“What happened?” she asked, her voice carried a detached coolness that Michael couldn’t help but note as the mark of a true soldier. Fact and logical reasoning. Once again, he was more than a little impressed.
“I’m not sure.” He stared forward, bracing himself as she jerked the reins to the right at a hard angle that almost sent the carriage careening sideways as the horses did their best to follow, turning down a narrower street. “He got shot and William insisted we leave him behind.”
She looked at him then, her eyes narrowing as if she thought to learn more by simply regarding his face. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair had half come undone—strands flying backward in the wind. And all Michael could do was stare—she looked magnificent.
“Here,” she said, thrusting a pistol into his lap. “It was under the seat. I suggest you take a look back there and let me know how we’re doing. We can’t keep riding about until the horses give out. Somehow we have to lose them.”
Nodding his understanding, Michael turned half about and braced his hand against the hood of the cabin. It was a precarious position to say the least—especially with the way Alexandra was driving, but it afforded him the necessary backward glance.
“Well?” she asked just as the carriage lurched left and turned down another street.
Michael couldn’t help but wonder if he ought to start praying as he held on for dear life, fearful of toppling overboard. Straightening, he soon managed to regain his position just as the other carriage rounded the corner. “They’re still after us . . . and gaining, it would seem.” In fact, he was rather sure of that detail since he was now able to make out the murderous twinkle in Bertrand’s eyes as he raised his pistol and . . . “Get down!”
The shot rang out with a deafening force. “Are you all right?” Michael asked.
Alexandra nodded. “I think it’s about time you did something.”
Under normal circumstances, he would have shot a remark right back at her, but he knew she was right. Besides, this was no time for lightheartedness and if they didn’t get rid of their pursuers they’d very likely find themselves killed. Resuming his position, he noted that Bertrand was busy reloading. It wouldn’t take him long, but it might just give Michael the reprieve he required. Stilling himself as much as possible against the bumpy ride, he took aim and fired. A loud yell sounded, and he watched as the other carriage lurched, the coachman gripping his arm while Bertrand shouted a string of oaths in utter rage. Michael took advantage, aimed again, and fired. “Merde!” Bertrand roared as something clattered away in the distance.
“What happened?” Alexandra asked, whipping the reins to increase the horses’ pace.
“I believe our count has dropped his pistol. His coachman’s wounded and his carriage seems to have slowed marginally.”
“Just marginally?”
They rounded yet another corner to the sound of splintering glass as one of the side lanterns struck a wall and shattered. “Good God, woman! We’ll be lucky if we don’t lose the wheels the way you’re handling this thing.”
She shot him a glance that was clearly meant to admonish. “If you think you can do better, then by all means, be my guest.”
“Gladly!” he replied, trying not so smile in response to the look of annoyance that wrinkled her features. Grabbing the reins, he kept up the pace while smoothing the horses’ gait and, he hoped, allowing for a less bumpy ride.
“Is that you, Michael?” he heard Ryan call from somewhere inside the cabin. Or perhaps the younger Summersby was hanging out the window, he really couldn’t tell.
“Yes,” he shouted back.
“I knew it!” And Michael couldn’t help but hear the note of appreciation in Ryan’s voice—apparently, he hadn’t been the only one who’d thought Alexandra was a far worse coachwoman than most. She said nothing in response, though Michael sensed that she probably rolled her eyes.
“Turn here,” she suddenly said, and he did.
“Where are we going?”
“I’ve no idea, but we’ve a better chance of losing them if we don’t keep to the same road indefinitely.”
It made sense.
A few turns later, at Alexandra’s direction, they barreled out onto rue du Louvre, barely managing to dodge another carriage which, luckily enough, managed to block Bertrand, increasing the distance between them by another five seconds. Michael maneuvered the horses to the left until they were running parallel with the River Seine.
“We’ll have to jump!”
Michael recognized William’s voice coming from behind him. “What did he say?” he asked Alexandra as he whipped the reins to encourage the horses. He wasn’t at all sure he’d heard him correctly.
“We have to jump,” she repeated. “Bertrand won’t stop, and as long as we’re sitting in this carriage we’re nothing but a big target. He’ll catch up with us eventually, of that you may be certain.”
Michael gave her a sidelong glance. Her face was serious—deadly so. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll jump in the water, but we’ll need cover. If we jump now, he’ll see us.”
“What do you propose?”
Something stirred inside him as she asked the question. For a moment he couldn’t tell what it was, but then it dawned on him. She trusted him implicitly, and it warmed his heart and soul in a way few things ever had. “I’ll make a sharp turn at the next bridge. We’ll have to be quick, no doubt about it, but if we can manage, the carriage ought to shield us when we jump.” He began securing the reins so the horses would keep on running once he let them slip. “Do you think you might be able to climb down to your brothers? I know it won’t be—”
She was already on her way, no doubt balancing in a highly dangerous fashion as the carriage bounced along the street. All Michael could do was hope that she didn’t fall off when he made the turn.
