excerpt from SCARLET ANGEL
ISBN 0-8217-7713-0
Zebra Re-Release Available October 4, 2005

Scarlet Angel is the Main Bookclub feature of the month for October 2005 at TheRomanceBookClub.com

The setting is Andely, not far from Rouen, near the coast of France. The year is 1803. Gabrielle, dressed as a smuggler, is with her friend, Rollo, in the tavern of Les Trois Frères. Cam, the Duke of Dyson, is there incognito with his friend, Lord Lansing. He is on a dangerous mission, to capture Gabrielle and spirit her away to England. He does not know that the young smuggler is Gabrielle in disguise.

In the shadow of the great medieval fortress of Gaillard, their cargo was soon unloaded and their business concluded. Gabrielle and Rollo did not themselves deal directly with the English smugglers, Cornishmen all, who waited off Normandy's coast in their fast sailing ships. From as far as Paris, down the line, contraband was passed along until it reached Rouen. From there, the river Seine changed character. Only the most experienced and intrepid rivermen would chance their boats and their lives to the unpredictable bore which was created where the incoming tide and the River Seine met and battled each other for supremacy of the estuary. Over the years, many boats had foundered, and many more men had found a watery grave. But no one thought to give up the lucrative trade. Even war made little impression on les contrebandiers. It was a way of life they had followed for centuries. Not the Revolution, not Bonaparte, not the devil himself, and certainly not the English excise men in their fast clippers could put a stop to it. Gabrielle and Rollo were a very small link in the chain. For them, it was an adventure, nothing more. For those whose livelihood depended upon it, it was a serious and dangerous business.

With money to burn in their pockets, they turned their footsteps towards the center of the little town of Andely. Near the cathedral, they came upon the tavern, Les Trois Frères, a known smugglers' den, a half timbered wattle building, and typical of the area. They pushed inside and found a place for themselves at a table in one corner of the public room. The place was crowded. Most of the patrons were coarse-clad, rough-spoken men of the river. A few were clerks or shopkeepers or others of that class. The odd traveler, a cut above the regulars, was also there. And the ladies were not precisely ladies.

Gabrielle soaked up the atmosphere. The haze from the clay pipes, which most of the habitués were smoking, curled in a lazy arc, rising to hang like a cloud beneath the low, oak beamed ceiling. At a table by one of the windows, a noisy game of cards was in progress. Someone was playing an accordion.

They ordered Calvados, and sipped their drinks in companionable silence. Rollo hunted in his pocket and withdrew a pouch of tobacco and a clay pipe. Gabrielle stretched out her long legs and watched his careful movements as he lit the pipe from the flame of a candle which was positioned in the center of the table.

Without conscious thought, she rubbed the back of her neck. A few minutes later, she found herself repeating the gesture. She half turned in her chair to look over her shoulder.

One of the men whom she had taken for a stray traveler, a tall swarthy fellow with surprisingly light blue eyes, seemed to be studying her with more than a little interest. Gabrielle felt her skin prickle. She did not care for the look in his eyes. It was the kind of look a man usually reserved for a pretty woman. But unhappily, she had discovered, some men – and always the handsome ones, like the stranger who was eating her with his eyes – had a penchant for pretty, smooth-faced boys.

She blazed him such a look, then gave him her back. Her hand came to rest on her scabbard. The feel of her weapon was vastly comforting. By degrees, her fingers stopped trembling.

It wasn't the first time she had been the recipient of such stares. In Paris, when she had been robed in the revealing fashions of the day, she had surprised that famished look on many a gentleman's face. It made her more afraid than if they had come at her with cold steel. But she'd learned that to betray her uneasiness was regarded as a provocation. She'd been pounced on and kissed and fondled more times than she cared to remember. In her boy's breeches and boots, she had thought herself immune from that perverse masculine foible.
She allowed her eyes to travel over the throng of people, and casually steered them in the stranger's direction. Damn if his eyes weren't still trained on her! Her vague uneasiness flamed into fear.

She poked Rollo in the ribs and stretched out her hand, indicating that she wished to share his pipe. His eyebrows shot up, but he obediently handed it over. Gabrielle stuck it between her teeth and inhaled and exhaled expertly, like any of the rough rivermen. It had taken her hours to master the stinking ritual. Though Gabrielle loved the smell of tobacco, she hated smoking with a passion. But at that moment she wanted, rather desperately, to give anyone who chanced to be looking her way the impression that she was, in very truth, a man's man.

A tavern wench carrying a tray of tankards passed close by. As she deposited the tray on a nearby table, Gabrielle returned the pipe to her companion, spat deliberately on the sawdust covered floor, and stretched out one hand to pinch the serving girl's ample backside. Rollo gave a startled bark of laughter. The girl wheeled, ready to do battle. When she saw who had pinched her, she let out a squeal of delight, and fell into Gabrielle's lap. Gabrielle's cheeks flamed scarlet.

Berthe, the serving girl, had had her eye on the smooth faced, young riverman for some time past. Gabrielle was well aware of it and had done her best to avoid the girl's snares, not least because the girl already had a brute of a man who considered himself her protector. This, decided Gabrielle, was going from the fat into the fire. Nor could she dislodge the wriggling girl from her lap. Berthe was a good three stones heavier than the smaller girl. Though she had not meant to look near the stranger again, Gabrielle could not help darting a quick glance in his direction.

"What are you smiling at, Cam?"

The question came from Lord Lansing who was toying absently with the handle of a pewter tankard.

"The young stripling over there," answered Cam with a chuckle. "He's trying so hard to act the man. I'll wager he doesn't know what to do with the wench in his lap."

