Undercover Cavaliere Read online

  "Huh! Definitely silly spy business," she said, as she watched the steamer disappear around the bend. Perhaps she should be grateful for Peter's help. Without it, Gabe might be dead and she and the girls on their way to some fat pasha's harem. Not quite a fate worse than death, but close.

  Gabe was still sleeping when she finished searching through the medical supplies. She'd found two more bottles of laudanum, but was determined not to use any more of their contents than absolutely necessary. They had kept Gabe deeply sedated for two days now. It couldn't be healthy. She planned to give him only enough to keep the pain in his knee bearable.

  As if on cue, he groaned.

  In a moment she was on her knees beside his pallet. The stained sheet under him was still dry, which worried her. He hadn't taken any liquids since yesterday. "Gabe," she said, touching his face, "open your eyes."

  He rolled his head from side to side, groaned again, before falling back into unconsciousness.

  She picked up the tin cup containing a mixture of tea and salty broth. Holding it to his lips, she dipped a finger into the liquid and slipped it into his mouth. To her great relief, he closed his lips around it and suckled, just like an orphan calf.

  Over the next hour, she coaxed him to take in nearly half the cupful. It was a messy procedure. The scrap of linen she'd laid under his chin was soaked by the time he closed his lips against her finger. Still, he'd gotten some of the mix down, and that was better than nothing at all.

  She brought a scant cupful of water to his pallet and dipped another scrap of linen into it. Carefully she washed his chin, neck and shoulders. The water barrel was still three-quarters full, which should be enough for drinking and keeping him clean, as long as she wasn't profligate with it. "If Peter and his men get back in time," she muttered as she pulled the sheet back up to Gabe's chin.

  She wouldn't have to be as careful with food, unless Gabe suddenly developed an appetite. A wooden bowl held a dozen or so small oranges still showing green at the stem end. A fat, greasy sausage was wrapped in brown paper, and half a wheel of sharp cheese sat on a wooden tray under an overturned bowl. Several loaves of bread, already past their prime, were wrapped in threadbare linen towels. Sitting on the floor against the wall were three wine bottles, all unopened, all full, and one that still held about two inches of a harsh red. One of the lumps in a sack had turned out to be a tin of small, dark cubes that mystified her until she smelled them.

  "Portable soup!" She broke a tiny corner off of one and laid it on her tongue. Sure enough, it had the salty-meaty flavor she remembered from childhood. She used the bowl of the one spoon Peter had given her to crush two of the cubes. Into the nearly empty wine bottle they went, along with enough water to fill it. They would eventually dissolve, she was pretty sure, but if they didn't she could add some hot water later. Peter had shown her how to use the peculiar little pressure stove. Even though she was determined to save the fuel for the hot, wet compresses she would apply to Gabe's leg thrice a day, she would sacrifice some for heating his food.

  She worked slowly because she knew that once she had everything organized she'd have nothing to do but hover. Every hour or so she knelt beside Gabe and tried to coax him to take water. The last time, when the shadows she could see from her narrow view of the outside world were long, she was convinced that he was rousing from his drugged stupor. He was restless, turning his head from side to side, and plucking at the heavy linen sheet. Hearing the small moans with every exhalation broke her heart, but she resisted the impulse to give him more than a tiny dose of the laudanum.

  How long did it take to become addicted to the drug?

  "Oh, God, I feel so helpless. All that education, and I know nothing about what to do for him. What if--" No, she would not let herself give in to fear and despair.

  "I can take care of him," she vowed. "I must."

  That night as she lay on her own hard pallet, she gave herself a talking to. There was no reason to be so pessimistic about her situation. Peter, if he was telling the truth, was on the side of the angels. He'd refused to affirm or deny that he worked for the same quasi-official group as Gabe, but he did know Silas and Buff--or know of them. He hadn't denied that the Lord Bi-- he'd almost named was Jonathon Hetherington. Gabe had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, according to Peter, and could be either an innocent bystander or a flesh peddler.

