The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(34)
That door didn’t open, but a key rattled in the lock of the door to the room. In desperation, she tore the rosary from her belt and pushed it through the hole in the window, then dashed across the room and threw herself into one of the repulsive chairs.
It was the comte. He glanced round, worried for an instant, and then his face relaxed when he saw her. He came toward her, holding out his hand.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, mademoiselle,” he said, very courtly. “Come, please. I have something to show you.”
“I don’t want to see it.” She stiffened a little and tucked her feet under her, to make it harder for him to pick her up. If she could just delay him until Michael came out! But he might well not see her rosary or, even if he did, know it was hers. Why should he? All nuns’ rosaries looked the same!
She strained her ears, hoping to hear the sounds of departure on the other side of the street—she’d scream her lungs out. In fact …
The comte sighed a little but bent and took her by the elbows, lifting her straight up, her knees still absurdly bent. He was really very strong. She put her feet down, and there she was, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, being led across the room toward the door, docile as a cow on its way to be milked! She made her mind up in an instant, yanked free, and ran to the smashed window.
“HELP!” she bellowed through the broken pane. “Help me, help me! Au secours, I mean! AU SECOU—” The comte’s hand clapped across her mouth, and he said something in French that she was sure must be bad language. He scooped her up, so fast that the wind was knocked out of her, and had her through the door before she could make another sound.
* * *
Michael didn’t pause for hat or cloak but burst into the street, so fast that his driver started out of a doze and the horses jerked and neighed in protest. He didn’t pause for that, either, but shot across the cobbles and pounded on the door, a big bronze-coated affair that boomed under his fists.
It couldn’t have been very long but seemed an eternity. He fumed, pounded again, and, pausing for breath, caught sight of the rosary on the pavement. He ran to catch it up, scratched his hand, and saw that it lay in a scatter of glass fragments. At once he looked up, searching, and saw the broken window just as the big door opened.
He sprang at the butler like a wildcat, seizing him by the arms.
“Where is she? Where, damn you?”
“She? But there is no ‘she,’ monsieur.… Monsieur le Comte lives quite alone. You—”
“Where is Monsieur le Comte?” Michael’s sense of urgency was so great, he felt that he might strike the man. The man apparently felt he might, too, because he turned pale and, wrenching himself loose, fled into the depths of the house. With no more than an instant’s hesitation, Michael pursued him.
The butler, his feet fueled by fear, flew down the hall, Michael in grim pursuit. The man burst through the door to the kitchen; Michael was dimly aware of the shocked faces of cooks and maids, and then they were out into the kitchen garden. The butler slowed for an instant going down the steps, and Michael launched himself at the man, knocking him flat.
They rolled together on the graveled path, then Michael got on top of the smaller man, seized him by the shirtfront, and, shaking him, shouted, “WHERE IS HE?”
Thoroughly undone, the butler covered his face with one arm and pointed blindly toward a gate in the wall.
Michael leapt off the supine body and ran. He could hear the rumble of coach wheels, the rattle of hooves—he flung open the gate in time to see the back of a coach rattling down the allée and a gaping servant paused in the act of sliding to the doors of a carriage house. He ran, but it was clear that he’d never catch the coach on foot.
“JOAN!” he bellowed after the vanishing equipage. “I’m coming!”
He didn’t waste time in questioning the servant but ran back, pushing his way through the maids and footmen gathered round the cowering butler, and burst out of the house, startling his own coachman afresh.
“That way!” he shouted, pointing toward the distant conjunction of the street and the allée, where the comte’s coach was just emerging. “Follow that coach! Vite!”
* * *
“Vite!” The comte urged his coachman on, then sank back, letting fall the hatch in the roof. The light was fading; his errand had taken longer than he’d expected, and he wanted to be out of the city before night fell. The city streets were dangerous at night.
His captive was staring at him, her eyes enormous in the dim light. She’d lost her postulant’s veil, and her dark hair was loose on her shoulders. She looked charming but very scared. He reached into the bag on the floor and pulled out a flask of brandy.
“Have a little of this, chérie.” He removed the cork and handed it to her. She took it but looked uncertain what to do with it, nose wrinkling at the hot smell.
“Really,” he assured her. “It will make you feel better.”
“That’s what they all say,” she said in her slow, awkward French.
“All of whom?” he asked, startled.
“The Auld Ones. I don’t know what you call them in French, exactly. The folk that live in the hills—souterrain?” she added doubtfully. “Underground?”
“Underground? And they give you brandy?” He smiled at her, but his heart gave a sudden thump of excitement. Perhaps she was. He’d doubted his instincts when his touch failed to kindle her, but clearly she was something.