Page 8 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Both Belle and the deserter turned to stare at the slender figure who had crept up behind them. Phillipe looked absurdly youthful, his face taut with anger, the sword wavering in his hand.
“I said get away from her, you cowardly dog.” The boy advanced closer. “Prepare to defend yourself if you are even half a man.”
Belle stilled a groan. She tugged at the soldier, attempting to draw him away from Phillipe. “Pay no heed to him. He is just a foolish boy.”
But the deserter shook her off with a vicious laugh. He faced Phillipe, drawing his own weapon. The man’s mouth widenedinto a wolfish smile. “Why, you strutting bantam. I’ll cut you in two.”
Phillipe trembled, but held his ground.
“No!” Belle cried. She attempted to step in between the two men, but the soldier’s arm lashed out, knocking her aside. She lost her balance and fell heavily to the ground. Before she could roll over, she heard the horrible rasp of steel against steel.
Struggling to a sitting position, she saw the deserter beating back Phillipe’s blade. Whatever the Chevalier Coterin had taught his son, it certainly could not have been how to use his sword. Even drunk, the deserter was more than a match for the boy. The man easily slipped past Phillipe’s guard and nicked the boy’s cheek.
So much for handling this matter quietly, Belle thought. She shoved herself to her feet. Drawing the pistol from its place of concealment in the muff, she cocked it.
“Stop!” she commanded. “Both of you. Put up your swords.”
But with one deft movement, the soldier sent Phillipe’s weapon flying from his clumsy grasp.
Belle took aim at the soldier. “Hold or I’ll shoot.”
The man didn’t seem to hear her. Like a beast, crazed by the scent of a kill, the soldier drew back his sword. Phillipe flung up his hands, bracing himself.
Belle fired. The report of the pistol was deafening, the shot reverberating through the still night air. The soldier wavered, his sword arm yet upraised. He blinked, staring down at the flow of crimson splashing down his chest. Then the man staggered, collapsing into a heap at Phillipe’s feet.
Belle froze, but only for an instant. She ran to Phillipe’s side and caught him by the sleeve. “Back to the coach. Hurry!”
But Phillipe didn’t move. His face white, he stared at the fallen soldier, then at the smoking pistol in her hand.
The shutters of a window above them banged open. Another soldier thrust his head out, his blue coat outlined by the light shining behind him.
“Qu’est que c’est ca? Jacques? Is that you?”
“Come on!” Belle wrenched Phillipe, nearly setting him off balance. He snapped out of his trancelike state.
Both of them tore off running and stumbling through the dark. The distance back to the stableyard seemed endless. Belle’s heart hammered, her lungs aching by the time she drew within sight of the carriage. She cried out with relief to see the new team hitched in the traces, Feydeau pacing in a fit of impatience.
“Where the devil—” the old man started to growl.
“Get us out of here,” Belle gasped.
Although Feydeau glared, he moved quickly to obey. Belle all but shoved Phillipe into the carriage. She scrambled up after him, slamming the door shut just as the coach lurched forward.
As the vehicle swayed into movement, Belle reached for the pouch stuffed in the corner of the seat.
“What—what—” Madame Coterin started to wail.
“Be quiet!” Belle drew forth some powder and shot, struggling to reload in the semidarkness of the jouncing coach. Between Madame’s praying and Sophie’s whimpers, Belle strained to hear the outcry of pursuit.
When the pistol was loaded, she scooted to the coach window and peered out. The village of Lillefleur had receded into darkness, the night quiet except for the rattle of the berline. No tocscin rang from the church steeple to alert the countryside, no gallop of mounted riders took up the chase,
The minutes ticked by, marked by the rumble of wheels putting distance between them and the posting station. Holding a handkerchief to his injured cheek, Phillipe also glanced out.
“Why is no one coming after us?”
“Probably because the people of Lillefleur know how to tend their own business better than I do,” Belle muttered. As for the deserter’s comrades, likely they had been too drunk.
Belle’s fear gave way to anger at herself for taking such a stupid risk by leaving the coach in the first place, and anger at the guileless young man seated opposite her. The moonlight accented Phillipe’s pale face as he regarded her gravely.