  "He's not going anywhere for a while," Peter had said, "so it behooves us to take good care of him. If it turns out he was a customer, then gratitude may have him giving us information. We know he's not part of the gang, so that could mean he fell into all this by accident. In that case, of course we couldn't let him drown."

  She suspected she'd been told a careful mix of truth and lies. There was something Peter had not told her. "Probably lots of somethings," she told the night. "I don't care. As long as they take the girls to safety, as long as they send someone to take care of Gabe, I don't care what secrets he's keeping."

  Now if she could just get rid of this little niggle of distrust. What if Peter was another white slaver and she was left here to die alone while he took the girls to wherever one sold pretty European women into an eternity of sexual slavery?

  She slept eventually, and woke well after dawn, when Gabe's breathing changed. She'd learned to recognize those short, rough pants as the first sign his pain was growing severe. She dosed him lightly, and soon he relaxed.

  That day was beyond difficult. He was clearly in terrible pain. He cried out each time she touched his leg, no matter how carefully she applied the hot, wet compresses. By the time the scant light coming through the louvers had disappeared, she was exhausted and was considering her decision to hold back on the laudanum.

  A lot of good fretting does. You're the only hope he has, and working yourself into a tizzy won't help a bit.

  The weather had turned hot, which made the small room like an oven. A smugglers' hole, Peter had called it when he'd shown her the chute down which they could escape, if they were forced to. Unless one compared the inside and the outside dimensions of the building, the room would be overlooked. It was six feet wide, and ran the width of the warehouse loft. Louvers identical to those in the large room ran along all four walls, so that someone in the warehouse would have no reason to suspect the room existed.

  By evening Gabe's breathing had become deeper and more regular and he seemed to relax into normal sleep occasionally. Worried that he hadn't taken enough water, she spent most of her time dipping her fingers into a cup and letting him suckle them. Even so, his eyes gradually sank deeper into his head and his cheeks grew hollow. What frightened her the most was that he only pissed once all day, dark, cloudy urine that made her wonder if the big bruise on his left side was evidence of a blow that had damaged his kidneys.

  Night brought no lessening of the oppressive heat. No breeze wafted through the louvers. Leaving Gabe uncovered, Regina considered taking out the stitching holding her underskirt in place, but decided against it. When--if was not something she would consider--they got out of this place, she would need to be fully dressed, and her petticoats were far too obviously undergarments. She did remove the faux bustle and took the bow apart. The long piece of striped sateen might come in handy.

  When night fell, she stripped to her voile camisole and lace-trimmed drawers. It helped a little, until she tried to sleep. The rough wool of her pallet itched and clung to her sweat-dampened skin, making her feel as if she were suffocating. Finally tired of fanning herself with a flattened pasteboard box that had contained matches, she climbed on a box and peered through one of the narrow openings. The river glinted despite the lack of moonlight. A moving light upon it was probably a lantern on a passing boat. Across the river were other lights, stationary, that could be windows or street lights. She wasn't sure what was over there, a village or more warehouses and wharves.

  She had no idea where over there--or here--was. The house where they'd initially been taken had been in St. Cloud. She'd hear
d one of the men say so. Their present location was a complete mystery. She had counted the seconds as they drove from the house in St. Cloud--five thousand and forty-two--but how accurate her timekeeping was she'd no idea. Call it two hours' travel, which meant little to her, since she knew next to nothing of the geography of Paris and environs. That was the Seine, flowing past the warehouse, though. She was sure of that.

  A faint zephyr brought some cooling soon after she saw the shimmering path of moonlight on the river. She went to her scratchy bed then, and after a while she slept.

  Gabe woke her to full daylight, arguing with an unseen opponent. His words made little sense, for the most part, until he said, quite clearly, "Damn it, Peter, I know Heureaux has something up his sleeve. He's a tricky bastard..."

  She was at his side in an instant, her hand on his bare chest. "Gabe?"

