ll meet you at the tavern,” Armand said through gritted teeth. “Go now!”

Felicity hesitated another heartbeat and then, knowing she could help most by freeing Armand to concentrate on escape, she danced around the two men’s struggling bodies and stumbled down the stairs. She had dropped the torch at some point during Armand’s struggle, and now the prison was dark and shadowed. Behind her, she could hear the men’s grunts, but the stone was thick, and the sounds did not carry far.

As she continued down the stairwell, the sounds of struggle behind her faded. She said a quick prayer Armand would make it out alive. She never thought of her own safety until something underfoot clinked.

She paused and stood stone-still. And then she realized it must be Armand’s knife. She bent, felt in the darkness until her hand closed on the sharp blade. She snatched her fingers back then felt more gingerly, until she had found the handle. She lifted the knife and crept down the stairwell. What if she encountered more soldiers? How would she explain her presence?

At the bottom of the stairwell, she paused and peeked around the corner. This section led into a long corridor flanked with cells. If she could make it down the corridor without being spotted, then she only had to get through the two gates. Unfortunately, Armand had the soldier’s keys, but presumably the gates were still open and unlocked.

That was, if no one had discovered the missing entry guard.

The corridor was silent, and her shoes shushed along the worn stone. The only other sound was that of dripping water. An incessant drip that must have driven prisoners to madness after years. She avoided looking in the cells, but she felt eyes on her, knew she was watched. And yet, none of the prisoners called out or came to the bars to get a closer look. Perhaps they were too beaten down to care, or perhaps they did not believe what they saw.

At the end of the corridor shone a small beam of light, and she could hear the hum of voices. It had not been there earlier, but now she realized the door to the soldier’s station was ajar. She crept closer, keeping the knife at the ready. At the edge of the corridor, she hid in the shadows and watched as five soldiers sat playing a card game. They were smoking and drinking and laughing, oblivious to her presence or to the fight taking place on the steps just a few yards away.

She could not get through the gates without passing in front of that open door. The soldiers were not looking at the door, but one could glance that way at any moment—especially if movement was detected.

She thought she was close enough that even if they saw her, she could run into the street and escape, but then the prison would be in an uproar. Armand would never make it out. She had to escape without alerting the soldiers to her presence.

She lurked across from the door for what seemed an eternity. The soldiers played hand after hand, and still Armand did not join her. Had he lost the fight? Was there another exit?
Please God, save him.

She could wait no longer. As the minutes ticked by, she could feel the danger of discovery grow. Sooner or later there would be a change of the guards, or one of them would leave to walk the grounds. She must go now.

Saying a quick prayer and taking a deep breath, she inched forward. One of the guards turned slightly, and she paused, held her breath.

But he turned back to the game, and she continued to creep forward. Another step and she would be visible to any soldier who looked. Should she go quickly and risk a blur of movement that might draw their attention? Or should she go slowly and risk one of them turning and seeing her accidentally?

Her heart was pounding, and her legs felt restless. She wanted to run, but she clenched her fists, her fingernails biting into the knife handle, and inched past the open door. She must go slowly for Armand’s sake. Now that she was in full view of any soldier who looked her way, the lamplight felt as harsh and bold as a ray of sunlight. The doorway seemed to gape and go on for yards. Her muscles revolted, wanted to freeze. She wanted to fall to the floor and curl up in a ball, but she pushed herself farther. She pushed herself to the patch of shadow just ahead.

The room of soldiers erupted in a chorus of hoots and howls, and she bit her tongue to stop a scream. For one terrifying moment, her heart stopped, and she was certain she had been caught. But a quick glance at the small room showed her the soldiers were deep in their game, and she scooted the rest of the way without being noticed.

Once in that tiny patch of shadow, she raced for the first gate. It was still unlocked and slightly ajar, but she dreaded the squeak it would make as she wedged it open enough to allow her body through. Perhaps if she pulled it slowly…

She tucked the knife in her left hand and pulled the gate with her right. She inched it open, a fraction at a time, certain that at any second one of the soldiers would see her and call out a warning. In her mind, a fast sonata played. Her fingers raced over the keys of the pianoforte, even as she moved with tortuous slowness at the gate.

Finally, she had made enough progress to squeeze through. She did so, breathing in relief as she raced for the last gate to the beat of the sonata.

The Paris air had never smelled as sweet as when she cleared the last gate and stood outside the prison, free. She had been inside less than a half hour and felt immense relief. She could only imagine what Armand must have felt when he’d escaped.

Perhaps he was right behind her. Perhaps he would join her in a moment. She wanted nothing more than to hold him. She turned to look back, hopeful, and saw the blur of movement just in time to duck.

With a scream, she stumbled back. The guard they had left in the shadows by the gate lurched drunkenly toward her. “I knew you would be back,” he said, moving forward.

***

The soldier beneath Armand was gaining strength. He was older, perhaps thirty, but in good physical condition. His cap fell off his head to reveal dark yellow hair, and his face was thrown into a patch of dim light. Armand sucked in a breath. He knew this man, remembered him. He had been one of those assigned to bring him food—if the paste he was given could be considered such. He had been one of the soldiers to beat Armand, trying to force information out of him, trying to discover why he was there.

“I know you,” Armand spat. Straddling the soldier, Armand pushed his hands down, but he could feel his own muscles beginning to protest.

“And I know you. You escaped, caused us a lot of trouble. I should have killed you when I had the chance. Worthless scum.”

