TREV HAD THOUGHT HE COULD TAKE IT. HE'D THOUGHT he could endure the idea that she would marry another man. For near a decade he'd assumed she already had, reckoned she was a happy wife with all her children about her, an image which had been sufficient to keep him on the other side of the Channel, if not the other side of the world, for a good part of the last ten years. He'd wandered back to England finally, having failed to recover Monceaux and botched pretty much everything else he'd set his hand to before he discovered in himself a particular talent for arranging boxing spectacles of both fixed and fair varieties. By then she had faded to a soft-edged memory, blunted in the golden autumn mist of his past, the mere image of a copper-haired, kissable waif in an outmoded gown. He'd hardly been eating his heart out for her. In truth, he'd remembered her father with stronger feeling.
The knowledge that she was even tolerating Sturgeon's company, allowing him to call on her-at first Trev had not taken it in seriousness, supposing she'd merely been unable to summon sufficient daring to refuse to admit the man. He'd been perfectly ready to undertake a visit to Sturgeon on her behalf if she required assistance in the matter, and finish up what he'd started by giving the major a matching pair of black eyes to go with his swollen jaw.
To discover that she was entertaining an actual proposal had set Trev well off his stride. Perhaps a little more than that. Perhaps he had finally admitted the truth to himself-that he was utterly distracted and still crazy in love with her mischievous smile and that way she had of looking up at him sidelong while she discussed the various merits of an overweight peeg. He was worse off than even his mother suspected, and she suspected a good deal.
He was, in fact, dying by inches. He stood near the fire, glowering at an innocent cow and rhythmically opening and closing his fists while Sturgeon made up to her in the open street. She knew Trev was there too. After she'd turned him down, with all that bosh about how unworthy she was of Monceaux; turned him down, and he couldn't argue with her, couldn't tell her what he felt or prove it was the other way round-C'est à chier, his exalted grand-père had always said of him, not worth a shit, and God knew it was true at that moment.
He watched sullenly as Sturgeon pulled her hood round her face in a mawkish little gesture of caring. The fellow was a damned hum. How she could allow him to touch her, knowing what she did, that he'd dangle after some Belgian slut at the very moment he was supposed to be courting her-Trev set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. He slapped his hands against his arms, more out of frustrated violence than cold.
It seemed like a nightmare that he stood here wrapped up to his eyebrows to hide himself, doing nothing while his lover walked away with another man. He ought to have cut off all her silly objections and dragged her down to the cathedral, found a priest, or a bishop, or whoever did these things quietly and fast-he'd convert to the Church of England while he was at it and let his grandfather turn over in his grave. He didn't think, if he'd insisted, that she would have refused him very long. He rather thought she'd been hoping for it.
But then he'd have to tell her the truth.
C'est à chier, he thought, eh, grand-père? Thrusting his cold hands in his coat, he strode away from the fire. Callie and her beau were strolling along the opposite pavement, pausing now and then to observe some exhibitor's cheese or pies. Trev shadowed them, jerking his chin to one of his boys. The big boxer stood up and fell in with him casually, passing the signal on. In a moment, there were a dozen of them, spread across the street and among the exhibits, ready for trouble.
Trev was in the mood for it. He wished it were all done with, over now, this juvenile adventure, so he could get on with the vast sum of nothing that was his life stretching before him. Italy, he thought, but no, that wasn't far enough. He needed an ocean between them if she was going to marry Sturgeon. Boston, perhaps, where he could get himself a tomahawk and live with the rest of the savages, busting up tea crates for entertainment.
Across the way, the happy couple stopped at the pen with the obese pig. Trev halted. He felt his reason slipping. Sturgeon made some remark and pointed at the animal, and Callie laughed and shook her head.
Something cracked, some final thin sliver of sanity. Absurdly, all he could think was that it was his pig, his and Callie's, and Sturgeon had made her laugh. He stood still for a moment, suffused with rage. She looked up then and saw him. Across the width of the street full of geese and chicken crates, he stared at her, breathing through the woolen scarf concealing his face.
