The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [117]
“She is a spy,” Madame announced. “A cookery spy. And a terrible liar, which is true of all the English.”
“I am not,” Olivia snapped.
Madame ticked off the presumed lies. “A virgin? I don’t think so.”
Olivia opened her mouth and shut it.
“Betrothed to a duke? Also unlikely. You’re well enough, but you’re no beauty. Betrothed to a draper rather than a duke, I’d guess.” She turned and hauled on a bell cord hanging at the wall. “She’ll have to go into the catacombs until Le Capitaine wakes up. How much did he drink last night?”
One of the boys turning a spit looked up. “Two bottles, Madame.”
She snorted. “He’ll not wake before evening, then.” She pulled out a ring of keys. “Put her in the far end, Petit.”
Olivia gave the boy a look.
“She’s a lady,” he protested. “Ladies don’t belong in the cells.”
“She’s damned lucky they’ve put the Guillotine to rest,” Madame replied, finishing her wine. “They used to do it properly in Paris. People made a living, just whacking the heads of aristos like I might a bean row. Bessette, go along with them.”
“I demand to speak to whoever is in charge of this establishment!” Olivia said furiously.
“I am,” Madame stated.
“You! You’re a servant, not the commander of a garrison.”
“Wine!” Madame bellowed. One of the boys trotted over and poured her more red wine. “It’s me whenever Le Capitaine is drunk or asleep, which gives him about one hour to my twenty-three.”
Olivia eyed her red wine.
“Strengthens my blood,” Madame said, grinning. She reached into a sack of flour and sprinkled some on the table. “Give me a bit of that putain. I’m starting over.”
Bessette grabbed Olivia’s arm, holding it hard. “It’s in the back with you. Do I have to tie you up again?”
Olivia shook her head, glaring into his pale blue eyes. “My fiancé will likely kill you when he finds how you have treated me.”
Bessette grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Won’t be the first who tried. I hope you don’t mind if I keep your cloak. I can sell this for ten sous.”
“There’s no need to wrench her arm,” the young soldier said, stepping forward.
Madame didn’t look up from the flour she was delicately sifting over a small pile of frothing yeast. “English putain, don’t think you can seduce the poor lad into giving you the key to your chamber. The only way out is through my kitchen, and I don’t leave my bread. Ever.”
Twenty-nine
Lost Treasure
Quin had woken Togs and Paisley from a sound slumber, knowing already that they had no idea what had happened to Olivia. There was no point in tearing into the exhausted Englishmen; how could they be blamed for sleeping through her disappearance, after all they’d been through? Now they milled about like sleepwalkers.
Quin’s heart was beating in his throat so violently that he could hardly form words. He dispatched them back to the schooner, with instructions to send Grooper back with the rowboat to wait at the top of the inlet.
He paused to get his bearings and to work out the exact location of the French garrison in relation to the hut. He started off at a steady jog, Lucy trotting at his side. Either the French soldiers had captured Olivia, or he would force them to assist in locating her.
As he ran steadily up the bank and then through a scrub forest, he turned over the various possibilities in his mind. Yes, England was at war with France, but that meant different things to different people—and he wasn’t entirely convinced that a provincial garrison would feel much desire to capture an English lady.
Though the odds of one English duke’s subduing an entire garrison of French soldiers, bristling with everything from pistols to bayonets, were not good. It wouldn’t be helpful to Olivia if he ended up skewered on a bayonet in a valiant but failed rescue attempt.
Just then a hare bounded across his way, and he heard a surprisingly deep bark in response. He looked down to find Lucy still running along beside him, as fast as her stubby little legs would