Undercover Cavaliere Read online

  For some reason, his warning of danger reassured Regina even more than knowing one of her captors was American. I am completely out of my mind. These are vicious criminals and they mean us no good whatsoever. Why am I not terrified?

  Eventually the wagon turned one more corner, rolled across a surface more irregular than the cobblestone street, and came to a halt. The American and the Frenchman climbed into the wagon and picked Marcy up.

  She tried to kick, but her bonds made resistance futile.

  "Hold on there, sweetheart," Regina heard the American say. "Just a little longer and you can give us hell."

  One by one they were removed from the wagon. As she watched the others being taken away, Regina almost wept. What if they left her here, alone? What if they sent her back to the men who'd first captured her?

  What if--

  Several hours ago she'd thought she'd reached the limits of terror. Now she knew she hadn't been anywhere close.

  Someone climbed into the wagon and slid an arm under her shoulders. "If I untie your feet, could you walk?" the American said in a near-whisper, close to her ear.

  She tried to nod.

  "Good. I'll just-- Good God! What was Nor...he trying to do, give you gangrene?" He took her hands in his and rubbed them gently.

  Pain shot through her shoulder joints, until she could not hold back a scream--muffled by the gag. As he continued to rub, she could feel life returning to her fingers. With each throb of her heart, she wanted to scream again. Although her recent bonds had not been as tight as those the big thug had tied, they still had not allowed good circulations in her extremities. Now, as her heart forced blood back into starved tissue, she wondered if anything could hurt worse. Screaming was dangerous, he'd said. But she couldn't hold back a moan or two.

  "She can't walk," the man said over his shoulder, still keeping his voice low. The wagon swayed as someone else climbed in. She felt him close his hands around her calves as the American slipped his into her armpits. She was lifted, lowered from the wagon.

  "You look like an intelligent woman. If I take that gag off, will you promise not to scream?" the American said, once she was more or less on her feet.

  She nodded, wishing there was more than early dawn light to see by. Not knowing what sort of man he was, how could she trust him?

  He fumbled with the gag, then swore. "Hold still."

  She bit back a scream as a knife came at her face.

  "Good girl." He slipped the blade carefully between the gag and her cheek and turned it. The gag fell away.

  She gasped her relief, croaked, "Water? Please?"

  "Let's get you inside first." Again they picked her up and carried her through the door of a decrepit building, across a dark room, and into a smaller one that was dimly lit by a single candle in a suspended holder.

  The three girls were crumpled against the far wall, covered by tattered blankets. Her carriers lowered her between Minerva and Marcy. "We will bring water and food soon," the Frenchman said, "as soon as we complete some necessary tasks. Until then, rest and be silent. You are safe as long as no one knows you are here."

  For some reason, she believed him. Perhaps it was the way he'd tucked a blanket around her. Or maybe it was the way the American had rubbed painful life into her numb hands after he'd untied them. These men might be white slavers, but they respected their merchandise.

  As she drifted into the first easy sleep she'd had for ever so long, Regina again questioned her sanity.

  Chapter Eleven

  Imprisoned in darkness, he could hear distant voices, could feel a hard, splintery surface under his cheek, could smell dead fish and sewage. His head throbbed, stabbing pain radiating from the crown, roiling his gut and chilling his skin.

  Where am I? What happened? Who am I?

  The words formed in his mind and he tried to twist his tongue around them, but it lay unresponsive in his desert-dry mouth. He was blindfolded, but more than that. Something sticky held the cloth to his eyelids.

  Cold. So cold. A convulsive shiver took him, and for a long time afterward, his thoughts were splintered, chaotic.

  Something poked him. "Il se reveille." A harsh voice.

  "Alors quoi? Il sera bientÔt mort." Smooth, cultured.

  The words--were those curiously liquid sounds words?--meant nothing to him. So how do I know the second one is cultured? What language are they--

  Some terrible force captured his legs, bound them together. Another wrenched his hands, strangely held tightly against each other, above his head. And then he was hanging from arms and ankles, rising, plunging, crashing. Swirls of red and black twisted against his closed eyelids and he let them take him away.