Approaching the bridge, Michael glanced back one last time, his eyes squinting against the darkness. Bertrand’s carriage was still visible, though not as clear as it would have been in the light of day, and that gave Michael hope. Now, if only he could find some means by which to distract him as well. Turning the horses onto the bridge, he angled himself, aimed his pistol at the carriage lantern that hung just left of Bertrand’s shoulder, and fired—a loud crack sounded, followed by a splintering burst. And then, without a moment’s hesitation or further thoughts for his own safety, Michael turned around and jumped.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The water was freezing—much colder than Alexandra would have expected as she splashed about, gasping for air. She’d have to make a mental note that swimming in an evening gown was not the easiest thing in the world.
“This way,” William said in an urgent whisper, pointing toward a spot where the embankment appeared to be completely shrouded in darkness.
Alexandra watched as Ryan followed. “Where’s Michael?” she hissed, looking about as she began making slow, even strokes through the water. If anything had happened to him . . .
“Right here.” Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice coming up behind her, and she suddenly realized with shocking alarm, just how frightened she’d been for his safety. “Miss me?”
“Just making sure we all made it,” she muttered, reaching the shore in another two strokes and grabbing hold of Ryan’s outstretched hand. Michael was beside her in a second, his dripping wet hair falling into his eyes.
“And here I was, thinking that you might be just a little concerned for my safety,” he said and sighed in a highly disappointed fashion as he placed his hand against his chest in mock pain. “I’m crushed.”
“Michael, I do believe you missed your calling—the theatre,” Ryan said, grinning.
“Really? I always did wonder how I might fare in the role of Romeo,” Michael said, as if he was seriously contemplating such a drastic career change.
“Now that I’d like to see,” William said, his eyes darting toward the bridge. “Do you think he fell for it?”
“Bertrand?” Michael asked, his voice returning to the severity of their present situation.
Alexandra was stunned as she tried to follow their odd conversation, unable to wonder if Michael had even as much as glanced at the pages of Romeo and Juliet before.
“I believe he did,” Michael was saying. “Though it might be wise for us to get moving—he won’t be fooled forever.”
“Well, we can’t go back to the apartment,” Ryan said. “It’s too risky.”
Michael’s face seemed to harden. It looked to Alexandra as though he was going over all their options in his head. “Agreed.” His voice was low but assertive, and then his eyes shot toward William. “Any ideas?”
“What about the house?” William suggested.
Alexandra stared at him. What house? What was he talking about now?
Michael nodded, apparently quite aware of what William was referring to. “I did consider it myself. I just wasn’t sure if—”
“Come along,” William said, already striding away. “We’d best hurry.”
Alexandra blinked. She hated to just tag along without knowing every little detail of where they were going or what to expect. She looked at Ryan, but found no dumbfounded ally there. Instead, he merely shrugged his shoulders and headed after William.
“Do you plan to stand there for the rest of the night, or will you join us?” Michael asked.
She felt her feet begin to move. “Will you please tell me where we’re going?”
He grinned ever so slightly, and it was enough to force her head around to look at him. But his expression wasn’t one of amusement as she’d expected. Instead, his eyes were sweeping over her in a most approving fashion. “I do believe we ought to get you wet more often,” he murmured, so seductively that she couldn’t fight the flash of heat that assaulted her body.
“Please answer the question,” she said, trying for an unaffected voice and failing miserably. He chuckled, quite openly enjoying her sudden discomfort. Annoying man. If only she had a club so she could hit him over the head with it.
“Very well,” Michael said, his voice returning to a more serious tone. “There’s a small house on the outskirts of the city—a place the foreign office keeps in the event that an agent’s cover becomes compromised. There won’t be a staff, so we’ll have to take care of ourselves for however long we remain there.” He paused. “I hope you can handle food better than you handled heating milk.”
Alexandra halted in her tracks. “What—” she barely managed.
“You know—the process of making food.”
She searched for the humor in his eyes, convinced that he must be mocking her somehow, but there was none. Apparently he really expected her to start keeping house. “Urgh!” Would anyone really blame her if she strangled him now? Clenching her hands at her sides, she raised her chin and turned away to march off after her brothers, muttering a string of unveiled oaths that were very clearly directed at the man she’d just walked away from. Her gown clung to her body while her hair flopped in a most ungraceful manner, the water from it dripping down her back. And if she would have turned, if she would only have looked back at Michael, she would have seen that he was smiling with unabashed pleasure.