Return Of The Runaway. Sarah Mallory
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was fortunate, she thought. Merimon was the bigger of the two and he had a knife. With the postilion she had a chance. Cassie tensed as he approached, his arms outstretched. His ugly, triumphant grin told her he thought she was petrified, but just as he launched himself forward she acted. In one smooth, fluid movement she stepped aside, turning, bending and scooping up a branch about the length and thickness of her own arm. Without a pause she gripped the branch with both hands and carried it with all her force against the back of the postilion’s knees. He dropped to the ground with a howl.
‘Nicely done, mademoiselle.’ The stranger trotted up, mounted on the bay. He held out his hand to her. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Do you want to come with me, or would you prefer to take your chances here with these scélérats?’
Villains indeed, thought Cassie, quickly glancing about her. Merimon was on his knees, groggily shaking his head, and the postilion was already staggering to his feet. Swiftly she ran across to the stranger. She grasped his outstretched hand, placed one foot on his boot and allowed him to pull her up before him. He lifted her easily and settled her across his thighs before urging the horse to a canter.
Cassie had no fear of falling, the stranger’s strong arms held her firmly before him. The choice, since she was sitting sideways, was to turn into the man or away and Cassie opted for the latter, twisting her body to look ahead. The black shawl had snagged on one arm of her riding habit and now it fluttered like a pennant over her shoulder. It must have flown into the rider’s face because without a word he pulled it free, tossing it aside as they pounded away into the darkness of the trees. Cassie turned her head to watch it drift slowly to the ground behind them. Her only symbol of grieving for her husband, for her marriage. It was gone. She faced forward again, looking ahead into the darkness. Into the unknown future.
They rode through the woods with only the thudding beat of the cantering horse to break the silence. Cassie made no attempt to speak. It was difficult to see through the gloom and she wanted her companion to concentrate his efforts on guiding them safely between the trees. Only when he slowed the horse to a walk did she break the silence.
‘Do you know where we are going?’
She immediately berated herself for asking the question in English, but he answered her with only the faintest trace of an accent.
‘At present I have no idea,’ came the cheerful reply. ‘Once we are clear of the trees and I can see the sky I shall be able to tell you.’ He added, when she shifted before him, ‘Would you like to get down? We should rest this nag for a while.’
He brought the horse to a stand and eased Cassie to the ground. It was only then she realised her legs would not hold her and grabbed the saddle for support.
The man jumped down beside her.
‘Come, let us walk a little and your limbs will soon be restored.’
He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. His clothes were rough and smelled of dirt and sweat, but Cassie was in no position yet to walk unaided so she allowed him to support her. His strength was comforting, but he puzzled her. His manner and his voice belonged to an educated man, yet he had the ragged appearance of a fugitive.
She said cautiously, ‘I have not thanked you for coming to my rescue. What were you doing there?’
‘I needed a horse.’
His calm answer surprised her into a laugh.
‘That raises even more questions, monsieur.’
She thought he might fob her off, but he answered quite frankly.
‘I was being pursued and ran into the woods for cover. I saw the horse tethered to the carriage wheel with no one to guard him, since your companions were too busy threatening you. I was very grateful for that and thought it would be churlish to ride off and leave you to your fate.’
‘It would indeed.’
Cassie kept her voice calm, but she was beginning to wonder if she had jumped from the frying pan to the fire.
She made a slight move to free herself and immediately he released her. Reassured, she continued to keep pace with him, the horse clip-clopping behind them while the moon sailed overhead in the clear, ink-blue sky.
‘So you are a fugitive,’ she said, with some satisfaction. ‘I thought as much.’
‘And you are not afraid of me?’
Cassie’s head went up.
‘I am afraid of no one.’ She realised how foolish her swift retort would sound, considering her current situation, and she added slowly, ‘Not afraid. Cautious. As one should be of a stranger.’
‘True, but we can remedy that.’ He stopped and sketched a bow. ‘I am Raoul Doulevant, at your service.’
He expected a reply and after a moment she said, ‘I am Lady Cassandra Witney.’
‘And you are English, which is why we are conversing in this barbaric tongue.’
‘Then let us talk in French,’ she replied, nettled.
‘As you wish.’ He caught her left hand. Neither of them was wearing gloves and his thumb rubbed across the plain gold band on her third finger.
‘Ah. I addressed you as mademoiselle when we first met. My apologies, madame.’
She was shocked that his touch should feel so intimate and she drew her hand away. ‘We should get on.’
When she began to walk again he fell into step beside her.
‘Where is your husband?’
Cassie hesitated for a heartbeat’s pause before she replied.
‘At Verdun.’
‘He is a détenu?’
Again she hesitated, not wanting to admit she was a widow. That she was alone and unprotected.
‘Yes. That scoundrel you knocked down was the courier I hired to escort me back to England.’
‘A bad choice, clearly.’
She felt the hot tears prickling at the back of her eyes and blinked them away. This was no time for self-pity.
‘And what of you?’ she asked him, anxious to avoid more questions concerning her situation. ‘Who is pursuing you?’
‘Officers of the law. They think I am a deserter.’
‘They think it? And is it not so?’
‘No. I was discharged honourably from the navy six months ago.’
She said, a hint of censure in her voice, ‘In the present circumstances, with the country at war, I would have thought any true Frenchman would wish to remain in the service of his country, monsieur.’
‘Any true Frenchman might,’ he retorted. ‘But I am from Brussels. I grew up in the Southern Netherlands, under Austrian rule.’
‘And yet your French is excellent.’
‘My family came originally from a town near the French border and moved to Brussels when I was a babe, so I grew up learning the language. Then I moved to Paris and later joined the French Navy, so you see, for years I have spoken nothing else.’
* * *
The lady made no reply and Raoul asked himself bitterly why he put himself out to explain. What difference would it make to her? She was English and everyone knew they thought themselves superior to the rest of Europe. It was the very worst of bad fortune that he should have saddled himself with an English aristo!
‘The horse is rested now,’ he said shortly. ‘I think we can ride again.’
He