  A slight snore was her only answer. She lifted her hand, then replaced it. Was he warmer than he should be? She leaned close and pressed her forehead to his cheek. Perhaps. The room had given up little of its heat last night, so she couldn't be sure.

  She lit the little pressure stove and set a pan of water to heat, before dipping more into the wooden bowl that had held the oranges. She inspected them where they were now lined up on the floor by the outer wall. One appeared ripe this morning. Perhaps she would be able to get him to take some juice. Even unconscious, he must be getting tired of portable soup mixed with wine.

  While the water heated, she sponged Gabe, hoping to cool him. She had no inclination to dress, not as stifling as the room was. At least the air was dry enough to evaporate the moisture from his skin, and he seemed to relax as she stroked the damp cloth over his chest and thighs. When she applied a hot compress to his knee, he swore, without opening his eyes.

  "Swear all you want. You need this. If hot compresses could save my ma's leg, they might save yours. Now hush."

  He opened his eyes and stared at her without recognition, before reaching toward the compress. "Hot...hurts."

  She caught his hands, and held them. "I know it does, love. But let it be. It's good for you."

  He resisted, but without strength. Regina wanted to weep, for this was the man who could pick her up--a great gawky girl nearly six feet tall--and swing her off her feet.

  She gave him water and portable soup, grateful that today he would swallow when she held the cup to his lips. Lifting his head enough so she didn't pour its contents down his neck was a challenge, because she couldn't get her arm under him. I've got to get him out of that coffin. He'll be cooler, too. She solved it by wadding up her dress and wedging it under his head. Even so, she had to mop his chest and neck when she was done.

  Her once pretty dress now had a pale tan stain on the striped underskirt.

  After she'd dosed him, he fell into a restless sleep. Tired of having to search through the jumble of bags and boxes from the St. Cloud house, she set out to sort their contents. No more food appeared, but she found a pistol, with no ammunition, two wickedly sharp knives in worn leather sheaths, which she added to the will-come-in-handy pile, and an assortment of men's clothing, most of it suitable for cold weather. To her great delight, she turned up two books, Ben Hur and A Tale of Two Cities. She had read the latter, so she set it aside and put Wallace's thick tome beside her sleeping pallet.

  One pair of trousers looked as if they might fit her, as did a couple of the shirts. Nothing was of a size to clothe Gabe. Still she should be able to fashion something to keep him decent. How I wish I had a needle and thread.

  Feeling as if she'd accomplished something worthwhile, she arranged boxes to serve as stands, folded gunnysacks to be cushions, and washed out a stained strip of coarse linen to serve as a towel. Her immediate surrounding arranged to her satisfaction, she moved the slop jar to the farthest corner of the long, narrow room. Thank goodness the lit fits tightly. What she would do if it got full before Peter returned was a topic she avoided. The only place to empty it was down the chute that they might be forced to use as a bolt hole. While she was willing to pour used washwater into the chute, she refused to empty the slop bucket there. It would be like jumping into a cesspit. Only as a last resort.

  Once she had fulfilled her housewifely role, it was time to pamper herself. She used a bit of the water to bathe, although the job she did wouldn't have made her acceptable in polite society. She felt better though, with the worse of the dried sweat washed away.

  Early in the morning of the third day, she was standing at the louvers again, watching the traffic on the river, when she heard a sound from the warehouse. The slam of a door.

  Footsteps. Several sets, if she wasn't mistaken.

  Peter? No. Impossible for him to have returned so soon.

  Quickly she stepped down from the box and tiptoed to sit beside Gabe. He was sleeping peacefully, for she'd given him a dose of laudanum just after feeding him a cup of broth and the juice of one orange. She picked up her petticoats, which she had folded into a hard pillow. With luck, it would muffle any sound he made.

  A man spoke, but he was too far away for the words to be intelligible. They sounded French, though.