She gazed back as if she were transfixed. Trev narrowed his eyes, expressing his opinion of this betrayal. She lost all her color, leaving only two bright spots burning on her cheeks in the cold. Her hand went out and found Sturgeon's arm for support.
Trev realized then that he must be a figure of more than ordinary menace in his mask. He turned abruptly away, prowling along the street. She liked adventure. He would give it to her. The fair had begun to attract more people now, as the shadows of early morning retreated and the sun took off the worst of the frost. He moved near the tarps that concealed Hubert's pen.
"Untie the bull," he muttered. "Get him on his feet."
Charles poked his head from inside the canvas. "Aye, sir." He pulled back and vanished.
Trev moved away as the tarps began to sway and tremble. He gave a low instruction to one of his boys.
"Eh?" Bristol's finest hope for the next Champion of the Noble Art rolled a startled eye toward him.
"Do it," Trev said. "And man the fires-keep 'em clear when it starts."
"Oh, there's the dandy," his cohort said with under stated violence. "Mind we don't burn down the town."
"Aye, mind it," Trev said, giving him a clap on the shoulder to send him off.
While the word spread, he loitered by a stack of crated turkey hens, listening to their soft gobbles. After a moment he reached down surreptitiously and f lipped the wooden latches open, holding the doors closed with his knee. He kept his eyes down the street on Callie and Sturgeon as they sampled bread and honey at a vendor's stall. Sturgeon sampled it, at any rate. Callie just stood holding hers, looking nervous, the way she always looked just before he gave her the office to act on whatever outrageous part he had assigned her in their schemes.
A tight smile curled his mouth. Only that one look between them, and she knew. And in spite of the desperate expression, she would perform her role to perfection, even if she didn't yet know what it was. She always managed to carry it off, as clever and cool as a schoolmistress once the sport commenced.
Ah God, he would miss her. No good-byes, no farewells, which was better. Last night was his good bye. Remember me, he thought.
Off by the sheep, one of his boys leaned over the pen as if to observe a ram more closely. Then he stood back, his hand nonchalantly resting on the gate, and made the high sign with a swipe of his arm across his forehead. Trev looked from one end of the wide street to the other. They all waited on him, an odd sprinkling of Samsons and Goliaths amid the fairgoers, rubbing their chins or whistling and gazing artlessly up at the sky.
He nodded and stepped away from the turkey coops, turning his back as the doors swung open. With a sharp kick of his heel, he cried havoc and let slip the hens of war.
It all started with the turkeys, a sudden burst of black wings and wattles as the birds exploded from a falling stack of crates. Four big hens tumbled and recovered themselves amid a f lutter of feathers and splintering wood. As their owner shouted in alarm, they began to run, sleek ebony missiles darting hither and thither between the legs of goats and through fences and under the skirt of a cottager's wife.
Callie had just begun to calm herself a little, thinking she must have misunderstood the intent of that malevolent stare from Trev, that it was merely the particular effect of his dark gypsy eyes that made it seem as if he intended to commit some sinister mayhem at any moment. But she went stiff at the sound of shouting from just at the place he had been standing. God in heaven, what mad thing did he think was he doing?
All about, every animal came alert for danger. One frightened beast startled the next, and suddenly the pens seemed no more than f limsy toothpicks. The cart pony reared as a turkey dashed under its belly, its silken hoof feathers f lying while pumpkins smashed onto the pavement. They bounced and rolled beneath the feet of an uneasy yearling calf. It bucked and bolted away from the attack of these alien objects, lead rope trailing. Suddenly there were geese waddling free, f lapping their wings to f lee from sheep crowding through an open gate and f looding onto the pavement. The air filled with bleats and quacks, disorder mushrooming into chaos.
