“I mean you no harm. Mademoiselle Renault is inside,” he said. “She needs tending. Some tea or maybe brandy if you have it.”
Without a word, the woman hurried past him, calling her dog to follow, before disappearing inside the manor and closing the door. He dragged Guillaume farther away from the house, onto a grassy patch beside a paddock fence.
Next, Malcolm searched for the other man who’d been mentioned, the Renault employee he’d been expecting to find, not two dangerously unpredictable Bonapartists with no plan and even less brains.
In a few minutes, he found him tied up behind a shed with signs he’d been ambushed and overpowered.
“Is she unharmed?” the man asked as soon as the gag was out of his mouth.
Malcolm explained what had happened while he untied him. After being helped to his feet, the man staggered.
“You’re injured,” Malcolm said. “Were you shot?”
“No, monsieur. But my head feels heavy as lead.” Reaching behind and touching the back of his skull, he brought his hand forward, and Malcolm saw it was smeared with blood.
“Let me look,” Malcolm said, examining the man’s head. “It’s not bleeding anymore, and you’re lucky it’s not cracked open. But you have an egg.”
“An egg?” the man repeated, looking mystified.
Malcolm wasn’t sure what euphemism the French used for a bash to the head, so he gave up. It wasn’t important.
“Do you know your name?”
“Of course. I am Michel Anselme.”
That was a good sign. The Renault employee hadn’t been knocked senseless. Draping Michel’s arm around his shoulder, Malcolm started back toward the manor house, but after a few steps, the man doubled over and vomited onto the dirt between his feet.
Malcolm handed him a handkerchief as he would to a crying or sneezing female at a ball. Gratefully, Michel rubbed his face with it.
“That hurt like hell,” he remarked. “I think I’ve got a broken rib. Maybe two.”
Malcolm could well understand why. Guillaume had packed quite a punch, and his own mid-section felt decidedly tender.
“I hoped you could help me with a burial, but you’re in no condition. I’ll get you inside and see if there is someone else who can assist me.”
“There are workers in the field, tending the vines.” Michel pointed to the hills beyond the paddock. “Ask for Pierre. Tell him what happened. I can get indoors by myself.”
Malcolm watched him go, moving slowly, stopping to wretch again. Then he set about finding help and burying the body. He supposed the other man, Jean-Paul, would be hell-bent for Paris by now. He had a feeling that one hadn’t wanted to be there. He certainly hadn’t wanted to play a part in Guillaume’s violence. Nevertheless, if Jean-Paul spoke into certain ears, it could bring more trouble in the form of Imperial Guards, racing from the city to find Serena before she escaped their reach forever.
Malcolm was determined to make sure they were too late.
