The Count's Charade by Elizabeth Bailey

Author:Elizabeth Bailey
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2003-08-22T04:00:00+00:00

She was being raised, lifted bodily from the ground. Her head lolled against a chest and a rumbling echo sounded in her ears.

‘Fetch to me water, Jemima! Come, ma pauvre, you will be well in a little minute.’

Grace took in vaguely that she was being carried, and heard the scrunch of gravel under booted feet. The significance escaped her, a hazy dullness gripping her mind. Presently she felt a sensation of coolness soft beneath her, and a breeze was wafting over her face. It was inexpressibly welcome.

Her head cleared a little, and she opened her eyes to find Henri’s face leaning over her, above him the tall height of a tree and blue sky beyond. He was wafting a collection of leaves before her face, but they were set aside as his gaze met hers. He was laughing.

‘Ma foi, but you have made me more afraid than Jean-Marc!’

Memory filtered back, and Grace struggled up on to her elbow, anxiety flooding her breast. ‘Henri, what are you doing? You should be hidden! They may return at any time!’

‘Be calm, ma chère.’ A hand at her chest pushed her back. ‘They are well gone. Rest you, Gràce.’ He turned his head, and Grace became aware of footsteps. ‘Ah, here is Jemima with water for you.’

The maid’s flushed features popped into sight, and a hand thrust out a filled glass. Grace felt Henri lift her head and the glass was put to her lips, obliging her to drink. Thirstily she swallowed at least half the water in the glass, feeling better for it. Henri permitted her to sit up at last and she rested her back against the tree under which he had conveniently placed her. Jemima fussed about, brushing grass off her blue gown.

‘That’s better, Miss Grace! Lor’, give me such a turn, you did!’

‘I am sorry,’ uttered Grace, a trifle breathlessly. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘It’s all the fault of them there Frenchies, that’s what! But we fooled ’em, didn’t we, Mr Henry?’

‘It is you who have fooled them, my clever Jemima. I do not think they suspected these sheets in which you smother me.’

‘’Course they didn’t!’ scoffed the maid. ‘But you was very good under there, Mr Henry. Not a peep o’ breath out of you, and I swear you never moved a muscle.’

Henri answered in kind, and Grace wondered if he was encouraging the banter in order to give her space to recover. She felt better, but the momentary weakness had given way to a sense of deep foreboding, and the hollowness of dread. The episode had convinced her that the Frenchmen would move heaven and earth if they had to, but they would never give up. Henri’s life might hang in the balance indefinitely.

When Jemima went off to clear up the mess of their subterfuge, Grace eyed Henri, who was seated close by on the grass, regarding her with an expression hard to read. He was cradling his arm, jerking Grace into speech.

‘You should not have carried me, Henri! It must have hurt you dreadfully.

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