A MOMENT IN THE DARK
Genevieve screamed. A hand clamped over her mouth, smelling of damp and loam. She struggled to escape, but the grip on her shoulder tightened and she realized she had no chance of escaping it.
Genevieve, you fool! It's him. And now you're sure to be tortured, to find out what you know...
She knew a little of the life of spies – her father had worked with them before, and told her something of it – and knew she'd not be shown mercy. It wouldn't matter if she was a woman – women had been tortured before, to reveal what they knew.
She screamed again, but it was futile to try. The man dragged her backwards, toward the barn. Genevieve did the only thing she could think of doing – made her body go heavy. She hung forward in his arms, limp and unwieldy as a sack of meal.
Behind her, the fellow grunted and strained. His hand slipped on her mouth, just fractionally, and she seized the moment and screamed.
This time, someone heard her.
A roar of rage split the darkness, and the sound of a resounding thump. The hand on her shoulder slackened and fell away, followed by the hand over her mouth. She found herself falling backwards, unstoppably, and collapsed on the cobbles. She heard the sound of feet, this time running away.
“Milady!” a voice she knew breathed in horror. “Are you unhurt?”
Genevieve stared up, blinking. She felt dazed, surprised and frightened. Now, she was also confused. There, in the brighter patch of light from the window, stood Adair.
“I think so,” she whispered. She drew in a small, shuddering breath of shock. Her hands hurt from where she'd braced to stop her fall, and one ankle ached where it had hit a cobble, coming down hard. Her back was jarred and her head hurt, and her heart was racing.
“Here,” he said gently. He held out a hand and took hers, trying to pull her upright. She winced and gritted her teeth, not wanting to take weight on her ankle. Then she stood. And fell forward.
He reached out and steadied her. She ended up against his chest, one arm holding her.
The scent of him was warm – something like musk, mixed with the warmth of clean hay. She leaned there a moment, feeling oddly safe.
This man could just as easily have been the one attacking you.
She stiffened at that thought and stood. Her ankle burned. She looked into his face.
Luminous, dark, lit with the stars' light, his eyes met hers, and held them. She found herself lost again in their strange depths.
“You can walk?” he asked.
Genevieve tensed, feeling the return of the affront. What? Was he offended by her leaning against him? She stood.
“I can do my best,” she said tightly.
He stood back, mute, as she took two limping steps on her ankle. Curse the thing, it had started to swell. She must have cracked it, or twisted it.
“Let me help you,” he whispered.
“I'm...fine,” she ground out. Another step. And another. Why had she gone so far from the ballroom? She was shivering, though it wasn't cold. The anger was wearing off, replaced now with fright.
“You've hurt your ankle,” he observed softly. He stood beside her and, without asking, slipped an arm around her waist. Holding her up, he helped her to walk slowly toward the door.
Genevieve was surprised that, leaning against him, some of the tension evaporated. She felt oddly calm.
“Did you see who attacked you?” he asked.
“I didn't,” she said.
Some small part of her was still annoyed that it had to be him – of all people – who had rescued her. It was humiliating enough to be abducted from a ball – never mind be rescued by the one person she hoped not to look weak in front of.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I understand you're in shock.”
“I'm not in shock,” she managed. Dash it, why would she not stop shivering?
He didn't contradict her, but didn't move away either as he led her, slowly and inexorably, toward the light.
“Milady!” a man she didn't know said, as they went through the door. “Is aught amiss?” he glanced at Adair, who stiffened, standing back.
“I fell,” Genevieve said. “Lord Adair is helping me.”
She felt Adair relax somewhat, though he still stood, bristling, by her side. She twisted to glance up at him and noticed he was looking at the other man with ill-concealed rage.
It's almost as if he's protective toward me.
She frowned. It was a most peculiar thing. She tried to step forward, but the weight on her ankle was too painful to bear and her leg crumpled under her. The other man – she thought his name was MacCleary, but she couldn't remember his first name, or title – reached out.
“Here. Let me assist you.”
He stepped up to stand beside her and led her into the hall, leaving Adair behind them.
In the doorway, Genevieve blinked, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. All the light and the noise, the people standing about, some of them turning to stare at her, were suddenly too much. “I wish to be alone,” she whispered to MacCleary, who nodded.
“My lady, I will escort you to your chamber. Though your wound is grave, and I think it would be best if...”
“Cousin!” Arabella appeared at her side, her lovely face twisted with distress. “Oh! What happened, cousin? You have hurt yourself..?”
“The lady damaged her leg in a fall,” MacCleary explained redundantly.
“I got a fright outside,” Genevieve whispered. “Oh, Arabella...” Seeing her cousin's concerned face made it suddenly too hard to continue being brave. She was alone. She was hurt. She was frightened, in a country and a culture far removed from anything she had ever known.
Arabella's rose-scented embraced enfolded her and she leaned on her cousin's shoulder and wept.