Callie picked up her skirts and ran. A big drover waved his arms and shouted, spooking the loose calf and sheep away from a street fire. The frantic calf sheared off; Callie grabbed hold of its lead just before it leaped through a shop window. The rope burned across her gloved fingers as she threw herself backward to turn the animal. When the calf hit the end of the lead, the momentum hurled her to her knees. Her head struck hard on the wooden window sash. For an instant she was stunned, the pain ringing down through her whole body like a bright, terrible bell. Tears sprang in her eyes. But she held herself upright with her arm against the sill, her head spinning, refusing to let go of the lead.
Someone helped her up. She didn't stop to see who it was. She took a loop of the calf's rope and pulled it along with her, plunging for the Malempré pens. Amid the chaos they passed the corpulent pig-the only animal sitting calmly, contemplating the open gate of its pen without even trying to rise. Callie grabbed a loose piglet with one hand just before it tottered out, tossed it back, and slammed the barrier shut. She picked herself up from another half stumble and plowed through the confusion, reaching the Malempré pen in time to see the canvas rock and sway as if the earth quaked.
She panted and lunged forward, almost going down on her knees again when she stepped off the curb. A strong hand caught at her elbow, saving her. The tarps lifted and f lailed. With a squealing bellow, Hubert burst forth, tossing a sheet of canvas and a green-coated herdsman aside with one powerful sweep of his head. The herdsman went down on his rear and Hubert broke into a thunderous trot, f linging his nose from side to side, his eyes rolling white as he emerged into the street.
Callie stood still, her mouth open, as he put his head down and hooked a bag of potatoes, pitching them on his horns right through a trestle table full of jam and preserves. The board collapsed, sending jelly f lying through the air. Farmwives screamed and scattered.
"Hubert!" Callie cried, as the bull swung his great head and threw a barrel aside. It rolled along the street, barely missing Colonel Davenport as he ran pell-mell toward them. He leaped out of its path, losing his hat, but came on, closing with Callie on the rampaging beast. From somewhere Trev's footman Charles had appeared, running at her side. Everyone else scattered away, wise in the ways of enraged bulls.
"Hold!" Callie screamed at Charles, f linging out her arm before he could run past her. "Colonel! Stop! Don't go near him!"
The men froze in midstride. Hubert bellowed, the strange squealing sound echoing over the turmoil in the street. He turned toward her, searching, his breath frosting in the air like great puffs from a steam engine. Callie's knees were failing under her. Her head spun with pain. Someone pulled the calf's lead from her hand, but she never took her eyes from the bull.
"Hubert!" she called, tasting blood in her mouth. "Come now, Hubert…" She put that little note in her voice, the sweet note that promised treats and an ear scratch, but the bull was confused and angry, uncertain of where he was. He lowered his head and pawed the street.
"Come along," she crooned. A red hen trotted past her, zigzagging toward the bull and away. Hubert made a charge at it, almost taking out its tail feathers before it squawked and f lew out of range. "Come along," Callie warbled desperately. "Walk on, Hubert. There's a good boy."
He swung his head, eyeing a kid goat that pranced too close. Callie held her breath, dreading for him to strike out with his horns. But the little animal stood with its legs spread, staring up at the snorting giant above it as if Hubert were the eighth wonder of the world. Hubert lowered his horns and pawed once, staring back balefully.
Everything had gone quiet around them. Even the loose animals seemed to pause. The kid gave one tiny, uncertain bleat. The bull snuff led. They touched noses.
As if some question had been answered between them, Hubert heaved a great sigh and gave the little fellow a lick that near bowled it over.
"Good boy," Callie said. She began to walk toward him slowly. Her knees were knocking. The kid darted away as she approached, but Hubert merely swayed his head toward her and blinked in a dreamy way. She caught the lead dangling from his nose ring.
A crowd had gathered in a wide, wary circle around them. The Malempré pen lay in ruins.
"It's Hubert," she managed to say in a small voice, remembering her part. The darkness at the edge of her vision seemed to close in on her. Her breath failed. "This isn't… a Belgian bull. It's… Hubert."
