Page 105 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“We could make all those lost years not matter,” he pleaded. “Surely we could if we desired it enough.”
She placed her fingers against his lips to gently silence him. “You will only give us both more pain if you try to pursue this dream. I beg you say no more. This time when we part, let it be as friends.”
He slumped against his seat. Belle feared he meant to give way to despair. But the age-old dignity of the Comte de Egremont came to his rescue. “As you wish, my dear,” he said quietly.
After such a discussion it seemed intolerable to both of them to remain closed together within the carriage. Jean-Claudealighted first, handing her down. Belle discovered Sinclair sitting up on the coachman’s box, Baptiste pacing by the front wheels.
“I have never known Crecy’s men to be late,” Baptiste grumbled to her. “They would be delayed on one of the coldest nights thus far this year.”
“I am sure—” Belle never finished what she had been about to say. The thud of hoofbeats carried to where they stood, the sound of a mount crashing through the brush.
“At last,” Jean-Claude said, brightening.
But Belle tensed, listening. She caught Baptiste’s worried frown and knew he was thinking the same thing.
“Something is not right,” she muttered. “It sounds like a single rider and coming through the forest, not by the road.”
She turned to call up to Sinclair, to warn him as the pounding of hooves drew nearer. The next instant a horse and rider burst through the thicket onto the road. The stallion’s mane whipped back, flowing black as the cape of the man astride him, both seeming phantom-spawned of the night and that secret primeval darkness which was the depths of the Rouvray.
Belle froze with dread as the beast charged toward her. She heard Jean-Claude’s gasp, and Sinclair’s warning shout as he scrambled for Baptiste’s blunderbuss.
But she could not tear her gaze from the rider. He sawed at the reins, dragging his horse to such a violent halt, the beast’s head jerked to one side, its eyes rolling wildly. The man’s hood flew back, revealing Lazare’s ravaged features, his lips pulled back in a snarl of hatred. Belle caught the flash of a pistol in his hand and read her death in his eyes.
Before she could react, Baptiste dived forward, shoving her aside. The pistol went off in a blaze of blue fire. The sound rang in her ears, but she felt herself unharmed. With a savage curse, Lazare struggled to control his plunging mount.
Another shot cracked through the clearing as Sinclair leveled Baptiste’s ancient weapon, but missed. The sound only served to terrify Lazare’s horse. The stallion reared and threw him to the ground, where he lay stunned.
Jean-Claude tugged at her arm. “Isabelle, you must get back inside the safety of the coach.”
Belle shook him off, her alarmed gaze drawn to Baptiste as he sagged against the coach wheel, his knees buckling beneath him.
“Baptiste!” she cried, breaking his fall. A cry of pain breached the old man’s lips, his face drawn white as he tottered into her arms. As he sank down, Belle’s hand came away, sticky with blood.
“No!” she whispered. “Oh, God. No!”
With Jean-Claude’s help, she eased Baptiste to the ground, her one thought to stay the crimson flow spreading over his chest. She was oblivious to all further danger.
Although stunned by his fall, Lazare regained his feet. With a bestial snarl, he drew forth the knife from his belt, the blade glinting in the moonlight. Sinclair leapt down from the coach, flying at him.
The two men toppled to the ground, grappling for possession of the knife, Lazare fought with almost inhuman strength, his rage-crazed eyes glaring up at Sinclair. But Sinclair’s heart fired with a fury of his own, a tempest of anger such as he had never felt.
“Drop the blade, maggot, before I crush your arm.”
Lazare spat in his face. With a violent jerk Lazare nearly broke Sinclair’s grasp. The tip of the knife glanced off Sinclair’s throat. He barely deflected the deadly slice. Clenching his teeth, he forced the blade hand down, cracking Lazare’s fingers against a jagged stone to the sound of splintering bone. Lazare screamed, releasing the blade.
Sinclair drew back his fist and drove it against Lazare’s hate-twisted features again and again, his hand smearing with blood. Lazare’s head snapped back and he was still. With great difficulty, Sinclair stopped himself from meting out the punishing blows. A low groan assured him that Lazare was still alive. Yanking off the man’s own scarf, Sinclair used the silk to bind Lazare’s hands behind his back.
Only then did he turn back to face the scene unfolding by the side of the coach. Belle hovered over Baptiste, his head pillowed on her garrick as she tried futilely to stop the flow of blood from the gaping wound in his chest. As Sinclair approached with halting step, he met Jean-Claude’s gaze above her. Looking at Sinclair, the comte sadly shook his head.
“Damn you Baptiste,” Belle cried. “What sort of trick was this to play upon me? Now I shall have to return to your wretched Paris to nurse you back to health.”
Even through his pain, Baptiste managed a crooked smile. “Non,mon ange. Not this time.”
Belle felt a lump form in her throat, hard, burning. She wanted to deny Baptiste’s words, but she could feel the old man’s life slipping away beneath her hands.
“You should have let him shoot me! Oh, Baptiste, what have I done to you? I should have left you alone amongst your fans to live in peace. I should have …”
She could not go on. His hand closed round hers and squeezed, those slender, clever fingers already so cold. “No regrets,” he rasped. “I have none. You forget that it was I who chose. I had brothers once, avenging to do of my own.”
