Chapter 6
March 31, 1814
Moonlight streamed over Natalya’s exceedingly uncomfortable bed on the third story of one of St. Malo’s less prestigious inns. The legendary fortified town was nearly silent, save for the rhythmic crash of waves against the battlements, yet Natalya had scarcely slept all night. She couldn’t stop thinking about the day to come, about their escape from France; most of all, however, she couldn’t stop thinking about Grey St. James.
Her heart raced with a jumble of mixed emotions. How different the past three days had been in comparison to what she had expected. There had been little cause for laughter since they had shared wine and bread on the road to Angers. She had slept on mean, narrow beds in the homes of Grey’s friends, Paul in Angers and Louis in Bain-de-Bretagne. At least she had tried to sleep while the men sat up talking and drinking wine. Neither house had offered much in the way of amenities or hot, nourishing food, for neither man was married. To make matters worse, after discussing their situation with Paul, Grey had decided that time was of the essence and that he and Natalya would ride to St. Malo rather than hire a carriage. If Auteuil and Poujouly were in pursuit, they must not be allowed to catch up. And so their journey had been arduous, with little time or opportunity for meals and rest, let alone conversation. Natalya’s body ached and her heart was beginning to ache as well.
In spite of everything, she felt safe with Grey, and she realized that other traitorous feelings had also taken seed. Galloping along beside him, she would find herself studying the shape of his shoulders or the play of his lean hands on the reins. Gaunt he might be, but she had realized that he had the same rouguish, piratical look her father had possessed in his younger days. He could be maddeningly arrogant, yet he possessed a lighthearted side that appealed to her sense of whimsy. And he was keenly, undeniably intelligent.
Now, turning on her straw tick, Natalya stared out the diamond-paned window set high in the wall. Perhaps, she told herself, she was only drawn to Grey because he held her at arm’s length, treating her with a careful sense of propriety. They never touched except by accident or necessity, when he was opening a door for her or helping her dismount from her horse. By the third night, when he’d brushed against her while they climbed the stairs to their rooms, she’d found herself longing for more.
What was happening to her, and why was it happening now? Certainly she had enjoyed herself with men before, and more than a few had fallen in love with her, but none of it had ever been more than a diversion for her. The main reason she had left Philadelphia was boredom—with the rounds of parties and the growing pressure to marry. By the time she’d turned twenty-five and begun to write My Lady’s Heart, Natalya had decided that her only talent for romance lay in writing about it.
Tonight, however, in this colorful town, which she had yet to view in the daylight, she lay awake, bemused by the stirrings of her own heart. Closing her eyes, she conjured up the image of Grey’s chiseled profile. She ran her hand lightly over the curve of her hip, imagining that his fingers were touching her....
“Natalya! Open the door!”
She sat straight up in bed, blushing in the moonlight. “Grey?”
“Hurry!” His voice was low and hoarse with urgency.
Without another thought, she scrambled up and ran barefoot across the tiny chamber, ghostlike in her white nightgown. She lifted the wooden bolt, fingers trembling, and threw open the door. Grey stood before her clad only in his trousers. His face was pale, his eyes silvery above the strong tapering expanse of his chest.
“Get back!” he hissed pulling her back inside and bolting the door behind them.
“What in heaven’s name is happening?”
He clamped a hand over her mouth. “Shh! They’re here, searching the inn. I saw them come in from my window. Don’t ask me how, but I knew that cursed bloodhound would sniff me out. Now you’ll have to hide me and then persuade them of your innocence when they get to this room.”
Her palms began to sweat and her heart thudded. “But, Grey—”
He was looking desperately around the room, which was hardly big enough for the bed and a little table that held a basin and pitcher. “Dear Christ,” he muttered.
“If only we weren’t so high, you could go out the window.”
His black brows flew up. “You’re brilliant!” Swiftly he climbed onto the bed, threw open the casement, and looked outside. Turning to glance at Natalya, he whispered, “The rest is up to you. Call me when they’ve gone.” And with that, he pulled himself up and out the window and disappeared from sight.
