Page 74 of The Rebellious Countess
She wanted to smack him for putting on such a display, but then he spoke in that beautiful French dialect she’d adored.
“My name is Elias Maximilien Allistair Drake, and I am here on a mission for my grandfather.”
Máira blinked. EliasMaximilienAllistair Drake? Just days ago, he’d said his name was EliasAllistairDrake.
He lied. Again.
The soldier laughed and jutted his pistol in her direction and then Sébastien’s. She pulled the boy behind her and focused on translating his French in her head. “With two boys? And what is that on your shoulders? Drop it.”
Elias stood tall, scowling at the soldier who didn’t care to be ignored. The soldier cocked his pistol.
Elias dropped the earl like a sack of grain. His feet hit first and then his upper body. The blanket that had covered him, somehow unfurled about his body, obscuring what was underneath. Simon groaned, and Sébastien immediately followed it with a curse a boy his age shouldn’t know and hopped around as if Elias had dropped the earl on his toes.“Mon Dieu!” he cursed.
The boy was a good spy.
“Do you not recognize my name?” Elias asked, completely unfazed by what was happening behind him as he took on the air of nobility. Was he French nobility? Did that carry any weight in France anymore? Or would they want to chop off his head?
The soldier’s head cocked slightly, as if he were contemplating Elias’s self-importance. In the soldier’s silence, Elias clarified his identity forallof them. “Elias MaximilienAllistair Drake, the grandson of the Minister of War for France. My grandfather is also Chief of Staff to Napoleon Bonaparte. Would you like to verify my identity with Napoleon himself? He is my godfather, after all.”
Her heart stuttered. The soldier’s grin faltered and his gaze strayed to the blanket on the ground when Simon moaned.
That was all it took. Elias charged. His large body slamming into the soldier’s. The two collided in a bundle of arms, legs, and weapons, their bodies coming together in a blur. The pistoldischarged, the sound rolling across the piazza to reverberate off the arched walkway.
“Move!” Sébastien’s young voice held a desperation she had not heard before. The boy stood behind her with Elias’s large pistol swaying in his grip.
“Sébastien, put the gun down,” she ordered, and held her hands out to him, hoping the motion of her palms down pressing to the ground would calm the boy. His brow drew downward as he bit his lip. His eyes were wild, his movements jerky. He appeared too stunned to grasp what was happening around him as the fight raged on at her back. Elias was fighting for their lives with a soldier who was larger, more seasoned, and less affected by killing.
“He’s the war minister’s grandson! It’s a trap, he will kill the earl! Move!” Sébastien waved the pistol and she was almost certain he’d not had a chance to load it—but Elias had.
“He’s not the enemy, Sébastien.”
Sébastien moved to the side, his view of Elias clear, the pistol in his hand aimed at her husband’s back.
“No!” She swung at the gun, knocking it from Sébastien’s hands. The gun hit the gate and bounced down the steps toward the sea. Sébastien didn’t hesitate, he ran for the fight and jumped on Elias’s back. Desperate to stop the carnage, she entered the fray as fists swung and heads collided. Elias tried desperately to protect her and Sébastien—the soldier did not. A fist struck her shoulder, and pain radiated through her body as she staggered backward. She reached for her knife ready to kill another Frenchman for the man she loved.
Elias cursed. “Máira, get him out of here!” The hussar’s fist hit Elias in the nose sending blood everywhere.
“Bastard,” he gritted out, and tackled the man to the ground.
She ran forward and put her knife to the man’s neck, the blade firmly held against his flesh.
Everyone froze.
But it wasn’t because of the threat her knife delivered. It was the much larger blade extending in-between the faces of the two men on the ground and biting into skin. Onherneck. The blade pricked, and the hussar on the ground with her knife to his neck smiled. Máira slowly tilted her head back to look up at this new threat to her life and their escape.
Additional gold braiding and red ribbons, along with bear fur on the man’s jacket marked his higher rank, but the gold belt for his scabbard and his bizarrely baggy red trousers screamed that the rules of standard issue uniform did not apply to this man. He was a hussar of great import. He led soldiers, and he held everything in the balance as he stood over them with his long, curled mustache pointing toward the sky and twitching with his grin.
“Despite all her machinations, it seems fate has insisted I meet my lover’s son after all.” With every word the new hussar seemed to mock them, but his words were meant for Elias and they hit with great force.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he muttered.
Eighteen
My Lord Duke,
I have located the tavern where Lady Máira was last seen. The Happy Hag is indeed run by a woman who only goes by the name of Hag. She is a hard woman, who seems to be under a great deal of duress at the moment. I am told this is not her usual demeanor, which I can only deduce has something to do with the recent visit of an English privateer and a lady with dubious knowledge of the French language.
I regret to inform you that the Englishman was killed, and my source says he was a spy for Maximilien de Danton, the Minister of War for France. His name, however, was unknown and Hag would not speak of it. She, in fact, threw me out of her establishment with the aid of her righthand man, a man of little words but a great deal of brawn and loyalty to his proprietress.
