How did you know where to find me? Arceneaux asked when Sebastian paused some ten feet away from him.
I remembered what you told me, about liking to come here.
The Frenchman tilted back his head, the wind off the water ruffling the hair around his face. Are you going to turn me in?
No.
Arceneaux took a long breath, eyes closing, nostrils flaring, lips pressed into a tight smile as he drew the air deep within him.
Do you smell it? It s the sea. The same sea that at this very moment is swelling the estuary of the Rance and battering the stone ramparts of Saint-Malo.
Sebastian stood very still, the growing wind tugging at the tails of his coat.
Sometimes I wonder if I ll ever see any of it again, said Arceneaux. We have the illusion of being free here, but we re not really. Whatever happened to all the prisoners of the Hundred Years War? Do you know? What happens to the prisoners of a war that never ends? Is this my destiny, I wonder? To live out my life alone in a dusty, dark garret, scrabbling for a few shillings here and there, teaching bored little boys to speak French and His voice cracked and he shook his head.
Sebastian said, Two weeks ago, Mr. Hildeyard Tennyson asked the daughter of one of his associates for her hand in marriage. Word of the betrothal was kept private due to the intended bride s recent bereavement. But I can t believe Miss Tennyson didn t tell you, her dear, beloved friend.
For a moment, Arceneaux sat motionless. Then Chien nuzzled his head against his friend s side. The Frenchman ran one hand down the dog s back, his attention seemingly focused on his companion. She told me, yes.
I ll admit the significance of Tennyson s betrothal escaped me at first. But as my wife far more acute in such matters than I pointed out, a woman of Miss Tennyson s temperament and independent ways would never have continued living as a mere sister-in-law and hanger-on in the houses where she herself had been mistress for more than a decade.
Arceneaux continued to stare silently out over the river, his hand running up and down the dog s back.
Sebastian said, She must have been upset and in need of comfort. You had already declared your love for her. Yet you would have me believe that you still didn t ask her to marry you? That you didn t press her to marry you?
No. The world was a soft, halfhearted lie nearly lost in the wind.
Sebastian quoted,
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
To honor thy decree
Or bid it languish quite away,
And t shall do so for thee.
He paused, then said, Were you thinking about violating your parole and going back to France?
No!
I think you were. I think you changed your mind because Gabrielle Tennyson finally agreed to marry you. Sebastian suspected that was probably when the two lovers had first lain together, but he wasn t going to say it.
Arceneaux scrambled to his feet and took a hasty step forward, only to draw up short. All right, damn you! It s true. I thought about escaping. Do you imagine there is a prisoner of war anywhere who doesn t sometimes dream of breaking his parole and escaping? Who isn t tempted?
Sebastian stared at the young French lieutenant. In the fitful moonlight his face was pale, his eyes like sunken bruises in a pain-ravaged face. The wind ruffled the fine brown hair around his head, flapped the tails of his coat. Sebastian had the impression the man was holding himself together by a sheer act of will. But he was coming dangerously close to shattering.
Did she agree to marry you?
Rather than answer, the Frenchman simply nodded, his gaze turning to stare out over the wind-whipped waters of the river.
I m half sick of shadows, thought Sebastian, watching him. He said, There s something you re still not telling me. God damn it, Lieutenant; the woman you loved is dead. Who do you think killed her?
Arceneaux swung to face him again. You think if I knew who killed her, I wouldn t make them pay?
You may not be quite certain who is to blame. But you have some suspicions, and those suspicions are weighing heavily on you. It s why you re here now, risking your parole. Isn t it?
The wind gusted up, stronger now, scurrying the tumbling dark clouds overhead and obscuring the hazy sickle of the moon.
Who do you think killed her? Sebastian demanded again.
I don t know! The Frenchman s features contorted as if the words were being torn from him. I lie awake every night, wondering if I might somehow be responsible for the death of the woman I loved.
Why? pressed Sebastian. What makes you think you might be responsible?
Chien rose to his feet, his gaze fixed on the rubble-strewn bank, ears at half cock as he trotted a few steps toward the bridgehead and then stopped.
Arceneaux went to rest a hand on the dog s neck. What is it, boy? Hmm?
Sebastian was aware of an inexplicable but inescapable intimation of danger that quickened his breath and brought a burning tingle to the surface of his skin. He scanned the ruins of the ancient palace, his eyes narrowing as he studied the piles of stone and timber, the long line of broken wall with its empty windows a dark and melancholy tracery against the stormy sky.
Arceneaux, he said warningly, just as a belching tongue of flame erupted from the foundations of the old guard tower and the crack of a rifle shot echoed across the water.
Chapter 38
Get down! Sebastian shouted as he dove for cover behind the half-built cornice.
Looking back, he saw Arceneaux stagger, a bloom of shiny dark wetness spreading high across the center of his waistcoat.
Arceneaux!
The Frenchman s knees buckled slowly, his head tilting back, his face lifted as if he were looking at the sky.
Sebastian scrambled into the open to grab the man as he fell and dragged him into the protective lee of the stonework. Bloody hell, swore Sebastian, clutching the shuddering man to him.
Chien crouched beside them, his harsh barks splitting the night.
The entire front of the Frenchman s waistcoat was wet with blood, his mouth open and gasping in great sucking wheezes that blew little bubbles in the wet sheen on his chest.
Sebastian knew only too well what that meant.
He ripped off his cravat anyway and rolled it around his fist to form a thick pad.
No point Arceneaux whispered as Sebastian pressed the cloth against the gaping, oozing wound in his chest. Then he choked and blood poured from his mouth and nose.
You re going to be all right, Sebastian lied, hauling the wounded man up so that his back lay against Sebastian s own chest in a desperate attempt to keep Arceneaux from drowning in his own blood.
Arceneaux shook his head, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Gabrielle
Talk to me, Philippe, shouted Sebastian, the Frenchman s warm blood pouring over his hand as he desperately pressed the padded cloth to Arceneaux s shattered, jerking chest. Who would want to kill you?
The jerking stopped.
Philippe? Philippe!
Beside him, the dog whined, his nose thrusting against the Frenchman s limp hand.
Damn, said Sebastian on a hard expulsion of pent-up breath.
Despite the coolness of the rising wind, he was sweating, his breath coming in quick pants. Shifting carefully, he eased the Frenchman s weight off his own body. He could smell the acrid pinch of burnt powder, see the drift of gun smoke as he slewed around to peer cautiously over the edge of the stone wall.
Nothing.
He focused his gaze on the remnants of the old medieval tower that lay to the right and just below the broken stretch of palace wall. Most of the tower s superstructure was long gone, leaving only a curving section of stone foundation perhaps four feet high. Studying it, Sebastian estimated that the shooter s position lay some two hundred yards from where he crouched, possibly three. It would have been a difficult shot to make in good light on a calm day. At night, with clouds obscuring the moon and a wind kicking up, most men would have said it was impossible.