La Flamme (Historical Romance) Read online

  "It'll go hard with us if we don't find the duchess and her brother. We aren't to return until they're dead."

  Sabine now fully realized the danger. Those men must not discover the hidden panel.

  "You are certain that Lord Woodbridge is dead?" a commanding voice asked.

  The voice that replied was farther away, and the only thing Sabine could distinguish was when he said yes.

  She turned her face to the wall, feeling a pain so sharp it was like a knife cutting into her heart.

  "Find his grace's wife and we'll find the boy," the man who was apparently the leader ordered impatiently.

  Aching with grief and overcome with anger, Sabine cried silent tears. She cried for her father, she cried for her brother, and she cried because the man she had begun to love wanted her and her whole family dead.

  But why?

  Time had no meaning there in the darkness. They dared not move or make the slightest noise lest they give away their hiding place.

  All was quiet but for the breathing of the three in the darkened room. Sabine's arms were aching from supporting Richard's weight, and she moved to brace her back against the wall.

  "Thea," she whispered, "dare we leave now?"

  "I'm afraid we must. If they question the servants, some may know about the existence of this secret room."

  "No one outside my family knows how to open the panel, Thea. Even you didn't know the secret. Let us go forward. It will be difficult without light to guide us. We should move along the wall, for it narrows into an earthen tunnel and slopes downward toward the stream."

  "Do you want me to carry his lordship?" Thea asked. "You might trip with your leg."

  "No, I will carry him, but you be careful, Thea. My father once told me that this was built during the bloody reign of Queen Mary so my ancestors could smuggle priests in and out of the castle. But they had torches to light their way, and we have none." She paused to catch her breath. "How can we know who is friend or foe?"

  "First we escape," Thea said practically, "and then we think about that."

  Their progress was slow in the inky darkness. Several times Sabine felt something scurry across her feet, but she did not fear the rats that infested the tunnel—there was a far greater danger than the rodents.

  When they reached the end, Sabine handed Richard to Thea. Feeling frantically in the dark, she discovered that the passage had been blocked! She tried not to panic at the thought that they might be trapped.

  "This entrance has not been used in years," she said, trying to sound reassuring. "I believe I can clear away the rubble without much difficulty." Feeling around in the dark, Sabine began moving heavy stones and boulders. Her hands were scratched and bleeding, but she continued her task until, at last, the passage was clear.

  Pulling the lever that was imbedded in stone, she was relieved when the panel slid easily open. Taking Richard from Thea, she stepped out into the night.

  It was raining, so Sabine enfolded Richard in her cape to keep him dry. She could only wonder how he had slept through all the turmoil.

  Thea, who had been so forceful in the beginning, now turned to Sabine for guidance. "What do we do now?" she asked.

  "Let me think," Sabine said. "We can't go into the village, for that is the first place they will search."

  Suddenly the decision was taken out of their hands. Sabine heard the sound of galloping horses and realized that several men were riding toward them, their sabers gleaming from the lightning that flashed across the sky. With Richard's safety foremost in her mind, Sabine moved back against the wall with the intention of returning to the cave.

  "You cannot go back," Thea said in a resigned voice. "There is only forward, for there are men coming at us from both sides. We are trapped between them."

  "Then let us escape by the stream, Thea. I'm a good swimmer."

  Thea hesitated only a moment. "Give me your cloak," she urged. "I know what's to be done."

  "Tell me then."

  Thea's voice was insistent. "Give me the cape at once!"

  Without hesitation, Sabine complied, unwrapping her brother from the warmth of the red cape and handing it to the nurse.

  "You take his lordship and hurry to the stream. It's raining and they won't be able to track you—mayhap they haven't even seen you yet. Hasten, they are nearly upon us. Run, and don't look back!"

  "I will not leave you to face them alone," Sabine said stubbornly.

  Thea was determined to do what she must to give the children she loved time to escape. "You will do as I say—go!"

