Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (28 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Stupid pony
.

The creature was as useless as its
former rider. Running in blind panic from the shouts and gunfire, it had raced
on stumpy little legs into a stretch of small dunes behind the barn, sandy
humps capped with tufts of high, scrubby grass. The damned thing was beached
now, stomach resting atop a mound, front and back legs working impotently while
it emitted forlorn neighs.

It took a great deal of effort to
circle the animal and get ahead of it. Olivia lost traction on the dry, loose
dirt and fell more than once. Grass clung at the coarse weave of her skirts,
made worse by damp fabric. Renewed energy from her fight with Thalia had worn
off, and she was cold, hungry, and afraid to be alone with herself.

She approached as calmly as she
could manage on the poor footing, stretching an arm to show she was harmless,
but the animal grew more agitated, tossing its head and huffing. She was a
stranger in the pony's eyes, coated in the stench of death.

After a lot of drawing back while
she waited for fits of terror to pass, she got one hand on its muzzle and gave
a gentle stroke. Then behind an ear, whispering, soothing. Each touch bought
her a little more compliance, but it was plain that the creature would never be
completely calm. He was lost without his master, terrified by the wide open
space and frightening sounds so different from his pampered estate life.

Realizing that she wouldn’t be
taking the pony anywhere, she instead began to unhook his tack. That was all
she needed anyway; unless Thalia had fed the letters to the pony, he was of
little value. From reins and bridle to saddle bags and saddle, she stripped him
down bit by bit.

The creature looked at her with its
huge, sad eyes, and Olivia sighed. She didn’t have the heart to leave it here
to die. She was so tired; this was going to be rough.

Putting a shoulder into his, Olivia
strained, grunting against a tearing sensation in her ribs. She bared her teeth
with the effort until her lip tore again. Rearing, screaming, the animal
finally twisted sideways and fell into a low spot beside the mound. Legs
flailed hopelessly a moment, a panicked movement, but it had the benefit of
freeing them from the tangled brown grass. Finally, his small hooves found
purchase, and he was up. He wheeled away from her and bounced on stout little
legs as fast as he could manage.

Panting, Olivia watched him for a
time as he trotted across the clearing, then fell to her bottom in the scrub.
She had to get back to Ty, but there was no chance in hell she was carrying
back one more damned thing than necessary. First, she checked the obvious
places: saddle bags, leather wallet, a folded shawl. Discovering three
envelopes, Olivia unfolded and skimmed them. Two were personal and a third
encoded, but not of immediate application. Stuffing them into her bodice, she
turned to examine the saddle. There was nothing obvious that she could spot. No
unusual seams or pockets, no hidden compartments.

Staring at the collection of items
on the ground, she tried hard to trace Thalia's movements. They had all ridden
out in close proximity. It seemed unlikely that Thalia had taken the documents
somewhere farther away and doubled back. She could have hidden them inside the
building. Olivia groaned. It was an overcast mid-afternoon, and the farm house
was dark enough inside already. She would lose the light well before she had
checked every possible nook and cranny.

Resigning herself, she was just
about to stand when something caught her attention, poking up from the bronze
grass roots a few feet away. It was long and black and a little shiny in the
low light. With a lot of consideration for throbbing parts, she climbed to her
feet to get a closer look.

It was a riding crop. It must have
been lost during the pony's struggle. She picked it up by its oiled black
leather tip. She shook it, watching its fringe dance at the tip, waiting for
something to gel in her mind. The crop looked new. It was handsome, made of expensive
small-grain leather with a shaft seated in an octagonal black lacquered handle
detailed with gold leaf at the edges. She rotated it, glancing at each of the
handle's eight sides, until she came to one that was different. A bust of
Napoleon in relief, carved into the wood.

Smiling, Olivia turned the whole
thing upside down. The end cap bore the emperor's personal seal. Grasping the
cane, she used a handful of her skirt to wrap the handle for better grip, and
pulled. The end cap shot free with the pop of a cork. Relief flooded through
her, and she exhaled and brought the handle back into view. A rough coil of
folded papers filled the hollow space, folded into an impossibly tiny
configuration. Replacing the cover, she took the crop and the discarded shawl,
starting back toward the trail where she had left the horse.