“There, there,” Arabella said soothingly. “Brewer, pull that curtain back, will you? Give us some peace.”
At the edge of her vision, Genevieve noticed a velvet curtain move, leaving and Arabella, with the silent MacCleary, in the anteroom at the front of the ballroom, alone.
“MacCleary, fetch Richard and tell him to send someone up to Genevieve's room, please? We need a fire going in there.”
“Yes, Lady Arabella.”
Genevieve felt his jacket brush past her and then she was alone with Arabella. She held onto her cousin, feeling terribly sleepy.
“Come, now. I'm going to help you to your room. Can you walk? Or should we send Brewer to fetch a stretcher?”
“I can manage,” Genevieve said hastily. “It's just my ankle...”
“Of course. Come on. We'll get you to your room and mayhap send for a bath. There's nothing like a bath, eh, to wash away all the aches and pains...”
As Arabella chattered comforting nonsense in her ear, Genevieve felt herself relax somewhat. The shivering abated. She took slow, uncertain steps out of the ballroom and into the hallway.
“Adair?” Arabella said, turning to him. “Will you help us? Lady Genevieve needs help up the stairs. I need to have a bath run...”
“No...” Genevieve whispered, but her cousin was already disengaging herself, heading up the hallway to summon a maid. That left her balancing as best she could on the wounded ankle. Alone with a man who may or may not be an enemy, she realized as she saw Adair still hovering in the background.
He came on the scene too soon.
How likely was it that he'd been in league with her assailant? He'd seen her go outside, he'd come out just as she screamed! If she hadn't managed to scream, would he and his accomplice have dragged her through the gate?
“Come, milady. Let me help.”
Genevieve tried to move away from him, but he gently looped his arm through hers and together they walked slowly up the steps. She was tense, not wanting to go anywhere alone with him, taking her time up the staircase. One step, then another. If I take enough time, Arabella will get here. Or Camma. Whoever it was, it didn't matter, as long as she was not alone with this fellow.
“I know you got a shock,” the voice she'd come to fear said slowly. “It can take a while for things like that to...wear off. A long time.”
“I suppose,” Genevieve said tightly. She looked up at him suspiciously. How would you know? she wanted to ask. Is it because you give people shocks often?
“If you have trouble sleeping, or...if you need to talk, tell me.”
Genevieve stopped instantly. She turned and stared up at him. Her ankle throbbed dully, but she ignored it. “You want me to talk to you?”
“Yes,” he said. He sounded unsure, as if her sudden anger was bewildering.
“I think I will manage perfectly alone,” she said.
Then, drawing herself up to her full height, she gritted her teeth and walked the last five paces to her room.
Inside, she slid down the door and sat in front of it. In the grate, a fire burned fiercely, spreading glowing heat about the place. Genevieve went to the dressing table, dropping her jewelry on it, and then sat down on the bed, energy drained.
“I'm so tired,” she whispered. She had no idea why, but she was tired and cold. Her whole body shivered and she drew her knees up, holding them to her chest, and rocking. She had never felt this exhausted.
Someone knocked on the door and she jumped. No. Go away.
“A bath, madam?” a strange, female voice called.
“Yes,” she called back, making her voice loud enough to carry. “I want a bath.”
The door opened and a cheery older face peered through, hair covered by a lace cap. The woman had a wooden bathtub with her. Another woman followed, carrying a bucket.
Genevieve waited until they had gone and Camma appeared to help her unbutton her dress. Then, when she was finally alone, she slipped into the bath and lay there, letting the warm, scented water wash around her. She looked up at the white ceiling, molded with designs of leaves and flowers.
“I don't know what to do,” she whispered.
The fear of the evening mixed with her worries about Adair. She had no idea who he was or what he was doing there. She just knew that, somehow, since she had met him, her life had altered. She turned over, letting the warm, scented water sluice over her and wash the cold and tension from her body.
Shadows and darkness.
That was Adair all over. Francine had seen something, she was sure. And that something was all about Adair.
“I don't think I want to know.”
She could ask her cousin for an explanation, she was sure. However, she didn't want one. If someone was lurking in the shadows, preparing to do her harm, she didn't want to hear what would happen.
I don't want to know if there's nothing I can do to change it.
She was going to do her best to uncover who was responsible for the attack on her. If she couldn't stop them – if, in the end, Francine had prophesied a death – she didn't want to hear of it.
“I will not die.”
She rolled over and sat up, reaching for the towel. She wasn't going to give in to this. She was going to do her best to find out more.
And she was starting tomorrow.
First, she needed to sleep.
She reached for a nightgown, slipping it over her head, breathing in the scent of strewing-herbs. Somehow, though it was a rich, familiar smell, it didn't seem as if it belonged to her. The Genevieve who had lived in the quiet chateau, who had expected a dull, predictable existence, was not the woman who shrugged on this scented nightgown and slid into bed. This was a different woman.
And she was going to fight. Tomorrow.