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Will’s amused expression sobered. ‘Who?’
‘They didn’t say. Could be French agents, or maybe the same Bonapartists who embroiled St Arnaud, angry the plot didn’t succeed and eager to punish those who failed. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to abandon plans of bringing the lady back to England?’
As Will shook his head, George sighed. ‘Knowing your aim was to restore Max’s reputation, I didn’t think so. Now that I’ve warned you, if you’re not prepared to listen to reason, you’re on your own.’
‘What will you do now? Honour among old soldiers notwithstanding, I don’t imagine your superiors would be pleased to learn we had a pleasant chat and you let me go.’
‘No, I’ll tell them I tracked you to the inn, but you’d left before I arrived.’
‘You think they’ll believe that?’ Will laughed. ‘I repeat my advice about seeking another career.’
Armitage waved a careless hand. ‘If they do give me the sack, I’ll find something else to do. I can always retire in disgrace on Papa’s land and die of boredom. What of you? Not knowing who else may be trailing you or how close they are, you’ll leave at once, I expect?’
Will frowned—his expression mirroring Elodie’s concern as she followed the conversation, too alarmed by Armitage’s news to object to being treated as if she were a piece of the furniture.
As the months after the assassination attempt had passed without incident, her worry that someone besides St Arnaud wished her dead had slowly dissipated. In time, she’d even found the presence of the guards keeping watch over her lodgings comforting. Discovering that she was being followed by some anonymous someone had just shattered that peace of mind.
‘As soon as it’s light enough to see,’ Will was saying.
‘Let’s drink a bottle, then, to friendship and the regiment. Who knows when we’ll meet again?’
Will nodded. ‘I considered knocking you out before we left, to give you a more believable excuse for not apprehending me, but you could say instead that I drugged you. Much less painful.’
Armitage grinned. ‘Much more civilised.’
Will gestured to Elodie. ‘Fetch more wine from the saddlebags, Pierre. Then get some rest.’
Chapter Nine
They had left Armitage, who imbibed the majority of the wine, sleeping off his efforts at conviviality. During their hurried preparations to depart and the hard ride that followed, they had not had—or made—time to discuss the events of the previous night.
Not until after mid-afternoon the next day did Ransleigh signal them to a stop. As he led their mounts into the shade of some tall trees, within sight of the main road, but far enough away that they’d not eat the dust of passing carriages with their bread, Elodie wondered if he would speak of it now.
She shivered, still feeling the sting at her neck where the blade had nicked her.
What would George Armitage have done with her, if Will Ransleigh hadn’t come to her rescue? He’d wanted to save his army comrade from Foreign Office scrutiny, possible danger—and from her. She warranted no such protection.
No one, neither the English, nor the French, nor the Austrians, wished her to be found, he’d said.
Unease clenched in her belly. Who was tracking her? Not since the earliest days after the attack in Vienna had she felt so vulnerable.
After extracting bread, cheese and wine from the saddlebags, Will parcelled out portions and they settled to eat, making stools and a table out of a fallen log.
Setting down his wine, Will turned to her, his eyes sparkling as they always did when he was about to spin another tale. But whatever he saw on her face made the gleam fade.
‘You’re wondering who else is out there and if last night’s attack is only the first,’ he said abruptly.
She nodded, then felt a tingle of shock that he had read so much in her face. Had she been that unguarded?
Or had he just learned her expressions too well?
Pushing back that alarming thought, she replied simply, ‘Yes. And I should thank you for rescuing me. How did you know I was in danger, by the way?’
‘I heard the two of you on the stairs as I left the taproom. Since there was only one logical way for your attacker to smuggle you out and you were very cleverly delaying him, it was easy enough to slip out the front and await you in the stable yard.’
Despite his dismissive words, Elodie knew the successful intervention had required skill and timing. Putting a hand to the scratch at her throat, she said, ‘Anyway, thank you. I don’t know what he would have done, if you’d not intercepted us.’
