‘Not with her. Not like that. Not like before.’
‘Then where.’
She threw up her hands. ‘Anywhere but England. Anywhere away from fear.’
‘Make this the first step, then. Give me your gun.’
‘No.’
‘No one will be able to save you if you are searched. Not even me. There is no reason for a humble leather worker to hold such a weapon and that is where the danger lies.’
She swallowed, her tongue wetting her dry lips, and he looked away as his body tightened. ‘There’d be nothing left to fight with if they take us.’
‘Save wisdom, I think. And luck.’
‘Poor counterparts to a well-aimed bullet, Major.’
‘There is an army behind every soldier. Shoot one and they will all be after us.’
‘They already are.’
‘But not with such a personal vengeance. Escape depends on good contingency planning and a well-prepared charade. Not reactive force.’
He knew the second she gave in as she reached into her pocket and handed him the pistol. ‘Your protection had better be as robust as it is rumoured to be, Major Shayborne.’
‘I promise I will give my life to keep you safe, Miss Fournier, and that your enemies will have to walk across my dead body to get to you.’
He took the pistol in one hand and squeezed her fingers with the other, pleased as the warmth of them momentarily curled about his own. It was odd to be on such formal terms after what they had shared this night.
* * *
She wanted to hold on. She wanted to press into him and tell him of all that had happened to her. But she couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.
The small, quick connection was as much as she might hope for out here in the no man’s land of war, where even a simple mistake could see them both dead.
He looked tired this morning, the scratches she had left on his neck red and angry when he turned to deposit the gun in a box on the table. She hoped they hurt almost as much as she prayed that they didn’t.
She wanted to believe that he might drag her through the hundreds of miles of enemy territory to safety without betraying her. The face of Caroline Debussy came to mind and she shook it away, for once the woman had been like a mother to her before she knew the truth of her father’s murder. There was no faith left in anything.
‘We should go.’ She walked away and felt him follow behind her, his silence welcome.
Outside it was warm, the promise of greater heat carried on the wind that blew in from the south. She was wearing too many clothes and the jacket without the weight of her gun in the pocket felt peculiar.
Summer was dressed simply in his tunic, scapular and cowl, the hood pulled back so his face was on show. Watching him, Celeste saw the finesse and the solidness that held him apart from other men. The persona of a Catholic priest was in the kind lilt of his face and in the soft use of his hands, a religious man who walked as though the world was still new and beautiful and there were angels and not beggars on each side of him.
The children of the streets were numerous this morning and his kind face brought them to his side. There was no sign of the soldier, no hint of a man of war and espionage.
He humbly held out the last of the bread he’d taken from his bag and shared it whilst reciting a verse from the Bible.
‘For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.’
She could hear the accent of the western mountains in his French today. His feet were bare and his nails were dirty. The stubble of two days lay upon his jaw and upper lip, catching all the colours of light.
But Summerley Shayborne was so much more than he seemed. There was a solidity about him and an innate goodness.
A group of soldiers further up had the urchins scattering. ‘May God go with you,’ he called after them, his hands held together now under his chin in the sign of prayer as the men approached. ‘And with you, too, brave sirs. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith.’
He was rustling through his bag now, bringing out the faded portrait of her father’s ancestor. ‘In the name of the patron saint of St Barbara, I invoke success and protection so that your journey will be a kind one and a safe one and you will return home unscathed into the heart of your families.’