Everything seemed to slide away from her at once. The last thing she remembered, before the spinning world closed in, was Trev's muff led face above her, his arms catching her up just before she hit the ground.
She was already awake before they conveyed her into the Green Dragon. She knew it was Trev who carried her; she heard him snarl a fierce command at the others to stand back, but she couldn't seem to gather her wits to speak or even lift her head. And then he was gone somehow, and she was lying on a sofa surrounded by a great number of anxious onlookers, bewildered as to how she had got there.
"Hubert?" she mumbled, trying to sit up.
"He's penned all right now, my lady, good and tight." She recognized her drover's familiar voice. "Don't you worry."
She could trust Shelford's own drover, who had handled Hubert since he was a baby calf. She subsided for the moment, closing her eyes, allowing someone to take her hand and squeeze it reassuringly. The top of her head hurt abominably. She wanted Trev, wanted him to be holding her close while she ripped his char acter to shreds, beginning with his unforgivable fool ishness and continuing through his criminal negligence and winding up with his unpardonable stupidity, and then starting on it all over again, louder.
"Was anyone hurt?" she mumbled.
"Only a few scratches." She thought it was Mr. Price who spoke. "But for you, my lady. You took a sharp rap, eh? The doctor's on his way."
A vial of hartshorn appeared under her nose. She wasn't fond of smelling salts, but just at this moment, a deep whiff went straight to her brain and cleared some of the mist. "The animals?" she asked, blinking her eyes open.
"We're making a head count," he said. "No injuries or losses reported yet. We may be fortunate, thank the good Lord. Only there was a good deal of damage to property. But don't you try to talk, ma'am. We've sent word to Shelford."
"Oh no," she said, with a drifting vision of Lady Shelford's reaction to this news. "Where's-" She broke off, realizing that she shouldn't ask openly for Trev. She looked about her and saw him standing at the foot of the sofa, his scarf slipped down off his nose and only covering his mouth. His expression was white and set, almost frightening. She wanted to tell him that he should take care, but her brain was a little confused, and she thought it better to say nothing rather than risk a mistake.
She wondered vaguely, since Trev was standing there, who it was holding her hand. Peculiar lights seemed to go off in f lashes when she turned her head, but she discovered Major Sturgeon kneeling at her side, rubbing his palm over the back of her hand.
"Oh," she said and sat up, pulling free.
Everyone chided and clucked at her, but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the salts to make the world stop whirling and straighten itself again.
"I'm quite all right," she said, when the horizon had settled. "May I have some tea?"
"Bring her some tea," the major ordered, just as if a bustle had not already broken out to accomplish this task. People hurried back and forth and said things, and it was all rather confusing. She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, except for once she dared to look aside at Trev and brush her fingers up her cheek to try to tell him that his disguise was slipping.
He didn't seem to comprehend her, or if he did, he didn't appear to care. He met her eyes with that look again, such a look, his eyes a deep black glitter, so that she didn't know if he was nearer to tears or to cold blooded murder. It seemed it could be either.
Callie herself felt inclined to murder, if only her head had not felt as if a blacksmith were using it as an anvil and pounding horseshoes into shape on top. She accepted the teacup, sitting up straight as it rattled in her hand. "Where is this Monsieur Malempré?" she demanded, as loudly as she could manage. Her voice was shaky, but strong enough to draw the attention of everyone around her.
From the corner of her eye-if she turned, she feared that her wobbly stomach would betray her-she saw that Trev finally took her hint and pulled his collar and scarf up about his face. Fortune and the general disarray of things favored them; no one even looked at him twice as a clamor went up regarding the where abouts of the mysterious Belgian gentleman.
"Shabbed off, I'll wager," a deep voice rumbled. Callie recognized the drover who'd prevented the panicked calf from running into the fire. "His jig's up, ain't it?"
"Look for him at the Gerard." Major Sturgeon stood up beside her, scowling. "He was there last night."
