Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (26 page)

He was dead.

In that moment, so was she.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Breathing deeply through her nose,
Olivia fought of a wave of nausea brought on by the latest fingernail from
which she’d been parted. A surprisingly timid soldier stood before her, pale
and looking slightly sick. He was the last man standing, after she’d driven the
others off over the last hour. He was young, and obviously ‘torture’ hadn’t
been mentioned among his duties when he’d enlisted. He’d gone to it without
much enthusiasm, and when she’d shown very little reaction to having her nails
pulled he’d almost balked. Then a far less reluctant captain had entered and
forced him to continue under threat of death. She wasn’t surprised; Napoleon
brooked no dissent from among his army, on the battlefield or in the dungeon.
If they believed anything they could manage would hurt her after losing
Philipe, she welcomed them all to try.

After Philipe had been shot, she’d
been in shock, numb to everything around her until they’d roughly shoved her
into a hard wooden chair. That had been a warning that she needed to gather her
wits, to stay alive now at all costs. The intelligence concealed inside her
dress had doubled in value, with Philipe to avenge. Any hope for escape meant
observation, paying attention enough to notice the room around her. It was truly
medieval, one of the chateau’s older sections. Crumbling stone and rough timber
beams, iron- grated windows high overhead. Dark, dusty, and oppressive; fine
venue for what was to come.

Philipe’s death and Ty’s voice
ringing out from a nearby cell, telling her not to fight, not to resist, had
almost worn through her reserves. She knew the unspoken meaning of Ty’s words:
Live to fight another day. Olivia wasn’t certain she possessed the
self-discipline for biting her tongue, sitting bound, and letting the guards
take what they wanted. Coming to her senses, her fugue had been replaced by
something far stronger, far more enduring.

Rage.

It was for Ty alone that she had
endured, fought, and used every trick she had. She had lived through far worse
at La Force. It hurt but pain was momentary, but it wasn’t enough to break her.
It wasn’t enough to dull the seething cauldron that made her thirst to trade
places with Thalia. To do more to her. To do worse.

They must have had her well over an
hour, shut up in the stone chamber. The sky hadn't changed outside, not from
the little sliver she glimpsed through bars dividing a narrow window high on
the wall. Three fingernails in more than an hour? Amateurs. Novices. Guards of
the old republic could teach them a few tricks. Obviously veterans would be
needed by Napoleon in the field, and Thalia had been forced to cobble together
whatever inept, inexperienced men she could find.

Instead,
Olivia
was teaching
her captors a thing or two. They had tied only her arms to the hulking wooden
chair. She could see their inexperienced reasoning. She certainly wasn't going
to get up and run away under that sort of weight, but she could do a lot more
with her legs than flee. They’d learned that the hard way.

It had taken some time and a great
deal of threatening to get her a fresh pair of jailers. The exchange between
the men and their captain had been audible even through her heavy door. When
they entered, she had expected a certain amount of mollification, shifting eyes
and nervous glances. Striding in, the men instead looked bent on getting
revenge for their brothers. That would never do. She'd begun to cry, sob.
Begged for a moment to remember her brother, a loyal subject of Napoleon,
killed by the Allies. She waved hands, as much as her ropes would allow,
beckoning the men in and asking them to pray with her. Using their piety to
plant a foot in one guard’s groin when they complied had earned her a second
slap to the mouth.

It was time for a new tack.

While one soldier dug through the battered
leather tool bag in search of pliers, she ran a boot up the back of his leg. “I
am a virgin, monsieur,” she breathed.

“No, you're not.” He didn’t look
up.

She pitched her voice low, trying
to find a balance between inviting and innocent. “Wouldn't you like to be
certain?”

He turned, mouth agape.

Lifting her foot, Olivia stroked
his calf and then hooked her leg over the arm of her chair. “If your friend
goes outside, we can settle the matter.”

Unfortunately for him, she and his
friend had already made a similar deal during his brief absence from the room.
Only, she had warned the first soldier that his companion seemed exceedingly
jealous and might try to interfere.

Their bickering quickly came to
blows.