Skirting the edge of the clearing,
she contemplated the third soldier. If Thalia were to be believed, he was still
out there, somewhere. She had not seen him at the camp, and he hadn't returned with
the other two from the farm or come running when the rifle was fired. Logic
said that likely meant he was too far away to hear the report, but she would
move with caution until she and Ty were well away.

The horse, unlike Thalia's pony,
was happy to see her, snorting and nosing in her direction when she came into
view. He clip-clopped obediently behind her all the way back to the camp,
seeming a little dejected when he was lashed up once more without being ridden.

She secured him beside a wide oak,
not having a clue how she would move Ty onto the animal's back. A moment later,
she discovered that it didn't matter. Ty was not where she had left him. She
dropped to her knees in the root-bound hollow, pressing flat against the rough
trunk, and listened.

Silence.

She glanced left around the tree,
then right. There was no sign of anyone, and nothing was obviously disturbed.
Resting one hand on the creased bark, she was just about to stand up for a
better look when something rustled the bushes to her left, just inside the
copse. She waited. The sound came again, less distinct. It could be a man, or
perhaps an animal. Wrapping a hand around the razor's bone handle inside her
pocket, she gave thanks that she’d taken the time to claim it earlier.

One halting step at a time, she
crept toward the tree line, crouched low. Nearly on top of the overgrowth,
Olivia could see that it concealed a low, steep sided embankment, only a foot
or two high. She peered over the edge and into the shadows between the trees
and nearly laughed. It might be only a few feet, but it was enough that somehow
Ty had rolled himself over it and into the weeds below.
Served him right
.

Moving down to him, she grabbed his
ankles and began to pull, working him parallel to the slope. Arms already trembling,
she had to admit that there was little hope of managing him to the horse and
onto its back. Wading back up the lip, she surveyed the camp's pilfered
supplies, trying to think of something, anything, with a mind that was becoming
foggier by the moment. She spotted a canvas tarp draped over some crates,
nearly out of sight behind two low tents. She grabbed the edge, expecting it to
slip free without resistance. Instead the rough canvas tore at raw fingertips
and snapped from her grip, weighed down by something out of her view.

Swearing more from frustration than
pain, she leaned over the pile to get a look at what was in her way.
The
third soldier
. From her perspective he was little more than the top of a
head and outstretched legs, slumped forward with his back still resting against
the crates. A prone hand, palm up, rested next to Ty's unstopped flask. She
didn't need to check to know that the man was dead. Ty's flask was always full,
and never with plain liquor. Judging by what she’d seen Ty drink earlier, if
the soldier had finished the flask, he’d imbibed a lethal dose of Ty’s
concoction.

Closing her eyes a moment, she sent
thanks to God for the favor, a boon after days of frustration and failure.
After the struggle with Thalia, her trembling limbs could never have fought the
man hand-to-hand. Grasping a fistful of greasy brown hair, she toppled the
corpse. He fell sideways, landing with a stiff thud that hinted he’d been there
awhile.

Olivia spread the tarp over the
edge, and began to wrangle Ty's limp body up onto the canvas. While she worked,
she gave thanks that no one was present to witness the ridiculous spectacle.
They were nearly equal in height, but not in weight, despite Ty's lean frame.
Reaching down to grab the edge of the tarp, she lifted, straining to get him
even halfway onto flat ground. Finally, with more frustration than strength,
she heaved him, uttering a strangled cry. Dropping to her knees, she sat
gasping, eyeing the distance to the horse with some defeat. The hardest part
was yet to come.

She brought the animal alongside
the tarp, glancing between the pair, at a loss. Kneeling behind Ty, she worked
her hands behind his shoulders, prayed for help, and sat him up.

Ty snorted, listed to the side, and
made a weak attempt at sitting upright. It failed, and he slouched forward, a
groaning, grunting rag doll.

He wasn't coming around quickly,
but at least he wasn’t comatose. Redoubling her efforts, resolving not to lose
this opportunity, she went at him with renewed effort. Moving in front of him,
she grasped Ty's hands, digging in heels for leverage. “Come on. Up with you.”

“Mmm.” It took a lot of shimmying
from side to side, getting to his knees and falling back, but at last Ty gained
his feet.

She draped him against the horse,
bracing with one hand until his foot was marginally wedged inside the stirrup.
Then, with a lot of grasping at buttocks and thighs and heaving with a burning
shoulder, she worked him over the horse's back. Something managed between his
lips, thick slow words that might have been cursing her. Then he went limp
again and was silent.