  Not knowing what else to do, Sabine tightened her grip on Richard and hurried toward the stream. It was raining harder, and she almost lost her footing several times. At last she stood on the embankment, realizing that the stream was now a raging river—swift and swollen from the storm.

  Sabine was a strong swimmer, but could she save Richard? The water was dark and so swift, she was afraid.

  The sound of thundering hooves was drawing nearer, and she stood, undecided, then turned to look back at Thea.

  Thea wasn't anywhere in sight, but Sabine could hear raised voices. "There she is, after her—stop her, don't let her get away!"

  A bolt of lightning danced jaggedly across the sky, momentarily illuminating the landscape. Sabine cried out when she realized what had happened. Thea was wearing the cloak and running in the opposite direction, to draw the men away from her and Richard!

  Sabine moved back up the slope, only to hear a strangled cry of pain and then an angry voice. "You fool, you killed her—ran her down with your horse." Then a pause. "It isn't the duke's wife. Look, by the stream—there she is!"

  In her haste to escape, Sabine lost her footing and slipped. She and Richard went tumbling down the muddy embankment until she slammed forcefully against a large boulder. Terrified, Richard began to cry, and when she reached for him, pain shot through her leg so agonizingly that she knew it was broken. With difficulty, she gathered Richard to her and dragged herself to the stream, plunging into the icy water.

  Richard clawed and clung to her neck, pulling them both under—down, down they went, swallowed by the dark, murky depths. Sabine felt as if her lungs would burst, but she did not loosen her grip on Richard as she struggled to take them both to the surface.

  She finally managed to bring their heads above water. Richard was still fighting her, and she spoke to him sternly. "Don't struggle. Just trust me and 1 will see us safely through this."

  That seemed to calm him, and he relaxed against her.

  Sabine concentrated on keeping them afloat, but the icy water numbed her, and she was helpless to prevent the swift current from carrying them downstream.

  Suddenly Richard was ripped from her arms and she frantically grabbed for him in the darkness, only to have him slip out of reach. At last she gripped his arm and pulled his limp body to her.

  "God help me," she cried. "Help me save my brother!"

  As if in an answer to her prayer, a floating object brushed up against her—-it was a log! With renewed hope, she pushed Richard between her and the log so she could retain a grip on him and keep them both afloat.

  She didn't know from whence came her strength, but she was able to cling to the log even though her injured leg felt like it was on fire. But at least the flood waters were sweeping them away from Garreth's soldiers.

  .:■.-] 68 CONSTANCE OBANYON

  Sabine heard one of them call loudly. "They've drowned. No one could survive in that. Let's go—we've done what we came to do."

  Sabine clung to her lifeline, knowing that now was not the time to mourn her father and Thea. She had to save her brother.

  Richard was strangely silent, and she spoke soothingly to him, trying to reassure him. Blackness was all about them, and the bitter taste of death lingered in Sabine's mouth.

  After a while, the rain stopped and the clouds parted to allow a weak moon to shine down on them. Sabine prayed for strength, and it seemed God had granted her pr
ayer, for she was able to keep Richard's head above water.

  In her heart anger and hatred raged. She would live— she would come out of this, and so would Richard. They had a debt to pay—a debt of honor—a debt of revenge that would one day destroy Garreth Blackthorn!

  8

  Two brightly painted wagons blocked the roadway. The first one was helplessly stuck to its axle in mud, trapping the other behind it.

  Monsieur Jacques de Baillard swore in his native French and kicked at the offending wheel. He was a tall man with an angular nose and dark hair and eyes. Not handsome, but a man with refinement and polish, that drew one's attention.

  "How can we leave this cursed land if the rain continues to impede our progress?"

  His wife, Marie, sat in the driver's seat, her wet, straw-colored hair plastered to her head. She called for the saints to give her patience and cast her husband a disparaging look. "If you had waited until the roads dried, as I told you, Jacques, you would not be stuck."

  He looked at his wife in exasperation. "Madame, if you cannot help, don't hinder."

