The weather did have the advantage of keeping people indoors. Once a hunched rider passed them going the opposite direction, and another time she halted the cart while a farmer drove a small flock of sheep across the road. He ignored the cart and its occupants as if they were invisible.

Afternoon turned to dusk and the snow became deep enough to slow their progress. If they didn’t reach their destination soon, they risked being bogged down in the empty countryside.

It was almost dark when Père Laurent said, “Turn left into that lane. It leads to Viole’s farm.”

Praying that farm and niece would be as he believed, she turned at his direction. The area was indeed out of the way. They should be safe here, at least for a while.

The track climbed upward and the pony began foundering in the slippery snow. Cassie halted the cart and handed the reins to Père Laurent. “Please hold these.”

She climbed from the cart and went to the pony’s head. Taking the bridle, she tugged the pony forward. “I’m sorry for this, Thistle,” she crooned. “You’re such a strong, brave pony. Soon you can rest and I’ll give you some of the oats in the back of the cart. Just a little longer, ma petite chou.”

Head down, the pony struggled forward again. At first the cart barely moved. Then it began rolling smoothly, reducing the strain on Thistle. Surprised, Cassie glanced back and saw that Grey had climbed out and was pushing the cart from behind. The man was strong. And for a British lord, fairly useful.

The last stretch of track seemed endless. Cassie was numb with cold and slipped repeatedly. She was exhausted, not just from the trials of today but because she’d been pushing herself since leaving England. She kept moving, one foot in front of the other, clinging to the pony’s harness. She’d learned early that surrender was a poor choice.

She didn’t notice that the track had leveled off until Père Laurent said, “We’re here.” His voice was warm. “It looks just as I remember.”

Cassie wondered tartly if that had also been in the middle of a blizzard. She couldn’t see the farmhouse clearly, but smoke came from the nearest chimney and there was light visible through the windows. Even if the priest’s niece, Viole, wasn’t here anymore, surely the inhabitants wouldn’t turn away strangers caught in such a storm.

Shivering, Cassie made her way to the door and knocked hard. Only a moment passed before the door opened a crack, revealing the face of a wary middle-aged woman. She relaxed a little to see another female on the doorstep. “Who are you?”

“I’m Madame Renard. There are three of us, and we need shelter from the storm.” When the woman nodded, Cassie continued, “If you are Madame Boyer, do you have an Uncle Laurent?”

The woman’s face clouded and she crossed herself. “I did, may God rest his blessed soul.”

A weary but amused voice said, “Reports of my death were exaggerated, my dearest Viole.”

Cassie turned and saw the dark figure of Père Laurent emerging from the cart, supported by Grey. Viole Boyer stared in disbelief. “Mon oncle!”

She threw the door open and raced out into the snow and embraced the priest. If not for Grey’s support, she and her uncle would have tumbled to the ground.

Père Laurent didn’t mind. Tears on his face and in his voice, he said hoarsely, “My darling niece, I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

The wind gusted, cutting to the bone. Cassie pointed out, “This reunion will be even better indoors.”

“Oui, oui!” Madame Boyer took her uncle’s arm and led him to the house.

Cassie asked, “Is there a stable for my pony?”

A broadly built man who must be Romain Boyer appeared, drawn by the commotion. “Père Laurent, it really is you!” After a brief, intense clasp of the old man’s hand, he said to Cassie, “I’ll take your pony to the stable and bed it down, madame. You and your companions need to warm yourselves by the fire.”

Ordinarily Cassie would have seen to her horse herself, but this evening she was willing to turn Thistle over to someone else. “There are oats in the back of the cart,” she said wearily. “Thistle has earned them.”

“Indeed she has.” Romain Boyer moved into the storm and took hold of the pony’s bridle. “I promise she’ll be well cared for.”

The door opened into a large, warm kitchen with bunches of herbs and braids of garlic and onions hanging from the rafters. A fire burned on the hearth and the warmth almost knocked Cassie out. She stood, swaying, too tired to think.

A young girl and a smaller boy appeared. Seeing Cassie’s condition, Madame Boyer said, “You need rest, Madame Renard.” To her daughter, she said, “Light the fire and warm the extra bed in your room. This lady has brought my uncle home to us!” She turned to her son. “Fill three porringers with hot soup, André.”

To Cassie, she said, “Give me your cloak. I’ll dry it by the fire. Please, all three of you, sit before you fall over!”