Natalya stood rooted to the spot, dumbstruck. In the next moment she heard pounding on other doors around her chamber. She was grateful that Grey had insisted they arrive separately, as if they didn’t know each other. At the time, she had thought him overcautious, particularly as he wore the large tricorn hat that proved an effective disguise all by itself. Now she realized that, thanks to him, the innkeeper would be fooled on two counts: he would not connect Auteuil’s description of St. James with the man in the tricorn hat, and he would not connect either identity with Natalya, who had explained that her father would be meeting her there. Who would suspect a sweet and proper young maiden of entertaining a man in her tiny bed in the middle of the night?
Natalya told herself that she had nothing to fear as she listened to the approaching tumult. Still, her heartbeat nearly drowned out the noise. She tried not to think of Grey or worry that he’d fallen to his death.
Bang! bang! bang! “Open this door immediately!”
Recognizing Auteuil’s shrill voice, Natalya broke out in a cold sweat. “Who is it?”
“You’ll not be harmed. Just open the door, or we shall enter by force!”
She pulled the threadbare quilt from the bed and wrapped it around herself, then gingerly lifted the bolt and opened the door a few inches. Jules Auteuil’s face filled the space—and in the next instant he had pushed his way in, followed by Poujouly. Clutching the edges of the quilt against her breasts, Natalya backed up against the edge of the bed.
The lovely picture she made in the virginal nightgown, hair spilling over her shoulders, was not lost on the two men. Auteuil’s belligerent demeanor altered as his eyes raked her body. He stepped into the room.
“Pardonez-nous, mam’selle.” He advanced upon her with an evil leer. “We are officials from the Emperor Napoleon’s prison at Mont St. Michel. It was rude of us to disturb you in this manner, I know, but perhaps you can help us.”
“I don’t see how that is possible,” she said meekly.
Looking back at Poujouly, he muttered, “Why don’t you continue our search. I hardly think that both of us are needed to question this young lady.”
The other man frowned but did the warden’s bidding. When he was gone, and Natalya found herself alone with Auteuil, she fought a rising tide of panic. “What are you searching for, m’sieur?” she inquired politely. “Whatever it is, I hardly think you’ll find it here.”
“You have nothing to fear, my dear girl. Are you trembling?” He put a hand on her arm, and she flinched. “There is a criminal at large here in St. Malo, and I have come to recapture him. I have reason to believe that he is here in this very inn. Ah, I see that I have frightened you, and that was not my intention. Perhaps you have seen a tall man with black hair and gray eyes? He is English.”
“I have seen no one. I only just arrived tonight, and am waiting for my father. He is due at any time.” She was swept by a wave of revulsion. When Auteuil smiled, she saw that many of his teeth came to points as if they had been filed and his reddish hair stuck together in clumps. “Please, sir, leave me in peace.”
Awkwardly Auteuil tried to put his arms around her. “Why so skittish? I am here to protect you, until my assistant has finished searching for the criminal.”
“There’s really no need!” Natalya’s voice rose; instinctively she put her hands up to push at his chest. When she did so, the quilt fell away, revealing the gossamer-thin nightgown she wore underneath.
Auteuil’s eyes gleamed. Licking his lips like a starving man presented with a feast, he ran one hand down her slim back.
“My father could arrive at any moment!”
“I’ll take that chance.” His breathing grew ragged as he bent closer.
“Loose me, or I’ll scream,” Natalya threatened.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Auteuil lunged toward her mouth with his own, but she squirmed wildly and turned her head. “Hold still, wench!” he hissed, fumbling for her breast.
The casement on the window opened above the bed, but the warden was too preoccupied to notice. Then a man’s body swung toward him feet first, seemingly out of the night sky, and Auteuil stepped backward, lifting his hands to his face as he was knocked to the floor. Flooded with relief, Natalya scrambled out of the way as Grey grabbed the other man by his shirt and struck him hard across the chin with his closed fist. Auteuil’s head sagged, but still he reached up blindly, clawing at his adversary’s eyes.
“I see that you leave me no choice, m’sieur,” Grey ground out in tones of icy fury. He put both hands around the warden’s neck and struck the back of his head against the floor. Auteuil went completely limp.
“Is he dead?” Natalya whispered after a moment.
Grey stood up and brushed off his hands. “Unfortunately, no. I know I ought to kill him, but I’ve never had a taste for murder, no matter how justified.”
Natalya had begun to shake. “What an odious creature he is!”