Scouring the camp, she filled two
deep saddle bags with lead ball, shirts and trousers, a tin of oatmeal, an
oiled cloth of salted pork and some hardtack. She grabbed a few canteens of water
and a wool blanket that she strapped to the back of the saddle.

Scraping up the last of her almost
depleted energy, Olivia pushed off of the stirrup and swung herself onto the
horse's back. She didn't care that her skirt rode at her thighs, as she was seated
astride the beast. If anyone crossing her path had a word to say about it, she
welcomed them to see what would happen. For a minute she leaned forward in the
saddle, resting her head on the horse's neck, inhaling his pungent grassy smell
and gathering her wits. She could fall asleep right then and there, but not
yet. Soon. They had to get away.

Finally, with a quick tap of her
heels, she spurred him forward into the trees.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

He wasn't dead, but Ty wasn’t sure
being alive was preferable. His head was swollen, throbbing, and full of too
much blood. Something pressed his stomach, making it difficult to get enough
air into aching lungs. His hands and feet were cold, pricked with the needles
of poor blood flow. Bouncing and jostling churned his stomach. He tried to sit
up, but his body felt bent, wrong. A hand brushed the hair at the back of his
head.

“Hold still. I'll help you.”
Olivia
. At the sound of her voice, he relaxed. Slender arms circled his
waist.

“Can you catch yourself?” Her voice
was dull and threadbare.

“Mmhmm.” He tensed, readying his
legs as she pulled back. His feet hit the ground and he crumpled without the
slightest break to his fall.

“I'm sorry. I thought that was a '
yes
'.”
There was laughter in Olivia's voice, and it warmed him. He couldn't imagine
her making jokes if they were still in trouble.

Opening dry, crusted eyes, he
looked to her kneeling above him. For a moment he didn’t recognize her, and he
wondered if he was truly awake. Her face was a mask of blood, dirt and leaf
litter. Her tangled hair was matted, stained brown with much of the same
composition as her face. Most of her bottom lip was black and crusted where it
had been split open. Groaning, he raised a weak arm and touched her cheek. “Are
you all right?”

Her eyes were narrow slits of
worry. “Improving. You?”

“Sound enough, no thanks to my own
stupidity.” He sat up, immediately wishing he hadn't. A hammering at the back
of his eyes forced them shut.

“Water?”

“Please.” He wasn't certain it was
the wisest idea, but it was a place to start. Something brushed his fingers,
wood. He clutched the canteen, working up his courage.

She was off a few paces, rustling
around in a bag attached to the horse he’d fallen off of. “There's some
hardtack here. Will that help?”

“Why not?” Cracking his eyes, he
managed a sip of water. His stomach growled, protested, but tolerated the
liquid. He tried another mouthful with better results.

Olivia settled beside him on the
damp forest floor, pressing the crumbling chunk of hard bread into his palm.

Daring to open his eyes a little
farther, he tried to get his bearings, wincing at the dim light from a silvery
sky above. “Where are we? Shouldn't we be a bit more...
urgent,
just
now?”

She shifted, starting more than
once to speak but not seeming to find the right words. Drawing up her knees,
she rested arms atop them, staring straight ahead and answering simply. “No.”

The hardtack snapped between his
teeth, jarring all the way to his temples and lancing pain through his skull. He
worked it slowly a moment, chewing gingerly. “Guards?”

“Dead.” The word was flat, all the
emotion pressed out.

“d'Oettlinger?”

“Dead.”

The word
how
was on his lips
when he caught a glimpse of her hands, caked brown, ringed with layers of blood
between the fingers. A guilty flush washed through him, bringing almost
unbearable shame. He was her partner, and they were supposed to watch out for
each other. That she’d had to go through the last few hours alone was
unthinkable.

He’d failed her, while she had saved
him.

He thought better of the question
and finished his food. “Where to?”

“I spotted a small house from the
hillock we just passed. A gamekeeper's cabin, were I to guess. We can shelter
there for the night without drawing untoward attention.”

“Sounds wise.” Thunder split the
sky somewhere on the horizon. Much as he hated to, Ty decided it was time to
move. It was a painful effort, getting up without looking to Olivia for help.
Glancing over the horse, he was impressed at the equipment it carried. “Is this
your doing?”