  Some time later he clawed his way back to consciousness. After a while he deduced he was in a metal-tired wagon with one square wheel. When the wagon came to a shuddering halt, he tried to sit up, to see where he was, but his hands were stuck somehow behind his back. I'm tied up. Blindfolded. What--

  Eventually saliva began to flow, wetting his too-dry tongue, but caution kept him silent. His senses were slowly awakening, although his arms and legs tingled with the prickly feeling of cut-off blood flow. He was Guglielmo Basilio...or Gabriel King...or Emilio Masuccio...or...

  Who the hell am I?

  Hands grabbed his ankles and dragged him across a splintery surface. His arse caught, then slid free, with a sharp pain he knew came from a deep-driven splinter. Before he could drop to the ground, he was eased down by someone holding his shoulders. Rain fell into his upturned face as the blindfold was jerked free.

  Three men stood over him. His vision was blurred, so they were only dark shapes in a rain-shrouded night.

  A knife flashed. He stiffened, expecting the hot slash of sharp steel, but the only thing cut was the rope between his feet. He commanded them to kick, but they merely twitched uselessly. Again a metallic flash, and his hands fell apart. The ropes around his wrists were jerked loose and torn away.

  The men spoke over him, but in a gutter patois he couldn't get his mind around. One laughed. Another walked away, but returned in shortly carrying a staff. He tapped it on the ground and it gave a harsh metallic ring. All three laughed.

  "The Seine does not easily give up its victims," said the one with the cultured voice, speaking, inexplicably, in English. "Still, it has been known to occur. If you live, I desire that you remember what happens to those who attempt to fool Fabrice Heureaux. Maurice, if you please?"

  With a sudden, swift swing, the one holding the staff brought it down, hard, on his stiff knee.

  For an instant he felt nothing, then his scream shattered the night. It was quickly lost in the loud laughter of his captors. For a long time there was nothing else in the world but the pain and the laughter. Both went on and on, endlessly.

  "Again. I want him to die knowing that his leg is destroyed." The French-accented voice was cultured, gentle, politely nightmarish.

  The staff struck him again, sending shards of agony along every bone, every tendon. He let go and felt himself spin into unconsciousness.

  Sometime later, the cultured man spoke again. "Vite. Dans la rivière."

  River? What river? He was lifted again, held by his benumbed wrists and useless feet. His thoughts spun as he was swung in a wide arc.

  He flew through the air, with only time to pull in a lungful of air before he struck the water.

  And sank, helpless in the grip of a strong current and the knowledge that he had no idea how to swim. Old terrors lurked at the edge of his consciousness, ready to capture him and carry him to his death.

  Well, hell.

  He opened his eyes, but the darkness was absolute. He felt for his boot knife, but it was gone.

  As he flailed in an airless medium that had no up, no down, he accepted that he was going to die. Gina.

  Oh, Gina, if only...

  * * * *

  They were locked in again. Regina had tried both doors, had broken the cloudy glass from the small win
dow, only to discover the shutters outside were nailed shut.

  "At least we have a candle," she muttered as she searched through the drawers of the short stand on which sat a bottle of water and a tray of bread and cheese.

  "I stink," Pamela said, a definite whine in her voice.

  Regina turned to look at the girls, who were all undressed to their chemises. "Not as badly as you could," she said, less sympathetically than they probably craved. "At least we all smell the same." She moved on to the cupboard in the corner. Its ill-fitting doors squeaked when she jerked them open to reveal several folded blankets, all faded and moth-eaten. "Look what I found. We'll be warm." She gave each girl one, and took a fourth for herself. That left two. "We'll put one on the floor and one on top of us. If we lie very close together, we should be warm and cozy."

  "Eeuuw," Minerva said. "We'll have to smell each other." Her glare in Marcy's direction spoke volumes.

  Regina wasn't feeling particularly patient or generous. And she was very, very tired of spoiled brats. "Very well. You may sleep alone, but the rest of us are going to share these blankets."

  Marcy finished hanging their damp clothing on the chairs they'd lined up before the fireplace. "I don't need a blanket, mum. I'm used to sleeping cold."