"Major," she said plaintively, reaching for his hand. "Will you find him for me?"
"Certainly, my lady." He bent down and kissed her fingers. "Davenport, can you send someone? I don't want to leave her side."
"No, please-" She pulled her hand away. "I wish to go to my room. But… Colonel, you were right after all, he did steal Hubert." She looked again at Major Sturgeon, putting on her best imitation of a lost puppy. "But you have such resolution, Major-will you hunt for him yourself? I hope you won't let him get away."
It seemed to have a good effect. "Of course. Of course not." Reluctantly he let go of her and then caught her elbow again as she pushed herself to her feet. "Let me help you-no, that's the wrong way, my dear."
She turned, ignoring him, tottering a step toward the foot of the sofa. She managed to trip on her skirts and fall against Trev's chest. "Oh," she muttered. "I beg your pardon. Where is… where is my maid?"
His arm came round her, holding her up as she allowed her knees to crumple. "Have a care, Miss," he muttered through his scarf. Then, without further ceremony, he bent down and picked her up bodily. "Where's 'er lady's slavey?" His voice was a rough growl, a fair imitation of a local drawl muff led within the scarf. The sound of it rumbled against her cheek. "You, inn'it? Lead us on up, then, and sharp about it. Shove over, let me through."
The knot of spectators parted. He swung her round, mounting the stairs as Lilly hurried ahead. Callie closed her eyes, clinging to his neck. She was aware of the sound of many people on the stairs, of talk of the doctor's arrival, and then of passing under the door to her rooms. Trev carried her through to the bedroom. As he laid her down, she held on to him and hissed into his ear, "Don't you dare leave!"
He grunted and stepped away. Lilly bustled about, ejecting several interested persons who had followed them upstairs. She allowed the doctor in, so Callie sat up quickly, pretending to a considerably stronger state of revival than she felt. She submitted to an examina tion of the bump on her head, trying not to wince every time the doctor touched it, promised that she would rest quietly and not go out for several days, and positively refused the administration of laudanum. The doctor shook his head and went away complaining that a young lady ought to have a guardian with her when she traveled, someone who could keep her from bumping her head and make her mind her elders.
Callie waited until the door clicked closed behind him. She had been well aware that all the time she was being examined, Trev and Lilly had been standing in a corner of the bedroom, speaking in low tones to one another, so that the doctor took them both for her servants.
"Lilly," she said. "Pray close the bedroom door. Stand outside and make certain that no one comes in."
Lilly cast a glance at Trev and bit her lip. "But Sir wants me to-"
"Do as I ask, if you please," Callie interrupted. Her head hurt. She put her hand to her temple. "I don't care what 'sir' would like at the moment."
The maidservant bit her lip and curtsied. She turned away to the door. Trev moved a step, and Callie lifted her head.
"Do not leave!" she ordered him.
He stopped. Lilly closed the bedroom door behind her, leaving them alone. Callie sat on the bed, looking at him. He'd pulled down the scarf to show his face, but still the sinister gypsy effect was powerful.
"I can't stay long," he said.
"Really!" Callie favored him with a dry look. "And how do you plan to accomplish an exit, when half the county is loitering below looking for you?"
He returned a sardonic smile. "By the window."
"Oh, of course." She blinked, touching her hand gingerly to the bump on her head. The doctor's probing had only made it worse. She realized that her hair was falling down.
"Are you all right?" he asked. There was a peculiar tautness about his mouth.
"I am excessively put out with you!" she said, taking this as an invitation to vent her spleen. "You started that rout, didn't you? And you had those men helping to let the animals loose! Whatever possessed you to do such a thing? Any number of them might have been hurt or lost. And think of the prize pies!" She paused, her lip trembling. "Someone could have been killed! It was abominable of you."
"I'd not thought of the prize pies, I'll admit."
"Well, you should have. And the preserves and cheeses. I'm sure poor Mrs. Franklin is weeping her heart out right now, after Hubert threw a barrel through her pear tarts. She is a new bride, you know."
