Page 48 of A Fierce Wind

Zoé turned to face her friends, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Freddie had wanted her to go on and she would. But she would not give up. Surely there was a way to free him. Leading Isabeau’s horse, she followed Gabe down the path, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Will Monsieur West be all right?” Isabeau inquired in a shaky voice.

“We must pray that he will live, Isabeau. Pray very hard.”

Zoé knew royalists, particularly English ones, did not live long in Rossignol’s headquarters or Robespierre’s Paris for that matter, but she had to hold on to the hope that Freddie might survive. He was clever and smart. Her brave Englishman would live.

She touched her fingers to her lips still tingling from his kiss. Freddie loved her. She had seen it in his eyes and felt it in his kiss. And though the knowledge had only just come to her, she loved him, too. Perhaps she always had.

She could not lose him now.

Some distance down the path, Erwan joined them. “The path ahead is clear of any soldiers,” he informed them. “Where is M’sieur West?”

“The Blues have taken him,” said Gabe.

A look of shock crossed Erwan’s face. “Taken?”

“He gave himself up to save us from discovery,” said Zoé. “Erwan, take some food and go to Rennes. See if you can find out what they intend to do with him. If Cadoudal is still in the area, he might be able to help you. We must go on, but will wait for you at Lorient. Bring us word he lives, I pray you.”

Erwan shared a look with Gabe before nodding. “I will do as you wish.”

Rennes, Brittany

Freddie wiped the blood from his chin. The cut lip and bruises were mere trifles given what he might yet suffer at Rossignol’s hands.

The Blues had summarily dumped him in a cell in the bowels of the Palais de Justice with only a rickety bench for a bed. A lantern, hanging from a rafter a short distance away, cast flickering shadows onto the stone floor around him.

Surprisingly, though musty, the cell did not reek of human waste nor was it as soot-ridden as he expected. Perhaps the swept clean appearance was due to the short time General Rossignol’s prisoners were typically held. The guard had taken special pleasure in telling Freddie his stay would be brief, that he would either meet the guillotine awaiting him just outside or join his fellow spies in a worse place.

Freddie would have to tell Zoé he’d encountered no rats. That is, if he ever saw her again. He did not regret sending her away and using Isabeau’s presence to ensure she went. As long as Zoé was safe, he could face death without regret. The kiss had been an afterthought, one he could not deny himself—or her.

He wanted her to know what was in his heart.

“Bring up the Englishman!” yelled a guard. “The general wants to see him.”

His hands locked behind him in irons, Freddie was hauled from his cell, forced up two flights of stairs and shoved into an opulent room with a red flowered carpet and a carved mahogany desk. The walls were graced with paintings and a gilded mirror over the fireplace. Apparently the revolutionaries kept some luxuries from the prior régime for themselves.

Rossignol stood with his back to Freddie looking out a window to the square below, but Freddie was certain the general knew his prisoner had arrived. What better way to snub the brother of an English earl than to ignore him?

Keeping up his guise as a witless Englishman who had lost his way in the woods, Freddie said, “Good day to you, General Rossignol. I was hoping to make your acquaintance. Wandering in the forest for days can be dreadfully dull. Might you be able to assist me in finding my way home?”

Rossignol whipped around, his dark eyes narrowed on Freddie, his lips curled into a sneer. Trained to notice the smallest detail, Freddie’s gaze took in the lapels of the general’s dark blue uniform, embellished with gold embroidery, and the artful arrangement of his brown hair with curls around his face.

So, the general favored by Robespierre is as vain as he is debauched.

“Are all Englishmen so stupid as to wander into revolutionary France, Mr. West? Or, are you the spy my men believe you to be?” Not giving Freddie an opportunity to reply, he said, “Oui, I think you are un espion anglais, an English spy.”

“Oh, non, bon général,” Freddie protested, “unless you consider Arthur Young’s venture into France to observe agriculture a few years ago to be spying. He did keep a journal in which he wrote of his travels, which you might like to read. I found his musings quite fascinating. My own interest is botany and the plants that grow without human assistance.” Freddie had become familiar with botany for his code work and could have expounded for hours on Brittany’s vegetation.

“Ça suffit!” Rossignol glared at him with suspicious eyes. “Lies and subterfuge!”

Freddie tried to summon an indignant look. “Non, non, je vous assure.” Retaining a placid expression and mimicking the bloody bands of sans culottes he had observed arguing in favor of the revolution, he placed his palm over his heart, “Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité is my motto. I expect one day soon, England will come to see the revolution for what it truly stands for.” To Freddie’s mind that would be a thirst for blood and a disdain for everything true Frenchmen valued.

“Your ruse is entertaining, I give you that, l’Anglais. But already I grow tired of you. Normally, that would mean the guillotine here in Rennes, but it so happens I owe Robespierre a favor of some import. An English spy served up on a silver platter might be just the offering I need to demonstrate my gratitude. Oui, I think you shall go to Paris to answer to him. Should Robespierre decide it best, you can meet Madame Guillotine there before the English-hating citoyens who enjoy a good show.”

On board la Reine Noire off the coast of Lorient, Brittany

“Well?” Zoé anxiously inquired. “What have you learned?”