“I know.” He gathered her into his arms stroking her hair. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you? I needed only to hear you raise your voice to guess what the devil was trying to do.”
“I’m fine. Truly.” She felt so safe in Grey’s embrace, her face pressed against his bare chest. “Thank you for... interceding. It was a most impressive display.”
“I was a fool to leave you alone.”
“Oh, my—I nearly forgot! The other one is still in the inn. Auteuil sent him to finish searching the chambers.”
“Then we have work to do.”
Grey dragged the warden’s body away from the doorway and instructed Natalya to sit on the bed, against the wall. Then he picked up the pitcher from the little table and stood behind the open door, waiting. His patience was soon rewarded. Poujouly came into the room as innocently as a lamb to slaughter. Squinting at Natalya in the shadows, he said, “Eh bien, mam’selle, I see you’re still—”
The pitcher came down over his head with a crash, and the tall man crumpled to the floor. Natalya scrambled up, and she and Grey set about tearing her quilt into strips, which they used to gag and tie Auteuil and Poujouly. When they were finished, Grey stood over the two men and murmured with heartfelt irony, “If only this were permanent. Unfortunately they’ll awaken all too soon, so we must be away.”
“Do you think he saw your face?”
Grey gave a harsh laugh. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll know who it was.” He glanced down at Natalya, who looked like a frightened fawn, and his eyes softened. “I’m going to give you the late Maurice Galabru’s knee breeches to wear, and we’ll put a hat on you. A woman would attract too much attention on the quays. Gather up your things now and come with me.”
Natalya obeyed without question and hurried after Grey down the darkened corridor of the inn, her white lawn nightgown billowing out behind her.
* * *
Built on a granite rock in the English Channel and joined to France’s mainland by a causeway, St. Malo had served as a lair for privateers since the Middle Ages. An aura of romantic adventure clung to the town like the ocean that pounded the wide ramparts surrounding it. Behind the walls rose steep, slate-roofed buildings, a graceful cathedral spire, and the grand homes of shipowners, many of whom had made their fortunes in the slave trade.
As she followed Grey through the maze of cobbled streets and alleyways, Natalya found herself wishing she had time to explore St. Malo properly. Many legendary men had been born here, including Francois-Auguste-Rene de Chateaubriand, the illustrious writer, and Surcouf, the fabled corsair who had become the terror of the English in the Indian Ocean and a great favorite of Napoleon’s. Both men fascinated Natalya.
Unfortunately she was destined merely to sweep through St. Malo before leaving France, and at the moment she could hardly complain. As Grey pulled her along, she stole an occasional glance over her shoulder, expecting each time to see the redheaded Auteuil rounding the last corner, bearing down on them with all manner of murderous weapons.
Heather-tinted streaks had begun to lighten the eastern sky, and the dawn lured people out of their beds and onto the streets. They stared at the tall man and young boy who hurried by, the boy holding his old-fashioned hat in place with one small hand. Natalya’s legs had begun to ache, and her throat burned; she was about to protest that she could not go on when they arrived at the Porte de Dinan. Grey took them through the arched stone gate, and as they emerged under the ramparts onto the Quai de Dinan, Natalya stared in wonderment at the sights she beheld.
The harbor was a hive of activity. The shore was teeming with sailors, peasants, merchants, donkeys, and monks who wound their way through the crowd with their crosses. On this side of the ramparts, Natalya was suddenly aware of the noise: human voices were nearly drowned out by the salvos of guns and the pealing of bells. Longboats were pulling into the harbor from the sloops and brigantines anchored farther out.
“The slave ships and privateers are blocked in port by the British warships in the Channel,” Grey explained, pausing to catch his breath. “Only the fishing boats go unchallenged if they attempt to leave the harbor... although many of the corsairs are sly enough to slip by at night.”
With that, he grabbed Natalya’s hand again and drew her into the crowd. His keen eyes scanned faces as they passed, until, finally, he settled on a sorry-looking old cod fisherman. Grey drew him aside, speaking rapidly in French. The old man peered at him in disbelief, paused, and then nodded. Minutes later Natalya found herself on board M’sieur Oiseau’s rotting boat, pushing off into St. Malo Harbor.