"No. I didn't know."
"And you haven't the least regret, have you?" Her resentment grew. "It's all quite a game to you, isn't it? You stroll into some unsuspecting town and cause a riot, and then you can't stay long." She stood up, holding on to the bedpost when the room had a tendency to rotate about her. "You just go away and leave the rest of us to put everything to rights."
"Yes," he said.
The fact that he stood there without defending himself only fed her wrath. "Why did you do it? You didn't warn me. You didn't stop and think. Surely there was some other way to reveal Hubert, something a little less-spectacular! I thought we were to do it on the last day of the fair."
"We were," he said shortly.
"Then why?" she demanded.
His lip curled. "I was angry."
"Angry?" She blinked. "At what?"
"You showed him the pig." There was a note of self-mockery in his voice.
"The pig?" She had no notion what he meant.
"And laughed at what he said. Of course I had to put a stop to that at once."
"The pig? Do you mean that fat sow?"
He gave a slight shrug of assent, like a schoolboy called up on the carpet.
"You started all that-you put us all in danger- because I laughed about a pig? Are you mad?" she exclaimed.
"It was our pig, do you see?" His voice rose to match hers. "God damn it. I haven't asked for much. Give me a goddamned pig at least."
She shook her head, bewildered. "It's not my pig."
He threw back his head and gave a brief, hard laugh. "No. Right. I'm sorry you were hurt. Scared the daylights out of me. It's true, it could have been far more serious, I didn't realize until it got out of hand." He sounded mortified. "I'm sorry. My damnable temper."
"I only laughed because Major Sturgeon was so stupid. He asked me if she was a Berkshire hog, when anyone could see that she's an Old Spot."
He took a stride toward her. Callie leaned back against the bedpost with her hands behind her. In his rough jacket and heavy stockman's boots, he seemed much larger than he ought, his dark, satyric features fit for a highwayman. For an instant she thought he might shake her, but instead he took her cheeks between his hands.
She felt the rough wool of the mitts, and his fingertips resting on her cheeks. He bent his face to hers. "Callie-know something, believe something. I must go, but believe that I love you. Marry that fellow if you must; I know you have your reasons. I know I've let you down at every turn. I'm not the man who could give you the sort of life you deserve. But wherever I go, mon trésor, it doesn't matter where-I'll think of you. You're in my heart. Believe me. You're the only true and honest thing in my life."
She stood with her face turned up to his, biting her lower lip.
"And you're beautiful," he said. "Believe that too. Not like some damned society diamond, no. You're beautiful like the leaves in autumn, like a spring colt kicking its heels, you're beautiful the way your animals are beautiful, even that fool pig. Do you believe me?"
She didn't answer. He pushed back a lock of her hair and kissed her gently, so sweetly that she was near to weeping.
"I want to make love to you in a field," he whis pered. "In the green grass or in the fresh hay. I want you beyond reason."
"I don't believe you," she said woodenly. "Tell me the truth."
His breath touched her skin. "I am."
Slowly she shook her head.
"The truth about me, you mean," he said, lifting his head and looking down at her under his dark lashes.
"Tell me in truth why you're leaving. If you want me to believe-whatever else you say."
He stood back, his hands sliding to her shoulders. "I suppose I owe you that much, don't I?" He looked aside and suddenly let go of her, pushing away. In a voice that went to icy derision, he said, "The truth is I've been convicted of forgery and sentenced to hang."
Callie blinked. Then she pushed back her falling hair from her face. "Oh come now. I'm sure I might have swallowed the rest, even about the pig, but I'm not a complete f lat, you know!"
He had been standing before her with a hard, sullen expression; at that, his lip quirked upward. "Yes, you are," he informed her. "You're a pea-goose. It's one of the most charming things about you."
She gave a little huff. "Perhaps so, but I'm sure I'm not going to believe that you're laboring under a sentence of death."