As their insults turned physical,
she’d grasped the pliers under her right hand, nicked when one of the earlier
idiots dropped them after being bitten. The men stumbled into her as they
fought, and she’d brought the pliers up, driving their tips into flesh.

The older soldier would probably
survive the puncture to his back, but he wouldn't be ripping off any
fingernails today.

Her next two interrogators had
grabbed and wrangled, but in an oversight that almost made her laugh, had left
her ungagged after she’d bit the guard earlier. Obviously, they didn’t
communicate much in between entering her cell. More bites to the hands, thighs,
and groin had earned her a blinding slap to the face
and
taught them the
error of their ways. Limping, bleeding, and swearing, they had been forced to
retreat, sending in the youngest and least experienced from among them to
“loosen her up.”

He was still standing before her,
pliers in his hand and his adam’s apple bobbing when the door banged open. She
couldn't see who had come in, only hear a voice she recognized as the captain.

“Get her up. Untie her.”

The boy turned, looking comical in
his relief, but unwilling to abandon the task at hand. “I'm not done. I don't
have a thing out of her.”

“I said get her up!”

“They . . . they told me to press
her, to get her ready for them.” Eager for a chance to raise his esteem with
his companions, the young private wasn’t giving up his opportunity without a
protest.

“Fouche doesn't want her pressed,
he wants her dead. And the man, too. They’re to be dealt with, and they are not
to be found.”

There was still hesitation, a
resistance on the soldier's part. She’d done enough injury to his compatriots
that they’d be angry she was escaping retribution. He raised the hand holding
the pliers, and Olivia thought he would hit her, but instead he dropped them
and shuffled out.

An altogether different man
appeared a few minutes later and began to untie her hands. He had the good
sense to look nervous, but he was in no danger. What she wanted now more than
anything was to be taken from the room and preferably from the chateau. The
farther away, the better her odds of slitting Thalia's throat.

*          *          *

“Where are they taking us?”

Olivia's question snapped him back
to the present, stopping him from recalling Philipe's agony for a thousandth
time. Ty craned his neck, making out what little he could in predawn light
through the wagon's slitted windows. “Out of the city. I couldn’t guess beyond
that. Far enough not to be found.”

“Why bother? They didn’t mind
leaving him –” She swallowed. “It didn’t stop them before.”

He’d considered that, and Thalia’s
instructions that they not be found. “The pair of us dead is a lot of problems
for Napoleon, a lot of inconvenient questions if anyone discovers who and what
we are. Gunfire from the chateau, yesterday’s…” He swallowed, struggling for a
word and trying not to recall the scene, “arrest. There’s enough of a stir that
you and I have quickly unraveled into very long, loose ends.”

She seemed to consider this awhile,
and then crossed her arms more than he believed possible for someone with her
hands bound together. “Grayfield knows what we’re about.” She nodded with
certainty. “He'll send someone for us.”

He cleared his throat, postponing
just about the worst conversation they could have right now.

At his silence, she arched a brow.
“What?”

“Olivia, you know that there isn’t
a chance in hell that Grayfield would have approved you and me undertaking this
mission.” He shifted uncomfortably.

Her voice rose slightly. “Meaning
what?”

He shrugged.

“Meaning you didn't tell him.” Her
words were thin and sharp enough to cut.

“Meaning I didn't tell him,” he
confessed. “I used my judgment. Would you have risked his lashing us to a horse
hitch in order to stop us?”

She glanced away. “No,” she
admitted quietly.

It was on the tip of his tongue to
suggest that perhaps
she
should have briefed Grayfield, with the
corresponding they had done of late. The wagon jostled, then jerked to a stop,
stealing his opportunity. Now wasn’t the time. When he spoke to her about the
letter, he wanted it to be right.

He looked out the window for any
sign of where they were, then glanced back at Olivia. Her head was turned away,
and she refused to look at him.

Bouncing, the wagon warned that
someone had dismounted and was approaching. He struggled for anything to make
peace. “I'm sorry, Olivia. It's easier to beg forgiveness than to seek
permission.”