“It is.” She didn’t look up, didn’t
warm to the question.

“Bravo. We may not die, after all.”
He managed back into the saddle and held out a hand, not certain he could be of
much use. Thankfully, she mounted with ease, falling soundly in front of him
against the saddle. They were both filthy and wet. They smelled. They were
bloody, wounded, and ill, and yet the heat between them nullified all of it.
Grateful to be alive, grateful for Olivia, he inhaled and focused on their
course.

They rode in silence except for
Olivia's occasional directions. She was leaned back into his chest, but
something about her posture and the silence hinted that she was agitated. “What
is it?” he prodded, annoyed when she sat silent.

She tensed. “Is there something you
wish to tell me?”

The same flush of shame from
earlier settled in his chest. “Meaning what?” He knew exactly what and was in
no hurry to address it.

“Meaning, what is the matter with
you? What was that ridiculous scene in the camp?”

“Scene? That was a decoy, Olivia.
You have observed them before.”

“You got yourself drugged,” she
accused.

“So I did. My plan flipped ‘round a
bit, as have several of
ours
recently.” He painted emphasis onto ‘ours’.

“
I
believed you dead!” She
was trying to turn, to glare, but couldn't get her head far enough around. It
would have been funny, in different circumstances.

“For that, I apologize, but it was
not exactly as though we had a private moment to concoct a plan.”

“Such as the entire time we were in
the wagon?” Her voice rose well above the sound of their horse and the rustling
brush. “Spit on your plan!”

Irritation erupted without warning,
probably owing more to his pounding head than any annoyance with Olivia.
“Forgive me! I thought you would run when I shouted the secret word:
run
.”

She snorted, wriggling forward and
putting space between them. “What made you believe for even a moment that I
would run off and leave you behind?”

“Foolishly, I believed you would
follow orders.” It was the absolute wrong thing to say; he appreciated that
after
the words were out.

“Follow –” He heard her mouth snap
shut on the rest of her tirade. Olivia straightened in the saddle, a telltale
heave to her shoulders.

He had never seen her truly
cry
.
The realization made him nervous. He tried to lean around and get a look at her
face. “Olivia?”

“Sod off.”

That ended the conversation
entirely, his head throbbing more than ever in the silence that followed. He
would
apologize. He owed it to her, but she wouldn’t accept it right now.

After an excruciating quarter of an
hour, they wound down the last low rise and into the overgrown clearing where a
cabin stood watch. The structure was deceptively placed, swallowed up by the
towering trees on all sides, and he was impressed that Olivia had spotted it at
all. As they came closer, he was pleased to discover that it was no tiny shack.
The flat face of its wide timbers was weathered to a dark gray, but the
chinking stood thick between the boards, staving off the elements. The high
roof flowed down into a slanted, bark-shingled awning, sheltering the door and
a narrow, dusty window. He was unreasonably happy to see a tapering, river
stone chimney that looked sound enough to promise a toasty fire.

As if reading his mind, Olivia
finally spoke. “Why don't you make up the fire? I'll get our things inside and
see about water.”

She didn't wait for an answer,
vaulting down and striking out for the cabin.

Ty massaged his temples, suddenly
very tired. It was too late in the afternoon for the remaining day to feel so
painfully long.

*          *          *

Olivia stood over the creek,
watching it ripple past, irrationally annoyed that the easiest spot to reach
was also the shallowest. She was hardly able to wet her bucket before the silt
spilled in. After the last few days, it felt like the universe was giving her
one last kick in the shins.

She wasn't mad at the water. She
wasn't even mad at Ty.

Yes, she
was
mad at Ty,
though not in the way he probably guessed. She was frustrated at what felt like
a growing rift between them. Not that she was blameless. Bizarre jealous
impulses regarding Thalia, a bitterness at Ty's pretend seduction of the woman,
had planted the wedge. Not telling Grayfield where they’d be, the sleeping
powder in the flask, the lack of communication with her had driven it deeper.

She was too tired to think about it
right now. She cast everything else out of her mind, winnowing her concerns
down to two things: a bath and clean clothes.