He tilted his head. "Why not?"
"Well… because," she said, not quite certain of the look in his eyes. "For forgery, you say? I can perfectly suppose that you gave Major Sturgeon a black eye, and so the constable is after you, but I can't imagine that you did any such thing as commit a forgery. Why would you do so? You're already excessively wealthy. And besides, I don't think anyone would be hung for it. It's not a case of murder or something on that order. It's just a piece of paper."
He leaned back against the chest of drawers, a wry smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Very sensible, I admit. I wish the bench might have taken your point of view."
"And here you are, quite alive," she pointed out with some satisfaction in discovering another large hole in his claim.
"Just so," he said. "I was given a conditional pardon the day before they finished building the gallows. I must leave the country and never return."
Callie had been about to poke further punctures in his ridiculous tale, but she paused at that. "Never return?"
"It is a hanging offense, Callie," he said gently. "It's a crime against commerce, and that's near-worse than murder in the eyes of the magistrates."
"I… don't see how that can be so," she said. But she remembered suddenly that all the newspapers and even the ladies' magazines had been full of some great trial not long ago; she hadn't paid any mind to the details herself, but Dolly had followed the course of the events avidly and read them aloud at breakfast every morning at interminable length. Callie thought it had involved a lady with a very young child, and a gentleman of the sporting crowd, and a great number of sordid insinua tions and accusations. And yes-it had been a trial for forgery-she remembered that now, and the lady's life had been in peril if she were found guilty, but it had turned out to be the gentleman instead.
She wet her lips. "Trev-" she said uncertainly. She looked up at him with a sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach.
His faint smile vanished, and his jaw hardened. He gave a bitter laugh. "Please. Go on refusing to believe me. It's not something a man cares to admit, I assure you."
The words seemed to go past her, then spin in strange echoes round her head. "A hanging offense," she repeated slowly, hearing it as if from a great distance. She stared at him, every limb in her body going to water. If she had not been holding on to the bedpost, she would have slid to the f loor.
"It was not a pleasant experience," he said. "And so you see, I must depart." He gave a slight mechanical bow, a move full of suppressed violence.
"What happens if they discover you here?" she asked, hardly able to command her voice.
"They hang me," he said simply.
"Oh good God," she breathed. Her legs were failing her. "Oh dear God."
He stepped forward, supporting her. "Don't faint- Callie, my sweet life-oh no, please don't weep. Come here now. They haven't caught me yet."
She realized that tears had sprung to her eyes, but they were not of sorrow. She gave a sob of pure terror, clinging tightly to him as he pulled her into his arms. "You must go!" She gasped into his shoulder. "Why are you still here?"
He held her close, kissing her temple. "You can't guess?"
"Your mother!" She pulled back sharply. "Does your mother know?"
His mouth f lattened. "No. God grant she never will."
"Of course not." Callie turned from him, hugging herself. "No, she mustn't know." She turned back. "But you must f lee directly-they're all hunting you now as Malempré." Her head was a painful whirlwind. "Oh lord, the duchesse-what shall I say to her? I can't go back to Shelford and-"
"Hush, mon ange." He caught her again, more gently. "I've thought of all these things."
"You have?"
He nuzzled her temple, his breath soft on her skin. "Most of them."
"Where will you go? To Monceaux?"
He pulled her close. "It doesn't matter, if you aren't there."
Callie turned her face up. He gazed down at her for a moment and then kissed her roughly.
"Don't forget me," he whispered. He put her away from him. Callie held out her hands numbly. He caught them up and kissed them, and then without another word, he left her-not by the window, by the door, but she hurried to the window and stood there, looking out through the wavy glass with her heart beating hard until he appeared in the street below.
He crossed swiftly to the far side, his face muff led up again, only another drover among the working people cleaning up smashed preserves and setting pens and crates and tables to rights. At the corner he turned, looking back up at her. She put her palm to the glass.
He nodded once and vanished from her view.