  "I married a fool, and that is the burden I must bear all the days of my life. Why did I listen to you, Jacques?" she asked, not expecting an answer. "Come to London, you said, where we will make our fortune on the stage. The nearest we got to a stage was when we performed in that little park across the street from the theater."

  Jacques had heard this all before. "Marie," he said patiently, "this is not the time to criticize. Do you not see that we are stuck?"

  She snorted, then picked up a wide-brimmed hat and clamped it on her head, hoping it would offer her some protection against the rain. Then she continued to rebuke him.

  "All we got for our trouble here were riots and condemnation. I can't believe you did not bother to find out before we arrived that the English do not allow women to act. You made fools of us all because you did not know that their female roles are played by men dressed as women. It was humiliating to have rotten fruit thrown in my face. And poor Odette Broglie was driven off by a deranged mob, in fear of her life."

  "Do you not think I know this, Marie?" Jacques glared at her, his mind more on the wagon than her vocal complaints. "Was I not there?"

  "What wonderful idea do you have now, Jacques? The Broglie brothers and sisters have deserted us. All that is left of the de Baillard Players is you, me, and Ysabel—we are hopelessly stuck, and have no funds to buy passage back to France."

  Jacques was not listening to his wife. "I must hitch all four horses to the wagon to pull it free," he muttered.

  "Humph," Marie said, glancing back at the second wagon. "Why don't you ask that crazed old Ysabel Agostino to conjure up something to help. Pity she didn't leave with the others."

  Jacques was not deceived by his wife's shrewishness, because in spite of her complaints, she had a kind heart. Marie was a handsome woman of thirty with regular features and a stout body—just the way he liked her. He knew he would have given up long ago if she had not prodded him—she believed he was a master artiste, and her faith in him made him believe it also.

  "Leave me in peace. I'm trying to think, Marie."

  She turned her head toward her husband, her chin trembling with emotion. "I will say no more."

  Two hours later they managed to free the wagon and made camp in the woods near a stream, where Jacques decided that they would remain until the road dried.

  By mid-morning, the rain stopped and the sky cleared, giving them hope. But later, Marie's spirits plummeted when it started to rain harder than before. The campfires sizzled and went out, forcing them to seek the shelter of their wagon.

  Marie, dressed in a dry gown, was feeling miserable and a long way from home. Tying a scarf around her head, she glared at her husband. "We have nothing to eat but dried meat and stale cheese. I suppose you gave most of our supplies to the Broglies when they deserted us."

  "You would not have wanted them go hungry, wife, admit it."

  "Just how do you expect we shall live after our food is gone?"

  Jacques, as usual, suffered his wife's criticism with good grace, for she was the sensible one of the family. "I will ask Ysabel to go into the village tomorrow and tell fortunes. She will earn enough to buy fresh bread and cheese."

  "That old woman thinks she's a better actress than all of us, dressing up like a Gypsy and making folks believe she can see into the future. Must we turn to her once more to put food in our bellies? She makes me shiver when she stares at me with those strange blue eyes."

  Jacques sighed. "She earns her way, and we can be grateful that she stayed when the others left. You must admit that she creates magnificent costumes."

  "She stays with us only because she has nowhere to go and we allow her to use one of our wagons as her home," Marie snapped.

  Jacques knew that Marie was superstitious, no matter how she tried to hide it, and she somehow feared Ysabel Agostino, who claimed to be the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. Marie believed that gave Ysabel "the sight."

  "If you want her to leave, you tell her." Jacques smiled to himself. "I do not want her to cast her evil eye on me."

  Marie shuddered. "I will not be the one to tell her she must leave."

  "Are you afraid?" he asked slyly.

  Marie looked furtively over her shoulder, fearing that Ysabel might have overheard their conversation. "She remains with us only until we return to France. I care not how masterful a seamstress she is, I want her gone." Marie looked out the door of their wagon. "Look, that crazed old woman doesn't even come in from the rain."