Even food could wait. The sight of
her hands was making her increasingly nauseous. Ty had wondered during their
argument if she had been crying. In truth, it was laughter, an unhinged fit of
giggles warning that she had born all she could today. Her hands resting in
front of her and caked in blood the entire journey had only intensified the
feeling. Crouching beside the stream, Olivia dipped her hands into its icy path
and sucked in a breath. The water stung her skin but relieved the sensitive
throbbing in her raw fingertips. With a few swishes and a quick scrub, most of
the blood was gone.

If only the memories were so easy
to wash away.

She dipped one bucket, then the
other, and this time they filled with ease. They were heavy; that had not
occurred on the trip down when both vessels were empty. Hefting them up, Olivia
told herself that it was just a short walk and begged weak limbs to cover the
distance one last time. Reaching the clearing, her spirits were bolstered to
see an enthusiastic wisp of smoke curling up from the chimney.

Stepping inside, Olivia got her
first good look at the interior with a fire now offering some illumination. It
was an impressive amount of light given how tiny the firebox was, no more than
a small collection of bricks set back in the timbers on a wall opposite the
door. One sturdy plank, probably left over from the walls, formed a crude
mantle. Knotted logs overhead were set with boards to form a loft for sleeping.
At the top of the ladder she could make out a kettle, a handmade stool, twin to
another that sat beside the fireplace, and some other silhouettes she couldn't
make out. They must have all been put up for storage to await a master who
probably wasn’t coming back, judging by the layer of dust.

Under a king, the cabin would have
been occupied at least half the year by a gamekeeper, charged with making
preparations for the royal hunts and chasing off poachers. As such, it was as
well appointed as any regular home, with a set of plates and bits of crockery,
cast iron pots, and even boasting a few nicer pieces of furniture. The
rectangular oak dining table had been cut and carved by skilled, if amateur,
hands. A squat, double-doored cabinet standing beside the fire, perhaps a
pantry, was crafted from more expensive materials. It was the sort of thing she
would expect to find in a prosperous home.

Seeing that Ty had already added
her first two buckets to a kettle over the fire, Olivia dumped hers directly
into a high washtub that sat between the fireplace and the table. Relieved to
be unburdened at last, she sank into one of two rough dining chairs, basking in
the joy of doing absolutely nothing for a moment.

Ty came in a moment later, looking
surprised to find her back already. “I moved our trusty mount into the trees
out back. Just in case.” He took something down from the mantle and shook it.
“I found this while you were gone.” He held out a small oval tin and lifted its
lid, revealing half a cake of plain soap.

She nodded, ridiculously grateful
but too tired to speak. Ty had found the clothes she’d packed and laid them
out. Everything was ready except the water, and that was beginning to steam.
Wrapping a wool stocking around the kettle's bail, Ty managed it around to the
tub and dumped it in. “How should we...” He gestured at the tub, “Would you
like to –”

“I don't care.” She didn't, not
even if Ty stripped every last article from his body before her eyes. She was
going to wash, and she was not going to wait. She wouldn't ask him to wait,
either. He could figure out whether modesty was more important than cleanliness
at the moment. In her case, nothing on God’s green earth would stop her from
cleaning the blood and death of the last few days from her aching body.

Dipping her bucket, Olivia filled
it with the warm water and set it atop the table. “Just turn around. I won't
look if you don't.”

Ty was already wrestling free of
his shirt. “You take the fun out of any activity.”

He was trying to soften the mood,
make amends, and she was content to let him. She may not have had it in her to
return his efforts, but she appreciated them all the same.

*          *          *

Grabbing the gray wool blanket
Olivia had brought, Ty tossed it over one of the rafters. In the end, he'd lost
his nerve, unable to go through with undressing in Olivia's line of sight and
unable to give his hesitation a name. He had most certainly been naked with a
woman before, women he couldn't claim to know half as well. Watching her raise
the hem of her shift, he'd been struck by a rather foreign need for privacy. He
wanted to look, to brush her skin, touch and be touched and give thanks at
still being this side of the dirt. He admitted a desire to slip her clothes
from her body, wanted to do everything that followed. Just not here, and not
like this. He didn’t want it to be tainted by everything that had brought them
into the forest.

Still, it was almost too much. He
could hear her through the makeshift curtain, splashing, trickling, the sound
of her hands washing her skin; they all kindled his imagination, fighting years
of accumulated discipline. He winced when his rag grated over a cut, realizing
he was engaged in some rather angry scrubbing and not paying particular
attention to where.