  "Nonsense. We'll all be warmer if we snuggle. It's too bad we don't have more coal." The pathetically small fire gave out little warmth, not nearly enough to make the high-ceilinged room less chill or dispel the pervasive damp. Summer's heat hadn't yet penetrated the thick stone walls of this cottage.

  Faint odors of mold and urine permeated the room. Regina was fairly certain the latter came from their clothing. Her skin crawled at the very thought of putting her dress back on, but she'd never admit her revulsion to the girls. The thought occurred to her that they might actually prefer being seen in their shifts to wearing smelly gowns, before she banished it. Even Minerva was more intelligent than that.

  Wrapped in blankets, they sat on the floor and ate bread and cheese. There were only two battered pewter cups, so she shared one with Marcy and let Pamela and Minerva have the other. Other than half audible complaints, neither of her charges had anything to say. Marcy ate silently, only occasionally sighing deeply. Grateful that she didn't have to deal with either whining or hysteria, Regina forced herself to eat a large chunk of the blue-veined cheese and a goodly portion of the fat loaf of fresh, crusty bread.

  I can't remember a meal so delicious. Perhaps a little adversity is a good thing.

  As soon as the thought flitted through her mind, she banished it. This was not a little adversity. They were still captives, and their lives, not to mention their virtue, were at grave risk. She had only dreamed that Gabe had looked into the barrel that held her. Only imagined his fingers stroking lightly across her cheek.

  The rising sun sent narrow rays of light through cracks in the shutters before they were finished with their simple meal. Tempting though it was to be alert, to listen for clues to their fate, she again remembered something her pa had said once, as he was relating one of his adventures. "...nothing else I could do, so I took a nap." He'd explained that resting when he had the opportunity to do so safely had saved his life later.

  Perhaps it was a reaction to whatever foul drug she'd been dosed with, but she was as tired as if she'd worked hard all day. "Let's get some sleep while we can, girls. Pamela, please clear away the remains of our banquet while Marcy turns our garments again. Minerva, you may help me make our bed."

  Minerva's lower lip stuck out, but she helped Regina arrange their bedding. When they were done, she cast a quick glance toward the door. "Miss Lachlan," she whispered, "what's going to happen to us?"

  Biting her lip, Regina shook her head. "I wish I knew," she replied softly. "When your parents find we're not in the hotel, I'm sure they will raise an outcry, but without any clues as to what happened to us, I'm afraid it will be futile. We must keep our wits about us, remain vigilant, and watch for opportunities to escape."

  "Escape? How?"

  Regina admitted she had no ideas. "My mother and father taught me that no situation is hopeless," she said, raising her voice so the other girls could hear. "Giving in to hopelessness and despair is what can be fatal. We will believe we can escape, and that will give us an advantage. Now, let us rest, so when an opportunity presents itself, we will be ready to seize it."

  Fine words, indeed. It's unfortunate they are worth so little. She wondered how long she would be able to maintain a courageous façade.

  * * * *

  "Hold on."

  Sound penetrated the thick fog caging thought, but had no meaning.

  Gina. He had to cling to that one word. In it lay his salvation.

  "Damn you , man, hold on. I can't haul you out unless you help me."

  His fingers were forced around a thick cylinder, but they didn't want to cling. Something jerked his arm, shoved it between two hard, rough surfaces, where it wedged. He heard splashing, sensed motion nearby. Then he felt himself being pulled upwards, dragged, and rolled onto his belly.

  A heavy weight descended on his back. Bounced. Stop! You're killing me! Then he was vomiting oily water, bitter bile. Coughing, choking. Vomiting again.

  Gasping, he inhaled great gasps of air, filling his aching lungs again and again, until life returned to his body, his hands, his feet. His knee. He swallowed a scream. Even so, he nearly passed out. When he could, he rolled himself carefully onto his back, "Where?" The best he could do was a faint whisper.

  "Hell, I don't know. Somewhere around Ile St. Germaine," someone said in accented English. "We drifted a long way. I didn't dare splash around."

