Samuel’s eyes darted back and forth. From the road to the wooded area to a stone fence. ‘I wish to live another month.’
She swallowed her disappointment. He must not be in a sharing mood today. He had already told her about his father, perhaps he was not yet ready to talk about himself.
Urging his horse to a gallop, Frederica had to focus on her own mount to keep up with him for the rest of the ride to Genappe. The road into the small town felt strangely quiet, like Brussels had. There were no people about. When they arrived at The King of Spain Inn, Samuel dismounted and then lifted her off her horse without a word. Taking her hand in a painfully tight grip, he pulled her into the inn.
The innkeeper met them with his typical low bows and immediately escorted them into the same private parlour. He promised to bring them tea and closed the door.
Unbuttoning her pelisse, she took it off and hung it on the rack. She untied her bonnet and shook her hair out. Her entire person felt sweaty and in need of her stringent scented soap after the long ride. She placed her bonnet on top of her pelisse and went to open the latch of the window.
‘Don’t touch it,’ Samuel snapped.
Spinning on her heel, she turned to look at him. ‘Which George died and made you king?’
He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. ‘It is not safe. Back away from the window and do not give anyone a clear shot of you.’
She remembered his warning about the French informant. Frederica touched her neck and felt the steady pulse of her heartbeat. She wished to live another month too. Her shoulders were tight, yet her lips trembled.
Taking a seat on the far side of the table, she whispered in French, ‘What should I do?’
Samuel moved his chair until it was right next to hers. He sat down and entwined their fingers, as if they were besotted lovers. ‘Act normally, but we will not linger today. I only pray that Grant is timely.’
Frederica wished she knew when Samuel was spy acting and when he was not. The sweet brush of his lips against her forehead felt tender. How much did he care? It seemed like a silly question when both of their lives were at stake, but she could not help but think it.
The innkeeper knocked before bringing in the tea tray, followed by Lieutenant-Colonel Grant. His scarlet uniform coat looked more ragged than ever. His eyes narrowed when he saw them holding hands on the table. Samuel pulled away first and Frederica busied herself making the tea once the innkeeper set down the tray with a bow. Grant also moved his chair from the window. Samuel’s suspicions must be correct.
The Scot reached into his coat and slid the letter across the table. Samuel pocketed it as Frederica poured three cups of tea. The liquid burned her tongue and throat as it went down. She ate a couple of biscuits, before draining the rest of her burning tea from her cup. Once her cup touched the saucer, Samuel stood up.
‘Thank you, Grant,’ he said with a deferential nod, before putting on his hat.
Frederica sprang to her feet and pulled on her bonnet, tying the ribbons haphazardly and slipping into her pelisse coat. She did up the buttons so quickly that they were not in the right order, but she did not care. The feeling that they were in trouble only heightened with each moment. They needed to go immediately.
For the first time, Grant stayed in the private parlour and she and Samuel left. He tossed a coin to the ostler and their horses were brought around to the front of the building. She could see that the mare and the grey had been fed, watered, and brushed. Frederica wished her dear grey could get a little more rest, but it was not to be. Samuel grasped her by the waist and lifted her into the saddle without a by your leave. She was both annoyed and impressed. Frederica was not a featherweight, but Samuel had lifted her easily. Swinging up into his own saddle, Samuel nodded to the ostler and signalled for Frederica to lead.
She did not have to be told twice. Easing her heels into her horse’s flank, she urged her tired mare forward to a gallop. It was bad manners to canter through a town, but she could not shake the feeling that they were in very real danger if they stayed. They had not ridden a mile out of the small town when Frederica heard a shot. She abruptly swerved her horse and fell out of the side-saddle hard into the dirt. She brushed her dress off—at least she had not been hit. She fumbled with the saddlebag for her pistol and pulled it out, cocking it.
After dismounting, Samuel came to her side. ‘Are you injured?’
‘No, but I thought I heard a shot.’
Frederica looked around at the surrounding fields and a clump of trees thirty feet from the road. She looked back at the trees and caught a glimpse of a man. She pointed her pistol at the spot and shot. The figure ran away. She must have missed. Pulling out her shot bag, she reloaded the pistol as Samuel went for his own gun.
‘Do you think you hit him?’
Shaking her head, Frederica said, ‘No, he was too far away for my pistol. He must have had a shotgun. Should we go after the man?’
Samuel grunted. ‘No. I say we run for it. He might already be reloading the shotgun behind a tree and we will be sitting ducks.’
‘Let’s ride.’
He practically threw her back onto her horse, her pistol in her hand. Then slapped the rump of her mare to make it run. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him swing into his own saddle and gallop towards her. Like herself, Samuel had pulled out his gun and was holding the reins with only one hand. His bigger horse quickly caught up with hers.
‘Keep your pistol out and your eyes peeled,’ he said.
She swallowed as she nodded. Her throat felt tight and drier than the Sahara Desert. For the first time since arriving in Belgium, she longed for the dull, steadiness of the London Season. They ran their horses for over a mile before Samuel deemed it safe for them to walk. She did not think her poor grey could have gone much longer at their previous speed.
Exhaling slowly, Frederica released the hammer of her pistol and placed it back into her saddlebag. She wiggled her clenched fingers before picking up the reins again. Glancing over at Samuel, she saw that he too had stored his weapon.
He smiled as he sighed. ‘That was close. Do you still like being a spy?’