Armand had lost his knife, but the soldier was deftly holding on to his pistol. Armand tried to shake it free from his grip, but if he concentrated on that arm, the other came up. And finally he was too tired to hold it down anymore, and the soldier’s fist was free. Armand held the pistol down but took a glancing blow on the chin. For a moment, he saw white dots against blackness, and then he was flying through the air.

He hit his head on the stairwell behind him but managed to roll away before the soldier could jump on top of him. The only place to roll was down the steps, and the fall jolted his already bruised body. He landed on a wide step, looked up, and saw the soldier raise his pistol. “Now you die.” The soldier smiled.

There was nowhere to hide, and Armand closed his eyes, waiting for the hot sting of the bullet.

But all he heard was the click of the hammer.

Armand opened his eyes, smiled, and said in French, “Misfire.”

The soldier roared, tossed the gun aside, and leapt for him. Armand met him halfway, and the clash of bodies sent them both tumbling down the steep stairs. Armand, conscious that they were nearing the bottom of the flight, doubled his efforts. He would be doomed if the soldier was able to alert the others to his predicament. Felicity would be doomed. He was not a praying man, but he prayed now. Prayed hard that she was safe and far away. He could not go on if anything happened to her. He could never forgive himself.

He saw the fist coming, but his reflexes were slower now, and he ducked too late, taking a blow to the eye. His world spun for a moment, and then fury swept through him. With renewed vigor, he slammed the soldier back against the stone wall. He heard the man’s head crack against the hard surface. “Now you see what it’s like,” he rasped out. “Now you see how it feels.” The soldier looked momentarily stunned then charged again. This time, Armand deftly sidestepped, and the man’s unchecked momentum sent him tumbling down several more steps.

Before he could rise, Armand was on his back, arm wrapped around the soldier’s throat. The soldier struggled, beat his feet on the floor, and then ceased the fight.

He wasn’t dead. Armand knew he was only unconscious. Something in him wanted to keep squeezing until the man was dead. He could make this man pay for all he had suffered. It was time someone paid.

But Felicity’s face swam before his eyes. Could he face her? Could he ever look in her eyes again if he became the monster he had always feared lurked inside him?

Slowly, he released the soldier, allowed the body to slump on the steps. He rose unsteadily to his feet, his breath coming in quick gasps. He had only a few minutes until someone came this way and discovered the soldier. Then the alarm would sound, and it would be too late for both Felicity and himself.

If it wasn’t too late already.

He stumbled down the steps before him, praying Felicity had made it out of Le Grenier.

***

Felicity’s hand felt heavy and clumsy, and she fumbled with the knife. The guard stumbled toward her, and still she could not seem to find her grip. She backed away, trying to raise the knife in self-defense, but it almost slipped from her fingers. Finally, as the guard was all but on top of her, she managed to hold it, blade out, before her.

“Stop. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He cocked his head at her, and she could see his brown eyes were bloodshot and there was a trickle of blood running down his temple where the wound that had incapacitated him earlier must have bled. His uniform was ripped, and the tattered material that had bound his hands dangled from one wrist. “You’re English,” he said in French. “On top of all this, you’re English!”

Felicity winced. She should not have spoken. Her French was adequate, but her accent very poor.

“Come here, little English girl.” He reached for her, and she squealed, ducked, and skittered out of his grasp. He lurched forward then swung around again. “I’m going to catch you.”

“Not if I can help it,” she muttered in English and brandished the knife again. Brandishing was about all she was capable of. She had never used a knife against another person before. She could not even conceive of hurting a rabid dog, much less a person. She looked behind her. The street was clear. She could run, and even if the guard alerted his cohorts, she would probably be away before they could catch her. The guard was in no shape to chase after her.

But she had to think of Armand. He was still inside. If she alerted the soldiers that the prison had suffered a break-in, he would never escape. She could not be the one responsible for his imprisonment. It would be better that she were caught, that she were killed by this guard than to have to think of Armand locked in the garret cell again. If she could just distract the guard, keep him busy a few more minutes, perhaps Armand would have enough time to join her.

The guard was coming for her, and though she was backing up, he was closing in. His head wound must have opened up again, because fresh blood flowed down his cheek and into his eye. He swiped it away, creating a macabre crimson smear along one side of his face.

Her back rammed into the outer prison gate, and she felt the sharp metal dig through the thin material of her gown, scratching her skin. As she watched the guard advance, she knew she could still evade him. She could still escape.

But she stood still; she stood patiently. She waited. It struck her that this was love. That right now she would fight to the death for Armand. She was prepared to go to prison in his place. Yes, if she were caught, she could distract the soldiers long enough to give Armand the opportunity to escape. She did not delude herself about the consequences of being caught breaking into a prison. She was a woman who would be remanded into the hands of half a dozen angry soldiers. She was a foreigner and an enemy of France. She would be imprisoned for a very long time—and that would not be the worst of what she suffered.

And still she stood and waited. The guard was on top of her now. He was leering, the blood trickling down his cheek a thick red river. She held up the knife, and he sneered. “Try it.”

He stepped closer, and she swiped at him. He jumped back, but his reflexes were too slow. The knife grazed the material of his coat. Unfortunately, it was a glancing blow and did no harm.

Except now the guard was angry. “Little bitch!” He leapt for her, and she stuck out the knife. But he was ready for her, and he evaded the blade. His hand came down, striking her arm, and she buckled in pain. Her reflex was to release the knife, but instead she bit down hard and held on. She ducked under his arm, but he was right on top of her. He grabbed her arm and twisted it back, holding her far enough away that she could not strike with the knife. He yanked her arm up hard, behind her back, and she stifled a scream of pain. Screaming would only bring the soldiers sooner.