Cassie was used to taking care of people in her charge as well as horses, but she let herself be ushered to a chair by the fire. Père Laurent sat on her right, and Grey withdrew to the corner, as far from all the chattering people as possible.

André ladled steaming soup from a pot on the hob into a wooden porringer, then hesitated, unsure whether to serve the lady or the priest first. Cassie gestured toward Père Laurent. “A priest has precedence over a female peddler.”

Glad to have that clarified, the boy handed the porringer to his great-uncle, then filled another and handed it to Cassie. She cupped it in her hands, her fingers tingling uncomfortably as they warmed. She was just finishing the soup when the young girl returned. “I am Yvette. Come, madame. Your bed is warmed and ready.”

“Merci.” Cassie set down the empty porringer and followed the girl from the warm kitchen, down a cold, drafty corridor, then into a small, warm bedroom with single beds on opposite walls.

“My sister, Jeanne, is married, so there is a spare bed,” Yvette explained. “The one on the right is yours. Can I help you disrobe?”

“Thank you, but I can manage.” Cassie sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off her half boots and loosened her hair. She stood to remove her sturdy gown, then crawled into the narrow but comfortable bed.

Usually in France she slept with one ear cocked for trouble. But this welcoming family and farmhouse were a haven, protected from all enemies by the storm rattling the windows and concealing the fugitives’ path.

She was asleep before Yvette left the room.


Chapter 13

It was still dark outside the frost-patterned windows when Cassie woke. She had the sense she’d slept only a few hours, but long enough to cure her exhaustion.

Wondering how her newly freed charges were faring, she dressed again. Yvette had left her half boots by the small fire so they were warm and mostly dry. After pulling them on, she returned to the kitchen, which was the center of life in most farmhouses.

The long room was empty except for Madame Boyer, who was mending by the fire. She glanced up, her happiness at the reunion with her uncle still visible. “Ah, you look much better than you did, madame. Join me by the fire. Would you like more to eat? To drink? Perhaps some apple brandy, made right here on our farm?”

Cassie was about to say the apple brandy sounded good when she noticed a drying rack angled on the other side of the fire. Her cloak was draped over one end, thin tendrils of steam wisping from the heavy fabric. Hanging on the other end were the garments taken from the guard at the castle. She remarked, “Wyndham is sleeping?”

Viole made a face. “Père Laurent and my family have gone to bed, but I cannot retire before your other man—I thought his name was Monsieur Sommers?—returns. He is bathing. In the farm pond.”

“What?” Appalled, Cassie stared at her hostess. “He’ll freeze to death! Surely the farm pond has iced over. How could you allow him to do such a mad thing?”

“Water flows in from a spring at one end so it doesn’t freeze.” Viole rolled her eyes. “I also told him he was mad, but he just asked most politely for soap and towels and a scrub brush. Uncle Laurent says he’s English. That explains much.” She gestured toward the fire, which was burning low. “I told him if he wasn’t back by the time that log burns down, I shall send my husband out after him.”

The log was almost gone. Cassie reached for her cloak. “Where is the pond?”

“Around the back of the house by the stables. It cannot be missed.” Viole set her mending aside and lifted a cloak from one of the pegs by the door. “Take mine. It’s dry.”

Cassie donned the cloak gratefully. “May I have a blanket and perhaps some brandy in case I must pull that idiot’s frozen body from the pond and revive him?”

Viole removed a small, squat jug from a cabinet, then a scratchy blanket from a different cabinet. The blanket was pleasantly warm from being kept near the fire. “If you need help removing the body, come inside and I shall wake Romain.”

Cassie took the brandy and headed toward the door. “Men! It’s amazing mankind has survived.”

“Mankind survives because womankind has more sense,” the other woman said.

“So very, very true.” Cassie pulled the hood over her head. “You can go to bed now. If Monsieur Sommers is alive and in reasonable health, I’ll wait with him until he’s ready to come back in. If he’s frozen dead in the water, I’ll leave him there till morning!”

Accompanied by Viole’s laughter, she headed out into the night. A foot or so of snow had fallen, making walking difficult, but the storm had mostly passed. The wind had dropped and the snow had become giant flakes, which meant the end was near.

Seething with exasperation, she followed the partially snow-filled tracks made by the foolish Lord Wyndham. The night was utterly still, and the world shimmered in a whiteness that caught all the available light and made the darkness glow.