  "Happened?" He was able to inject a slight sound this time.

  "Heureaux's men tossed you into the river. What gave you away?"

  "Who's Heureaux?" He winced as he forced one eye open. The other felt swollen and tight, and only let in a blurry slit of light. In the pearly light of early morning, he stared at the man crouched next to him. A ruffian if he'd ever seen one. "Who are you?"

  The fellow went still. After a moment, he said, "A friend. Let's get you on your feet. It's a long way to St. Cloud."

  Easier said than done. With the ruffian's help, he was able to sit more or less erect. Every move caused the world to spin around him and his stomach to heave. There was just enough light for him to see that he'd lost one shoe. The stocking thus revealed was torn, exposing one bloody toe. The right leg of his trousers was stretched tight around a grotesquely swollen limb, the source of the lightning bolts of pain that shot up and down his leg.

  "Can you stand? We need to get out of sight."

  Although he had no idea why they had to hide, he believed it to be true. And urgent.

  "Guess I'll have to," he said, gritting his teeth.

  "Easy man," the ruffian said. "Take your time."

  His mind was slowly clearing and he listened again to what the ruffian had said. "Ile de Germaine? St. Cloud? We're in France?" That was odd. He lived in Italy. Didn't he? "Why?"

  His savior urged him to take a step. "All will be explained when we get to St. Cloud. There, that's good, now can you use the other foot? No? Lean on me then. Excellent."

  They made slow progress up the stairs from water level and into an area that was clearly a wharf stacked with goods awaiting shipment.

  "I'm going to leave you here while I locate transportation. Will you give me your word to stay put? You're well hidden."

  They were. Crates and bales surrounded them, with narrow aisles between. He could see the watery gleam of the river at the end of one narrow walkway. The others were blocked at various distances by more crates, more bales. From somewhere not too distant, he heard the hoo-hoo-hoot of a train engine.

  "Yes," he said, telling himself that if his strength returned before that, he'd find a way to disappear. Not knowing who he was or why he was in France made him very nervous. Being at the mercy of a man who refused to name himself increased his sense of impending disaster.
>
  His mind was no more clear nor his leg less fragile when the ruffian returned to fetch him. After a painful and halting hike, they climbed into a shabby caleche that smelled of cheap tobacco and sour wine. The ruffian raised the top while he hunkered back in its shadow, having found his companion's extreme caution and suspicion contagious.

  He must have slept, because the next thing he noticed was the sun shining into the depths of the caleche, warming his legs and still-damp trousers. The ruffian sat hunched over the reins, appearing half asleep.

  "St. Cloud? Why?" Had he asked that before? He couldn't remember.

  "We're meeting the others there. Not much longer now."

  The caleche turned a corner and he saw a bridge ahead. From somewhere came the memory that St. Cloud was on the west bank of the Seine, more or less across from the Bois Boulogne. He remained silent as they crossed, finding the bridge somehow familiar. I've been here before.

  Perhaps an hour later, after many turns and a traverse down a winding lane, the driver pulled the caleche to a stop before a stone cottage. "Hold on," he said. "Let me make sure before you get out."

  Make sure of what? He looked at the reins, casually looped around a knob on the dashboard, but decided not to take this opportunity to escape. I need more information. He could be the friend he claims to be.

  Or not.

  Two other men returned with the driver. "So it was a trap?" the red-haired one said, his accent showing his British origins. "What happened?"

  "He doesn't remember," the driver said. "C'mon, Gabe, let's get you inside. Do you need help?"

  Gabe. That sounds...right. Yes, I'm Gabe. Gabriel King. A burden of fear he hadn't realized he was carrying lifted. He tried to stand, but found his left leg weak. The barest movement of his right leg brought a cold sweat to his brow. "Help," he admitted. "Can't walk."

  The redhead and his companion slung his arms across their shoulders and all but carried him around the house. At the back, they stepped into an open porch, then into a big, sparsely furnished kitchen. After letting him down onto one of the two chairs beside the thick-topped table, they stepped back. "Alain says you don't remember anything," the redhead said, "not even your name."