“We have a wash room and a large tub. I’ll show you. Do you have a change of clothes?”
“I’ll get my saddle bag.”
It wasn’t long before Malcolm was clean and in fresh clothing, seated beside her in a single-breasted green jacket and beige breeches on the back terrace. He ate heartily from a plate of Madame Lucie’s dish of tender braised chicken, bacon, mushrooms, and pearl onions in a buttery red wine and garlic sauce.
“Coq au vin,”he repeated when she told him what it was. “Absolutely delicious.”
Her stomach growled, and she stopped pushing the food around with her fork and took a bite. It was a comforting, satisfying dish, and she would be foolish not to keep up her strength before whatever came next.
Should she write to Felicity? What could she say to her?
“I couldn’t let him kill you,” Serena blurted, then set her fork down with a clatter, not having meant to say out loud what had been circling in her mind.
Malcolm reached over to cover her hand.
“Youcouldhave,” he said, “and thus, I am eternally grateful you didn’t.” Squeezing her fingers, he added, “You are not a soldier. It will be easy for you to blame yourself for that man’s death, but he chose to come here and to draw his weapon. He brought the fight to your door when he could have easily left you alone. And then he confronted you and threatened me.”
Malcolm released her with a shake of his head. “You shall have to let this go, mademoiselle. The blame is not only Guillaume’s. It is also mine. I should have shot him myself as soon as I walked in. Instead, because he was your friend, I thought he would be reasonable. If he’d been threatening to shoot you and I’d killed him, would you think any less of me?”
“No,” she said.
“Well, then.”
He was right, although she wouldn’t let herself off so easily. If only Guillaume had stayed in Paris.
The terrace door opened, and they were both on their feet before the man had taken a step. Malcolm raised his pistol, which had rested on the table beside him, but Serena held nothing but her fork. Regardless, she recognized him as an associate of her grand-père.
“There is no concern,” she told Malcolm. “I know him. Monsieur Bowes, is it not?”
“Oui,mademoiselle. Henri sent me with the message it is time to go.” He handed her a leather satchel. “There is a letter from him with instructions, money for passage, and another letter for the captain of a ship in Saint-Malo.”
“Saint-Malo?” Malcolm asked. “Not Le Havre?”
Serena introduced the men, and Malcolm laid down his pistol while her grand-père’s friend took off his riding coat, draping it over his arm, looking dusty and weary.
“Le Havre is not safe,” Monsieur Bowes explained. He cocked his head. “There is a ship in Saint-Malo that no one bothers about when she comes and goes.”
Serena understood then that she would depart upon a smuggler’s ship. Her grandparents had told her how French wine was still a welcome commodity in Britain, and authorities turned a blind eye to most of the traders in exchange for a fee.
“I saw Michel in the other room,” Monsieur Bowes added. “He doesn’t look well at all, but your grand-père says you must leave tomorrow. Everything has been arranged.”
She looked at Malcolm. “Michel will not be able to travel by morning, will he?”
“I doubt it. But that doesn’t matter,” Malcolm said, leveling his gaze at her. “I’ll take you myself.”
Serena blinked to fight back tears, even as her heart sang.How inappropriate to take pleasure in being forced together at what cost to others, and when the stakes were so high.
Moreover, she had to be sensible. It was dangerous for Malcolm to be gallivanting around the countryside.
“Perhaps Monsieur Bowes can take me.”
The man shook his head. “Alas, I cannot. We expected Michel to be ready. I have to return immediately, and then head to Vienna. My life is all on horseback right now.”
“But surely you’ll stay the night,” she offered.
“I will, at least for most of it.” He looked grateful.
“Would you care to join us?” Serena invited him, gesturing toward the table behind her.
