Lady Scandal by Shannon Donnelly

it had been too long. So very, very long.
    His kiss deepened to something harsh,
something more demanding, and panic flared inside her.
    The clatter of hooves, and shouts from the
yard, gave her reason enough to at last drag herself from his
grip.
    Dazed, she rose from the bed. He stared at
her, eyes narrowed and an angry flare in them, but he seemed to
hear the commotion from below. His eyebrows lifted as he glanced
towards the open window.
    Alexandria moved to the window, heart
thudding hard and her stomach quivering—from Paxten, or the
alarming sounds coming from the stable yard? She did not stop to
find an answer. Instead, she brushed at her hair and looked
out.
    At the sight of the uniforms, she spun
around and the word came out with a panicked breath,
"Soldiers!"
    Paxten muttered something in French. Pushing
up from the bed, sheets tangled around his legs, he asked, "Where
are my breeches? And do you know, does this inn have a back
entrance?"
     
    #
     
    Frustration simmered in Taliaris. Having to
stop at every village for word of three women traveling in a coach
made for slow work. But he wanted no more mistakes. The trail had
been here and then gone, but always it led towards Calais. He still
could not believe it. Did these English have no sense to take side
roads? To vary their direction? Or were they so arrogant they did
not fear anyone would follow? Or perhaps he was on the wrong trail
entirely, following innocents who did not need to hide?
    That last worry made him cautious. And so he
took his time, stopping at every town, every village, every
farmhouse near a crossroad, accounting for every change of horse
they made and every glimpse of that black coach.
    They'd had one piece of luck—a footman had
indeed come back for Marie-Jeanne. Now they would see if he had
told them the truth when they had questioned him.
    Swinging off his horse, Taliaris handed the
reins to his orderly and watched as his lieutenant barked orders to
dismount. He glanced around this sorry excuse of a village. The
English had at last left the main road to come here. The footman
had not wanted to say anything—a loyalty Taliaris could admire,
even if it was misplaced. But putting a man in front of a firing
squad made most forget noble ideals in place of survival. Before
muskets could even be shouldered, the footman had betrayed the name
and direction of this village as the place where the English had
stopped.
    It had taken long enough, first to ride back
to interrogate the footman, and longer still to ride here. Would
the English still be here? Even if they weren't, his men needed
food, and their mounts needed water and rest. They would stop. And
he would hope their quarry had been foolish enough to feel safe and
remain.
    The landlord came out from his inn, a frown
in place as he took in the soldiers and horses in his yard.
Taliaris gave the man the same examination. Not every Frenchman
held a deep affection for the First Consul and those who served him
in the army. Some called Bonaparte the Little Corsican, never mind
that Corsica had been part of France for years. Others called him
dictator and murderer of the Revolution. Of course, they did not do
so in public. But Taliaris had heard the whispers.
    And this landlord did not look pleased to
see them.
    Wiping his hands on his apron, Gustave Lepic
singled out the man who seemed in command. Not the one shouting
orders. But the one who stood watching everyone else jump.
Armies—bah! Bad for business. Too often they ate and drank, and
when the time came for the bill, they said it ought to be a glory
to serve those who served France and left without paying. But he
kept those thoughts to himself and gave them a stupid grin.
    In troubled times, a fool might stay alive.
And these times seemed always troubled.
    He put on a smile. "Good day, General. And
what may I do for such fine soldiers of France? Is it food you
need? Drink? My brother owns the best vineyard in Champagne."
    No jovial smile