“I imagine we'll both be doing some
begging, now.”

Catching sight of her raw,
blood-caked nail beds, he swallowed and kept silent. While Olivia was being flayed
by the torturer, he’d suffered no more than Thalia’s begging, her promises to
spare him and leave France with him, abandon Fouche as a lover if Ty would take
his place. Thalia had begged, ranted, screamed, and when he couldn’t be swayed,
had dumped him in with Olivia under threats he would change his mind.

Olivia was right. There was no
apology, no explanation to fix what he'd done. No one knew where they were and
help was not coming. He’d miscalculated, hadn’t thought things could go so
wrong at the chateau, and now they would both pay the price.

The wagon's gate squealed open. Ty
squinted into the dim light at a silhouette that was already barking orders for
them to climb down. With no other choice, he complied.

They were in a forest. After a
quick survey, he amended the thought. It was a camp, a soldiers’ bivouac
concealed in a forest. Rebels until a few weeks ago, the men occupying its
makeshift lodgings would soon be welcomed as soldiers of the empire.

A bayonet pierced his shirt,
prodding him forward. “Move.”

As long as he cooperated, the
soldiers seemed content with moving him along without heaping abuse. He was
happy to be prodded, moving slowly enough to gain his bearings. Where they were
being led was another matter. If he had to guess, the hole in the camp's center
had once been a well or a mine shaft. In an effort to protect the king or
whoever rode and hunted in these woods, it had been mounted with a collar and
an iron grate. There was no question that if he and Olivia went into that hole,
they wouldn't make it out unless it was for their execution.

There was one last hope. With a
glance at Olivia that he prayed would convey some sort of meaning, he chucked a
guard, the one he'd heard called Dumouriez, gently with an elbow. “Flask?”

“Fuck off.”

He smiled companionably. “No.
I
have one. Fish it out and I'll share.”

The guard grabbed his chest and
laughed. “Fish it out and I’ll keep every drop.”

“Be a sport. This is a dying man's
last request. One mouthful.”

“Fuck yer’ mother. I’ll have it to
myself.”

“Very well,” Ty ground out. “It's
in the pocket sewn inside my shirt. Just one damned mouthful?”

He watched a war play out on the
soldier’s face, fully expecting him to refuse again.

While Dumouriez fished inside his
clothes, Ty looked at Olivia again. She was only half watching them, and when
he got her attention he mouthed a single word:
Run
.

What?
she mouthed back.

“Here we are. Open up.”

Ty turned his face away. “No, you
bastard. I’ve changed my mind. Keep it and damned well choke on it.”

Thick fingers grasped the hair at
his crown, forcing his head back. “Oh no! If you’re going to groan about it,
let’s celebrate together!” Dumouriez’s grin revealed gapped yellow teeth.

“Run, Olivia!” There was no more
time for explanation. Dumouriez jammed the flask against his lips, prying down
on Ty’s chin in order to fill his mouth with the bitter liquid. He wrested his
face away, sputtering, but despite his efforts there was no keeping some of it
from trickling down his throat.

“Hey! Hey, that's enough now! We
agreed to share.” Guffawing, Dumouriez shoved him back with a meaty fist and
planted the flask atop a nearby crate. “I'm saving mine to celebrate, once the
firing squad is done with you.”

Ty hardly heard the insult.
Euphoria came first, as always, stealing his most important thoughts. His lips
tingled and then his arms felt heavy. It took a herculean effort to turn his
head again and look at Olivia gaping beside him.

Run
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

She knew what Ty had said, and when
his body hit the ground and didn't move, she
had
run. Toward him, not
away. What had he thought would happen, that she would just leave him there?
What an obnoxious ass.

Shaking his shoulder had no effect,
and she certainly wasn't carrying him anywhere.

Looking as shocked she felt,
Dumouriez bellowed for the other men. Now was her chance. Olivia turned her
back to him and drove the sole of her boot into his knee cap. He doubled over
screaming and she ran opposite the way they had come.

Dodging wide oaks, her legs burned
with the effort of jumping gnarled roots. Tangled grass and brambles grabbed
her skirts as she passed.

