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Angelette stumbled into the darkness, finally giving in to the pain and slumping with a hiss behind a broken wagon someone must have abandoned at the gates. Heart pounding furiously, she gritted her teeth and pressed her body against the wheel of the wagon. She could not stay here. The guard was sure to notice her absence in a moment and raise the alarm. She just needed a moment’s respite to allow the cramps in her legs to ease. Slowly, she stretched out one leg, stifling a groan. She began to massage the tight calf muscle when she heard footsteps approaching.
Panic welled within her. She would not be captured again. She’d rather die here and now than be paraded through the streets of Paris or murdered by a mob of bloodthirsty peasants. She fumbled under her petticoats and closed her fingers on the knife she’d taken from the stables. Clasping it in her hand, she readied to strike.
The footsteps came closer, and she raised the knife just as the man came around the wheel she used for shelter. She lashed out and would have stabbed him in the thigh if he hadn’t caught her arm. A scream rose in her throat, even though she knew she needed to remain quiet, and his other hand closed on her mouth. He yanked her down again, sinking with her and pulling them both behind the cover of the wheel.
Angelette struggled to free herself, but he held her tightly, squeezing her wrist until she finally let go of the knife. Now she was defenseless. She would be raped...or worse.
“Why are you running away from me?” the man hissed in her ear.
She knew that voice.
Daventry.
She tried to say his name, but his hand was still covering her mouth.
“Quietly, yes?”
She nodded.
Slowly he removed his hand from her mouth, but he kept his hand around her waist.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Rescuing you.” His tone was pedantic, as though his purpose should have been patently obvious.
“I don’t need rescuing from you. I was rescuing myself. Not that I’d have to rescue myself if you hadn’t handed me over to the peasants in the first place. Get your hands off me.”
He released her, putting distance between them. She should have been glad, but she actually missed the feel of his body pressed to hers. He felt safe and strong. Without looking at him, she felt in the darkness for her knife and clasped it again.
“What choice did I have but to let them take you? They would have killed us both, and I knew if I followed and waited for the right time, I’d get you back.”
She turned to him, trying to see his face despite the darkness. “And how were you planning to stop the mobs in Paris from murdering me?”
“I was hoping you’d manage to stay out of Paris. You didn’t disappoint.”
She shouldn’t have felt pleasure from his words. She was angry at him. She wanted to berate him further for handing her over. Instead, warmth curled inside her. She should have known he would come for her. Why hadn’t she trusted him?
“Now is the time to start for Calais. Before the guards I hit over the head wake up.”
Ah, this was why she hadn’t trusted him. Because he was always trying to run away. “I told you, I cannot leave the country. I have friends and family here. I can’t leave them behind. Not until I warn them of the danger.”
“Then write them a letter from London.”
She scowled at him. “Why did you even bother to come after me? I have told you over and over again, I will not go to England with you.”
He rose, careful to stay low and out of sight. “Then I’ll go without you.”
“Adieu.” She turned away from him, looking for a good place to hide when the sun rose.
Daventry sank back beside her. “I’ll go after I make certain you’re safe—as safe as anyone can be—in Paris.”
Angelette couldn’t quite hide a smile of relief. She hadn’t really wanted him to leave her. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” The tone of his voice made her turn to look at him.
He lifted a hand and touched her cheek. It was still tender from where one of the peasants had struck her earlier. “Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Not very much.”
