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Tristan looked at the road, then her, then the farmer. That was a mistake. The farmer brought his whip down across Tristan’s back, and he flinched. But he didn’t wait any longer. Following Alexandra’s example, he crawled to the edge of the cart and prepared to jump. He shouldn’t have looked down. The ground was moving too quickly beneath his feet. He might have scooted back again if the whip hadn’t cracked just behind him. An apple from one of the baskets was hit and pulp flew across Tristan’s face.
He looked up again. Alexandra and Dewhurst were growing smaller as the cart moved away. It was now or never. He looked down at the fast-moving road. She had jumped and landed easily. Surely there was nothing to this. Closing his eyes, he pushed away from the cart and jumped.
For a long moment, he felt as though he was flying. Tristan almost smiled. This was not so bad after all.
Then he landed, hard and with bone-jarring finality, on the merciless ground. He would have grunted, but he had no air in his lungs. He raised his head just in time to see the darkened face of the farmer looking back at him and hurling insults.
The road was not packed as it often was on market day, but even Tristan knew he could not stay in the road long before another conveyance came along. He rolled to one side and tested his legs, rising gingerly to a sitting position. He must have injured something, but he wasn’t certain what it might be because every inch of him hurt.
He rose unsteadily to his feet and stumbled off the road. Dewhurst was jogging toward him while Alexandra was walking at a more leisurely pace, her skirts held off the ground in one hand.
“What the devil do you call that?” Dewhurst asked. He reached Tristan and slapped a hand on his shoulder. Tristan flinched.
“You could have broken your neck jumping like that.”
Tristan scowled. “I was a printer. No one told me how to jump off moving carts.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry. You’ll learn in no time. I’m the son of a duke.”
Tristan stared after him as he headed across the road and into the brush on the side. The son of a duke? That was impossible. Where was the superior air, the haughtiness, the reluctance to dirty one’s hands? This man behaved more like the son of a pig farmer than that of a duke.
“What is it? What did he say?” Alexandra asked, finally reaching him.
Tristan shook his head.
“We’re about a mile or so outside of Paris. We wait here until nightfall and then we’ll sneak into the city.”
More waiting. Tristan’s belly rumbled. His bath and his meal would have to be put off until tonight.
She stood on tiptoe and peered into his eyes. “Can you hear me? Did you hit your head?”
He wanted to smile at the concerned look on her lovely face. Her green eyes were large in her pale face, and her hair looked as though a family of mice had made their nest in it. He had the urge to smooth it down. But when he reached for it, she caught his hand and thrust it back. “I’ll see you safely into the city, and that’s all. After that, you either help us or you follow the rest of your countrymen to the guillotine.” Her eyes narrowed. “You understood that, didn’t you?”
Oh, he understood well enough. He’d been right about Citoyenne Martin all along. She played a dangerous game, only in the end, he would be the victor.
Nine