  Another answered, and then a third. Several sets of footsteps sounded hollowly on the bare wood floor of the warehouse.

  She pulled her knife from the sheath on her thigh, considered moving to stand beside the concealed door. If someone came in, she would have the advantage of surprise, although against three men, not for long. I hope there are only three.

  No, she decided. It was more important to be where she could muffle Gabe.

  She tensed at the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stairs. The intruder--there seemed to be only one ascending--entered the empty office.

  Gabe snored, a single soft sound, but it seemed enormously loud in the pregnant silence.

  The person in the office paused. She could almost see him standing tensely, listening.

  A crow called from overhead, sounding as if it was perched on the roof's peak. She held her breath.

  The intruder said, "Corbeau" in a tone of disgust. After a moment, he walked back to the stairs and descended.

  Downstairs, the invaders continued to search among the crates and barrels that were scattered through the big, empty space. There was a loud scrape, as if something heavy had been slid, but it sounded like it was farther away, rather than directly under the office. More footsteps. Several more screeches of wood against wood. A voice called, and the footsteps seemed to recede. Were they moving away? She allowed herself to breathe.

  Gabe moved, and moaned. She knew the faint sound couldn't have carried, but she held the pillow ready to cover his face, just in case.

  The sounds from below continued, and she heard more indistinct speech. Unmoving, her eyes fixed on the louvers into the warehouse, she waited. At last she heard a door slam, followed by silence. They're gone.

  She sat back and laid the pillow on the floor. About to rise and return to her view of the river, she remembered something her pa had said, about hunting. "The best thing you can do, when you're on a trail, is to go to ground. Let the critter you're hunting think you've forgotten about him, and pretty soon he'll forget about you. That's when you'll get him in your sights."

  For the rest a long, hot day, she sat immobile beside Gabe's pallet, listening. Ready to silence him. Ready to defend them both.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "I'm being watched, I tell you. They can't decide if I'm to be trusted."

  Regina rolled to her side, raised herself up on her elbow so she could see into the coffin.

  Gabe's hands plucked at the ruffled petticoat covering his torso and left leg. He turned his head from side to side. "Someone's a traitor. No, I can't prove it. Just a feeling. We need to terminate the mission. Before it's too late."

  She laid her hand on his. "Gabe, the mission's over. You're all right."

  "Peter? Get a message to Jonathon. They suspect me..."

  "The message has been sent. Gabe, listen to me. E
verything is all right. There's no danger."

  "That's preposterous, Heureaux. Why would I...?" His splinted leg jerked as if he were trying to raise it. "My leg... Oh, God, my leg..." He fell back. Sweat beaded his face and his breath came in short, hard gasps.

  After a moment, his tense body went slack.

  A quick touch told her his heart was strong, but she still worried. Was this just a hallucination from the laudanum, or was his mind damaged, as well as his body?

  All that day he alternated between episodes in which he argued or pleaded or threatened. His face often tightened in a grimace of pain. She continued to dose him lightly, still convinced that giving him enough to completely deaden the pain would hamper his body's efforts to heal his injuries.

  Only if he became agitated or noisy would she drug him into insensibility. Peter had warned that there was always a small possibility the warehouse would be watched. "Keep as quiet as you can," he'd said. "No raised voices, no thumps and bumps."

  This morning's intrusion had made Peter's warning more compelling.

  That afternoon Gabe roused enough to say, "Water."

  With hands shaking so badly she could hardly hold the cup, she took it to him. When she knelt beside him, he said, "Gina? Where did you come from? Who hit you?"

  "I've been here all along. It's a long story. Lift your head."

  He drank that cupful and another before settling back. His skin was shiny with sweat and his color was close to its normal golden brown, rather than the pasty gray it had been ever since she'd first seen him lying helpless and unconscious.

  "I'm in a coffin, aren't I?"

  She couldn't believe how calm he sounded. If she'd awakened in a coffin, she'd probably be having hysterics. "Yes. It was they only way they could move you safely."