Bride for a Night

“Non, Sophia do not—”

As if her movement had triggered the brewing storm, there was a sharp staccato of weapons being fired from behind the nearest trees.

Panic slammed through Jacques as he launched himself forward and knocked Sophia to the ground, covering her slender body with his own.

“Arrêtez,” he shouted, hearing the sound of Gabriel and Harry returning fire. Then as a bullet flew past his face close enough to singe his ear, he waved an arm in the air. “Mon dieu. Cease your fire, you idiots.”

A thick silence abruptly descended, the air filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder. Jacques risked a quick glance over his shoulder to watch as Harry clutched his chest and sank to the ground, Gabriel falling to his knees beside his wounded brother.

It was now or never, Jacques realized as he rose to his feet and grasped Sophia’s hand to pull her upright.

“This way,” a French soldier called from the distance.

Jacques took a step forward but faltered as Sophia stumbled and nearly fell.

“Sophia,” he breathed in fear, wrapping protective arms around her. “Were you hit?”

“It is only my ankle,” she breathed, pressing her hands against his chest. “Go ahead, the Englishmen will not harm me.”

“Foolish female,” he muttered as he scooped her off her feet.

“Jacques,” Sophia protested, attempting to wiggle out of his arms.

“Non, do not struggle,” he commanded as he charged toward the trees, half expecting a bullet to pierce his back with every step.

“But…”

“Shh.”

He refused to acknowledge her frustrated glare, keeping his gaze trained straight ahead. Did the silly fool truly believe he would leave her behind?

Reaching the edge of the small clearing, Jacques waded through the thicket of underbrush that ripped at his pantaloons and ruined the gloss of his boots. At last he entered the narrow band of trees, and one of the soldiers stepped forward to offer a shallow bow.

“I will need your horse,” he informed the young soldier who looked barely old enough to be out of the nursery.

“Of course.”

Obeying with admirable eagerness, the soldier darted deeper into the trees before he reappeared, leading a chestnut mare by the reins. Two mounted soldiers followed behind them, both as young as the first.

“Do you wish us to capture the English swine?” a dark-haired soldier demanded, his avid expression revealing his innocence. A man who had killed another was never eager to repeat the experience. “Non. We could not reach them without casualties, and we shall soon be outmanned by Ashcombe’s crew.” With one smooth motion, he lifted Sophia into the saddle of the waiting horse, then sliding one foot into the stirrup, he grasped the horn and pulled himself up to swing his leg over the horse and settle behind her. The mare skittered to one side, but with a firm hold on the reins he swiftly brought her back under control. “We will return to Calais and alert the soldiers. They can send a warship in pursuit.”

“As you command.”

The dark-haired soldier did not bother to hide his disappointment, but trained to obey his superiors, he gave a nod of his head and turned to urge his horse toward the path leading back to Calais.

Jacques waited as the second mounted soldier paused to allow his compatriot to leap onto the saddle behind him and disappeared into the trees before he urged his own horse into a steady trot.

“Hold on tight, ma belle,” he murmured, not bothering to glance behind him.

To hell with the Earl of Ashcombe and his damnable brother. If there was any justice the pair of them would drown on their journey back to England.

“Forgive me, Jacques.” A soft female voice broke into his pleasant imaginings of Gabriel sinking to the bottom of the Channel.

With a frown he glanced down, studying the regret that darkened Sophia’s eyes.

“Forgive you?”

“This entire…” she searched for the proper word “…debacle is my fault.”