  Ysabel tucked the hem of her heavy black skirt into her waistband and bent to dip her water jug in the stream. She did not like England with its rain and dampness. It was nothing like the land of her birth—warm, golden Italy. As the years passed, she dreamed less and less of her homeland. She could never return there, although the incident that had caused her to flee had long since ceased to be important. For many years she had wandered aimlessly, finding work wherever she could, but never finding a home until she met Jacques and Marie.

  She stood up slowly, watching the swift current. There had been a fierce storm last night that had ripped trees up by their roots. Debris was floating by, and Ysabel stared intently at a log—someone appeared to be clinging to it. Now that it was closer, she could see two people, and one was a small child!

  Ysabel reacted quickly, calling loudly to Jacques, all the while running along the bank and keeping the log in sight. "Come at once! Quickly, Jacques. Someone needs our help. Hasten!"

  Jacques, hearing the urgency in Ysabel's voice, hurried from his wagon with Marie a step behind him.

  "There," Ysabel pointed, "see them?"

  Without stopping to consider the danger, Jacques plunged into the turbulent water, and with strong forward strokes swam toward the log.

  Marie ran along the banks, wringing her hands. "Imbecile! You will be drowned, then what will happen to me—alone and friendless in England with no way to get home? Come out of there at once—do you hear me— come out!"

  Ysabel saw that Jacques was having difficulty with the girl, so she plunged into the water and swam to help him, praying that her heavy clothing would not drag her under.

  Sabine was almost unconscious and had long ago lost the feeling in her arms and legs, but she somehow managed to keep her brother on top of the log and out of the icy water.

  Richard, confused about what was happening to him, had been terrified and had sobbed for hours. Just before daylight, he had quieted, and now Sabine feared he might be unconscious.

  Sabine did not know how much longer she could cling to her brother—she was so exhausted. She'd thought that all her strength had been expended, but that was before a man appeared and attempted to take Richard from her. When he tried to pry her hand free of the log, her grip only tightened and she struck at him. Sabine saw him only as the enemy—one of Garreth's men, and she would not relinquish Richard to him.

  Ysabel swam alongside J
acques and grabbed at the girl's hands. "We want only to help," the old woman said in French.

  Suddenly Sabine became calm when the man also spoke to her in French. She reasoned that Garreth's men would speak only English.

  "You must not fight me," Jacques told her, "or we shall all drown."

  Sabine, too weak to struggle, was forced to relinquish Richard to the woman just before she lost consciousness, falling into a deep, silent void. Her last thought was that she must be drowning after all.

  Jacques swam to shore and lifted the limp girl in his arms. She was so cold that he wasn't sure she still lived.

  Ysabel reached shore with the young boy in her arms. She saw the rise and fall of his chest—he was alive. "First we need to get them warm," she said in a commanding voice. "Let us take them into my wagon and 1 will do what I can." She turned to Marie. "Warm some stones and wrap them in heavy cloth." To Jacques, she spoke quickly as he laid the girl on her cot. "I need something warm for them to drink. Perhaps you could make a thin broth by boiling dried meat."

  Without question, Marie and Jacques hurried to do as Ysabel instructed.

  Later, when the boy and girl had been stripped of their wet clothing, wrapped in warm blankets with warm stones at their feet, and had hot broth spooned into their mouths, Ysabel stood back wearily.

  "I have done all I can until we know if they have other injuries. Now, they need sleep."

  "This just will not do," Marie complained, staring at the pale girl. "Two more to feed."

  Ysabel turned on Marie. "I do not believe they are in any condition to eat overmuch."

  Marie backed toward the door, nodding in agreement, and feeling ashamed of her outburst.

  The sun had set on the following day before Sabine awoke. She felt a sense of wellbeing and was wrapped in glorious warmth. All she wanted to do was sleep. When she tried to move, however, pain shot through her leg like a hot poker and she moaned.

  "Sleep, ma petite," a soothing voice urged her in French, reminding her of her mother. "Sleep is what you need."

  Sabine was too weak to protest. Every muscle in her body ached. She sighed and lost herself in the wonderful oblivion of warmth.