Grey pulled her down onto the malodorous deck, shoving aside a pile of nets, and they leaned back against the stern. “Just stay down. I’m in no mood to take chances.” To Oiseau, who was adjusting the sails, he called in French, “I’ll take the rudder and direct our course.”
Drawing a ragged breath, Natalya found that she could scarcely speak. “How...?”
“I bribed him, naturally,” Grey told her, with a thin smile. Borrowing her hat, he rose to a crouch and turned the rudder, his eyes fixed on a distant schooner that flew the Union Jack. “I told him that I’d come ashore to fetch my French wife, and now I had to get you safely back to my ship. It was a plausible enough lie, and considering that I was asking him to break the law, it at least allowed him to accept my proposition in exchange for a generous sum of money. Obviously, M’sieur Oiseau’s boat is about to sink, taking with it his livelihood, so he has decided that God sent me as his salvation.”
In a state of crazed exhaustion, Natalya almost began to laugh. “I cannot believe this is happening! Dear Lord, if Uncle Nicky could see me now—”
“I’d rather not think about him at the moment, if you don’t mind,” Grey replied, with exaggerated irony. “He’d have my head if he had any idea what transpired at the inn.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” she protested. “Just the opposite, in fact. You saved my life.”
Grey stared at her with intense silver-gray eyes. “My dear, it was my fault that your life and your honor were in jeopardy at all. That cursed monster should never have gotten close enough to touch your sleeve, let alone—”
“I suggest that we forget about it,” Natalya broke in firmly. “In fact, I insist. I’m far too ravenous to argue about something that is already a memory.”
M’sieur Oiseau appeared before them and held out a pottery jug.
“Water!” she exclaimed. “How thirsty I am!”
“Let me be your taster,” Grey said. Lifting the jug, he swallowed, drank more, then handed it to Natalya with a grimace. “It’s calvados. Or, the cheap equivalent. It’s bad, but it is wet.”
Laughing, she drank deeply and felt the strong cider spirit spread its warmth through her tired body. Almost instantly she was swept by a wave of giddiness. Before Grey could stop her, she had turned and risen on her knees to look over the stern, back at the shore. On the verge of waving, she froze at the sight of Auteuil, his auburn hair a banner at the forefront of the crowd. Grey turned to pull her back down, but not before he, too, beheld the narrowed eyes of his nemesis. Could Auteuil really have spotted him? he wondered.
Natalya was startled by the fleeting look that crossed Grey’s face. Was it fear? “We’re safe now, I’m certain of it,” she said impulsively, covering his big hand with her own. “He can’t pursue you any longer.”
St. James nodded slowly. “Is that possible?”
* * *
“Good God, it’s Captain St. James!” The first lieutenant of the Essex leaned over the quarterdeck rail and stared in disbelief at the dilapidated fishing boat. “Is that you, sir?”
“Yes, Harrington, it is I,” Grey shouted.
The young man turned around, calling, “Captain, come immediately! It’s Captain St. James!”
Moments later the plump face of Grey’s old friend George Bumblethorpe appeared high above the water. Resplendent in his red and white uniform, Bumblethorpe gaped at the sight of his fellow captain in the Royal Navy. He could smell the old fishing boat from the quarterdeck, and a pale, shabby-looking St. James stood in the middle of that dubious vessel flanked by a grimy old man and a girl in baggy breeches. After a moment Bumblethorpe regained his voice and exclaimed, “God’s eyes, man, let’s bring you aboard!”
Grey laughed. “Old boy, I thought you’d never ask!”
Before he and Natalya were transferred into a longboat that could be hoisted up, Grey turned and gave the old fisherman a handful of coins. “You have my sincere gratitude, m’sieur.”
Oiseau grinned, revealing a gap in front where several of his teeth were missing. “I was glad to help.” He held out a folded pamphlet and said enigmatically, “Chateaubriand speaks for me as well.”
Natalya was feeling exceedingly dazed, thanks to Oiseau’s calvados and the turmoil of the past several days. By the time they reached the Essex’s quarterdeck and George Bumblethorpe bent over her hand during their introduction, she found that she had difficulty focusing. British seamen seemed to swarm around them and to leer at her from the masts.
“Grey?” She reached for his arm. “I believe I may be going to faint....” With that, her knees gave way and she slumped to the deck.