There was no time to think of that now. He had to escape. If he set foot in that taproom, he would never see England again.
Or Elizabeth.
There had to be another way out of the inn. He carefully retraced his footsteps down the dark winding corridor, past closed doors. Then light poured in, along with smells of cooking food and the sound of clanking dishes.
The kitchen. It was bound to have a back door. With any luck no one there would have heard the news yet. If he stayed silent, they would not discover he was English.
Pulling up the collar of his coat, he strode into the kitchen. There it was, just beyond the hearth. Ignoring the two women who turned to stare at him, he hurried through the door, finding himself in the back of the stable yard. A groom was harnessing fresh horses to the stagecoach.
Dare he try to get his satchel? It was in the overhead netting inside thediligence, so he would have to open the door to reach it. Too much of a risk, even if he could stay invisible for that long. And there were more grooms in the stable, so taking a horse was out of the question.
There was no choice. He would have to leave here on foot, with nothing more than the clothes on his back. At least he still had plenty of French coin, traded in Paris for his English gold. God only knew how he would get back to England, but first he had to avoid capture.
He cloaked himself in invisibility and walked out to the road. They had passed through a forest just before the inn; that would have to do as an escape route.
After walking for hours, following one path and then another, sometimes cutting across a field or meadow, Darcy found an abandoned hut. The latch was broken, and the door hung open, but it was shelter of a sort, and it was almost time for his connection to Elizabeth.
When the scale came alive, though, it was not Elizabeth. Or not only Elizabeth; he could sense her there, but also another presence, one he had felt in his mind before. The Eldest of the Dark Peak Nest.
The dragon’s voice resonated in his head.Think of what you saw of Napoleon.
Nothing could be easier; he had revisited the scene hundreds of times already, trying to comprehend it. He spewed it out to the Eldest in all its details.
The dragon’s touch in his mind was rougher than he remembered it, either because of the distance or the need for haste. Then, quickly, it was gone, and Elizabeth, too.
He sank back into a corner of the hut, regretting the lack of his precious moment with Elizabeth, but relieved that this heavy knowledge was in the hands of the Nest. Would Elizabeth somehow find a way to inform the War Office, too? Not that it would make much difference; all the might of the British Army and Navy could not hold against Napoleon the dragon.
He touched the silk handkerchief in his pocket, the one he had purchased for Elizabeth, as if it already carried an essence of her.
Once it was full dark, he built a small fire with sticks collected near the hut. He used his identity papers as kindling, since they were now a danger to him. Anything that identified him as British would put his life in danger. He would be better off claiming to be Swedish and saying that he had been robbed of hispasseport.
The flames cast little warmth but relieved the chill a bit. It did nothing to take his mind off his empty stomach, but he curled up in front of it, his coat wrapped as tightly around him as he could manage. Finally, he drifted off into a fitful sleep.
He awoke abruptly to the sound of barking in the distance. Wild dogs hunting in the forest?
He scrambled to his feet in sudden realization. Hunting, yes. Hunting for him. Of course the villagers would not let ten thousand gold napoleons slip through their fingers. They would turn over every stone to find him. Including sending out the dogs. They would have his scent, too, from the satchel he had left behind on thediligence.
He had to get away from here. But how? He could not outrun a dog in the forest. No matter how far he went, they would smell him. If he climbed a tree, they would bark at it until someone came.
Unless he used the dragon Artifact, the one that would block him from any sense except touch. The dogs would not smell, hear, or see him. It would let him escape this – but at a price. Once used, it would never work again. But if the dogs found him and he was captured, it would be too late.
His fingers itched to open the pendant, to save himself right now, but he waited. Perhaps they would lose his trail, or he might be able to fight his way out. He would wait until the last minute to use the Artifact.
The barking grew louder, definitely closer. Two different barks, and perhaps other dogs who might be silent.
Then an unearthly yowl filled the air, high-pitched and vibrant, a sound he recognized. Darcy froze. Even if there were lynxes in France, they would be in the wilderness, not this small patch of forest near a village.
A flurry of yipping from the dogs, another scream of outrage from the lynx, and the sound of scrabbling. And then silence.
Had the lynx frightened off the dogs? Could he be so fortunate?
Then an image formed in his head.Come.A presence he knew as well as his own voice.
How could his lynx have found his way to France? True, he had followed Darcy all over England, but surely he could not swim twenty miles of the English Channel. If lynxes could swim at all.
But his familiar had never led him astray, so he cautiously emerged from the hut. His lynx sat outside in the dim moonlight, looking completely at ease apart from the blood dripping from the side of his mouth. Apparently the dogs had not escaped unscathed.
You saved me, he sent. Would his lynx understand those words?