Will shrugged. ‘Since it was George, probably just tied you up while he tried to talk me into turning you over to the local authorities and heading back to England.’
Elodie had a sudden, terrifying vision of being cast off penniless and friendless, under very real threat of imprisonment. Thank heaven Will Ransleigh was so dedicated to his cousin! ‘I’m grateful for your help. But what of those who might be more dangerous?’
‘From what George told us, everyone from the Austrians to the British Foreign Office knows we’re headed for Paris. After failing to stop us, George will have to report where he discovered us and the identities under which we were travelling.’
‘Time for a new disguise, then?’ She sighed. ‘They’ll still be looking for two lone travellers, whatever new appearance we assume. If we could somehow merge with a group, it would be easier to continue unremarked.’
‘I’m thinking it might be better to head south and take a less direct route. They’ll be watching for us on the major posting roads now.’
‘They’ll be watching for us to arrive in Paris, too, however long it takes,’ she pointed out.
‘True, but after another week, when they could reasonably expect us to turn up on our present course, they’ll be less vigilant. There must be hundreds of people entering Paris every day. The guards can’t scrutinise every one of them … especially if we enter in the early morning, with the rush of farmers bringing goods to market.’
She smiled, trying to envision Will Ransleigh in a farmer’s smock, driving a herd of pigs. He’d probably do it expertly and look dashing. ‘After we travel south, should we purchase some livestock?’
‘Yes, valet Pierre should probably become farmwife Paulette.’ From the saddlebag, he extracted a map and consulted it. ‘If we turn due south towards Bavaria, skirt around the edges of Switzerland and proceed from Strasbourg towards Nancy, we could head west straight to Paris.’
She shook her head. A map! She tapped the saddlebag. ‘Hair-blacking, spectacles, canes, wigs—I almost expect there’s a flock of chickens hidden in there, too. Is there anything you do not carry in that bag of deception?’
He grinned. ‘I like to be prepared.’ The smile fading, he continued, ‘We shouldn’t underestimate the pursuers. The other parties to the affair seem to want to forget it happened, so the most serious threat might be posed by St Arnaud’s confederates. He can’t have been working alone; if his partners discovered that, contrary to what St Arnaud assured them, you’d not been silenced, they might want to correct his lapse.’
‘Quite possibly,’ she agreed. The thought was dismaying, but it was useless to panic. It was hardly the first time her life had been in danger. If they were being trailed by forces who wanted to eliminate her, there was nothing she could do but take all reasonable precautions—and keep going.
‘Well, today seems the very breath of early summer, with wildflowers blooming under a gentle sun and the sky blue as the Mediterranean. This bread is fresh and crusty, the cheese piquant, the ham savoury, and the wine delicious. I don’t intend to allow whoever might be out there to steal my enjoyment of it. So, tell me another story.’
Instead of obliging, Ransleigh remained silent, studying her. ‘You are remarkable, you know,’ he said after a moment.
‘Remarkable?’ she echoed, raising an eyebrow.
‘You’ve been threatened by me, forced to leave your only friend, hauled out of Vienna, attacked at midnight at knifepoint and acknowledged that everyone from the British Foreign Office to Bonapartist agents may be looking to snuff you out. Yet all you ask of life, of me, is a story.’
She shook her head, a little mystified by his intensity. ‘All we can ever ask of life is the joy of this moment. There are no promises about the next.’
‘The joy of this moment,’ he repeated. ‘Ah, yes.’ Before she could imagine what he meant to do, he reached over, tipped back her hat and kissed her.
Elodie couldn’t have stopped him if Talleyrand himself were holding a pistol on them. For days, she’d been unable to tear her eyes from the play of those lips as he spun his tales … from imagining how they’d feel and taste pressed against hers.
Their touch was hard, demanding, flavored of the wine he’d drunk. The taste of him intoxicated her, as if she’d drained the whole of the wineskin. She heard small mewing noises of encouragement and was shocked to realise they came from her, while, driven by a hunger long denied, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and plastered herself against him.
