Page 58 of Lord Carlisle's Enticing Lure
With her wrists bound behind her most of the day except to eat and relieve herself, she’d spent her last three days trying to lessen the pain in her shoulders. She fought through the agony by breathing deeply and concentrating on any patterns she saw in their behavior.
Paul, a meaty fellow, had the least education and reason. He’d been born in Rouen, a fisherman’s son. Maurice, who eyed her like a lascivious bastard, sought to sit beside her and molest her when Franchot was not looking. But their leader was no fool.
He’d slap Maurice’s hands from her thigh or her upper arm. “She’s meant for better than you, idiot. Keep your dirty hands to yourself. She wants no part of you, I’m sure.”
Giselle would take a calming breath at that and return to her focus.
The carriages they hired were those they could afford and as much for comfort as for speed. Afraid to appear too prosperous, she supposed, the men had changed carriages in small towns, away from the bustle of many who might question the wisdom of Frenchmen hiring coaches and dashing away. Making the journey more unbearable were the narrow, ill-kept lanes that led to their destination.
On their third day of travel as they pulled into yet another town, she expected to be hustled out of their carriage, her hands untied, andPaul to drape his arm around her. The appearance that he was her beau or her lover brought wry smiles to her lips. He constantly tried to paw her, just as Maurice did. Only memories of Clive saved her many a sobbing fit.
She’d swallow her sorrows at his loss and force her mind once more to the matter of escaping these three.
From the track of the sun, Giselle could tell they traveled east. None of her captors said why or where. But she had traveled this coast, lived here, walked here, estimated the length and breadth of the seaside walks and beaches. She could tell they passed through Seaford. She liked that small town. So many still spoke a smattering of French, bad as it was, their language derived from the French pirates who, despite the blockade, came in and out of the little seaside town. Recognizing the town pacified her. Knowledge was power. Better yet, she could tell the three could not identify the town immediately.
On the third afternoon of their travels east, Franchot banged on the roof of their carriage and yelled at the coachman to go through the center of town. “Down to the sea.”
“He’ll never find it,” said Paul. “Give him better directions.”
“I will find it. Don’t you worry,” replied Franchot with a glare.
Danger loomed. Giselle smothered the gasp of fear that rose to her throat. She would not let them see her alarm. When they arrived, wherever that was, she would be on alert to her opportunities to use her assets. Her money and the particular item in her reticule, which she asked for each time they stopped to eat or wash, formed the basis of her hope. Now she closed her eyes and waited.
“Come along, madame,” Franchot urged her later as the coach idled on a dusty road. He grinned. “Time for a rest. Water. Food. You’ll like this cottage.”
I doubt it.But her brows shot upward at the sight of a little house of dark stone and brick at the end of a lane overgrown with trees and shrubs. She could not see the whole of the house. It was that large. Asurprise, that. Someone long ago had attempted to give the cottage charm. As they approached the house, she admired the clinging vines of red roses climbing one side of a faded ruby door.
Franchot grabbed her arm. “You ready for this next?”
For anything.“Of course.”
He snorted and led her the past few steps to the pebbled walk. “Knock, Maurice. Alert our friend.”
Someone awaited them?
Not Vaillancourt, certainly. But a conspirator. French. Had to be. Since these three seemed to know no English.
Maurice did as he was told.
“Open the door, idiot!” Franchot jerked Giselle forward.
Behind them, Giselle heard Paul struggling to carry her art. They’d brought along the sketchpads, tablets, and stacks of her drawings, watercolors, and oils on the floor of Clive’s and her suite in the Old Ship. That puzzled her.
If they were certain she was the draftsman who had created all the other coastal art, why had they brought them?
Were they to be sent to France along with her? Vaillancourt was no expert in the terrain of the southern English coastline. He could call on experts. Perhaps cartographers in his navy. They would pronounce the art the same or not as those that came before. Besides, had the ruse truly been effective? Well, she concluded it had. Otherwise, why go to all the bother to ferret her out in England and take her back to France? They wished to put her on trial. Or not. Not, most likely. They would take her before Vaillancourt, let him have his moment of seeming triumph over her, then clamp her in chains and take her off…off…
She inhaled, refusing to think beyond.
Franchot crushed her upper arm and dragged her inside the great room to come to a halt before a tall woman.
Well dressed in a fine woven tweed of purple and green, her hair perfectly coiffed, a few jeweled pins holding in her dark-chestnut curls,she was quite lovely. Clear skin, plush lips, elegance in motion as she rose from her commanding chair and graced them all with a glorious smile beneath an elaborate mask.
“Bonjour, mes amis.” She strolled toward Giselle and Franchot, then took a walk around the two. Giselle felt the boring of the lady’s unusual eyes, which seemed as though they drilled right through her like two sharp stones of Chinese jade. She stopped in front of Giselle again, her head tossed to one side, and reached out and lifted Giselle’s chin. “Have they been kind to you?”
Ah. I am a prize, then.“Oui, mademoiselle.”
“Madame!” Franchot corrected her. “Meet the famous La Mère.”