At the top of a small rise, she
stumbled. Her collar jerked up, strangling her, and her bodice tightened. She
hadn't heard the guard come up behind her. He must have been hidden in the
trees. So close to escape, so far ahead of the others. Olivia decided he would
have to kill her to keep her there. Twisting, stabbing back with one elbow, she
fished inside her bodice with the other, fingers searching for the vial she’d
secreted there. She once again thanked God for the inept soldiers back at the
chateau. Despite groping her breasts on more than one occasion, not one had
thought to search
between
them.

The moment she could turn enough to
face the soldier, she thumbed free the cork. A snap of her wrist and the acid
struck him full in the face.

There was a pregnant pause where
they both froze. He didn't let go and seemed slightly puzzled for a moment.
Then, he screamed, stiffening and doubling over. Despite this he still held her
fast, gripping tighter at her hair with one hand. Her scalp stung and his
effort bent her neck until her back ached. With the other hand, he pressed at
his eyes. That lasted until the blotches over his cheekbones deepened to
scarlet. Skin puckered like an old blister and began to weep. His shrill cry
had ended, but it was only then that he truly began to panic. “My eyes! I can't
see. I can't open my eyes!”

Finally, he released her, grabbing
at burning flesh, spinning in a circle. She stumbled backward and fell. The
yelling turned to shrieks, pain and fear, and then an unintelligible babbling
as fumes choked his throat. Despite the gruesome effects, she felt only relief.

Getting to her feet, she turned to
run again. She’d broken the guard’s grip, but he’d done his job, holding her
long enough for help to arrive. A blow caught her in the kidney, sending her
sprawling forward. Her heavy boots tripped her up, toes digging into loose
soil. Stumbling, flailing, Olivia tumbled down the hill, finding every stone
and branch on the way.

“Aubert, get her up!”

Dumouriez
. He'd finally
limped himself along behind.

Aubert grabbed her wrist, hauling
back on it until the joint burned. Tears stung her eyes, and she scrambled to
get feet under her before he broke her arm.

“What did you do?” Aubert screamed
the words, flecks of spittle landing on the smooth line of his black mustache.
“What did you do to Calver?”

What he deserved. What they all
deserved. She bit her tongue, holding in the retort. For Ty's sake, for the
sake of the assignment, she had to stay alive. Aubert's flaring nostrils and
the furious vee of Dumouriez's brow, coupled with a soldier's screams farther
back toward camp warned she was very close to failing.

Her silence only seemed to enrage
Aubert. He raised a fist, and she turned her face. There really was no blocking
or dodging a punch without free arms. Knuckles bit her cheekbone, smashing her
teeth together, and light exploded behind her left eye. She crumpled, her
captor letting her fall.

Her cheek burned and tingled. A
cold trickle near her chin said she was bleeding. Before she could gain her
feet, a second swing caught her in the mouth. Gums throbbed, and her bottom lip
felt inside out.

She almost cried out when they
grabbed her by the arms and hauled her up. Calver was on the ground a few feet
from where she’d fallen, his arms around his head, and his shrieks having
quieted to a steady moan. Olivia bit her swollen lip, determined not to show
the same weakness, and held quiet.

The march back to camp was agony,
her head pounding in time with each step. Aubert shoved her along, taking every
opportunity to jam her with a rifle butt.

When they reached the camp,
Dumouriez grabbed her sleeve, jerking her almost prone in the dirt. “Search
her! And this time do it right!”

The two men were ruthless. Fingers
dug and stabbed, nails raking everywhere. Hands worked over her breasts and
jammed up between her legs, punctuated by snickering. She hardly noticed. They
were
being thorough, and that meant it was just a matter of time before
they found the papers.

They wrestled her skirts, and her
worry transformed to reality. There was a ripping sound and then shouts. “Take
these to the farm, to the baroness. Don't stop until they're in her hands.”

She closed her eyes. Intelligence
gone. Philipe dead and likely Ty as well. She was about to be executed and no
one knew where she was. As much as she wanted to deny it, things were beginning
to look a bit like defeat.