"You may say so," said Lansing, "but I doubt that the fellow over there shares your opinion."

Cam's eyes narrowed on a bull of a man who had slowly risen to his feet. By degrees, the room went silent. Heads turned to see what was afoot. Cam slowly uncoiled his long length and straightened in his chair.

"Easy, Cam," cautioned Lansing softly. "This fight has nothing to do with us. Remember why we are here."

Cam did not need reminding. From Le Havre on the coast of Normandy, upstream to Rouen and beyond, to Andely, they had looked over the lie of the land. Rodier was stationed in Rouen and already setting things in motion for their escape. They were due to arrive at the Château de Vrigonde that very night, ostensibly as aides to Lord Whitmore. It had taken no mean feat to pull off the invitation to the wily lion's lair.

In a few hours, they would reach Mascaron's little fortress, the Château de Vrigonde, and very soon, they would put their plan into operation. Even the ambassador had not been taken into their confidence. To his knowledge, Cam and Lansing were exactly as they appeared – Mr. Pitt's emissaries. And if he wondered why Cam had suggested that they hold the talks at Mascaron's château on the Seine, he had kept his ruminations to himself. For him, it was enough to know that the Duke of Dyson had Pitt's confidence.

The man nicknamed "le Taureau" took a few, unsteady steps towards the whelp who wriggled suggestively beneath the woman on his lap. From the corner of her eye, the tavern wench caught sight of him. With a strangled cry of fright, she jumped to her feet and cowered behind the boy's chair. The boy looked about him to see what had caused the girl's sudden defection. When his eyes fell on "le Taureau," he gave a start and the color drained from his face. Without haste, he rose to his feet. Cam did likewise.

With a roar of rage, le Taureau rushed upon his quarry. The boy side-stepped, quickly threw out one booted foot and sent the big man sprawling. He fell against a chair, overturning it.

"Get the hell out of here," shouted the boy's companion, and he immediately fell upon "le Taureau."

A roar went up. The boy hesitated, but his companion turned on him. Whatever he said next seemed to bring the boy to a decision. He took to his heels.

Men were on their feet in every part of the room, shouting encouragement to the two protagonists who were wrestling on the floor. Someone said something to which his neighbor took exception. Glasses and tankards went flying. Before long, the contest had degenerated into a free-for-all brawl.

Cam caught a glimpse of the boy's back as he pushed through one of the exits. He did not think about what he was doing. He went after him.

Gabrielle was fast, but not nearly fast enough to evade Cam. Knowing that she could not outrun her pursuer, she darted into the livery stable and quickly fastened the door. His first kick smashed the stout wooden bar. Gabrielle unsheathed her rapier. On the second kick, he burst through the doors.

With foil extended, she backed away from him. "I don't want to hurt you," she said. "I just want you to leave me alone."

The only sounds were her own rapid breathing, and the soft whinnies of the horses which had become restive when the man had kicked in the door. More pervasive that the familiar smells of horseflesh and liniment was the masculine cologne which assailed her nostrils. She decided that she liked the man's smell as little as she liked him.

"I don't want to hurt you," she repeated, and raised the point of her rapier threateningly as he advanced upon her.

She read the amusement in his eyes. He was not taking her seriously, and that frightened her more. She made several slashing, intimidating sweeps with her foil, and crouched in position, foil extended, the other arm curved behind her for balance.

"There's no need for this," he said softly, reassuringly. "I only want to talk to you."

She lunged, and Cam danced out of reach, at the same instant, unsheathing his own weapon. He could not help laughing.

"I know how to use this," she warned him.

"So I see," he said conversationally. "What's your name?"

"I'm not that kind of boy," said Gabrielle on a wail of outrage. "Touch me and I'll slice your hand off."

"What?" Her answer astonished him.

"I saw the way you were looking at me."

"Good God! Is that what you think? I assure you, you are mistaken." Cam's jaw had hardened into granite.

Almost by instinct, they were circling each other, but their foils had yet to connect.

"I'm not a fool," said Gabrielle. "I know that look when I see it. And I'm warning you, I want nothing to do with you."

The words infuriated Cam. Suddenly, he lashed out with pounding force. Gabrielle was ready for him. She parried his lunge, but she felt the power of his sword-arm all the way to her shoulder.

Though she might be his equal in skill, she knew that she could never hope to equal him in endurance and strength. It was not a new experience for Gabrielle and it did not trouble her overmuch. Rollo had long since outstripped her in that sphere. But he had yet to beat her in a match.

She lunged and lunged again, in a double feint, disengaging her weapon smoothly and swiftly, dancing away before her powerful adversary could disarm her by sheer brute strength. At this point she wished merely to test his skill, gauge his speed and reactions. She came at him again. He parried each thrust with disconcerting ease.

She drew back and took silent stalk of her enemy. He was lean and hard-muscled, and when he moved she could see those muscles bunch and ripple along his powerful thighs and shoulders. But it was that air of confidence which he so unconsciously projected which alarmed her more. This man was used to carrying off the victory. It showed in every arrogant line of his body.

"There's no need for this," he repeated softly. "And if you're not careful, you'll hurt yourself."

Gabrielle said nothing, but her lips tightened at the implied insult. He was the cat, or so he thought, and she was the mouse. She was determined to wipe that smirk from his face.

By sheer force of will, concentrating on all of Goliath's precepts, she lunged at him, making a series of calculated passes, inviting ripostes which would open his guard to her attack. She saw her chance and threw the full press of her weight into the thrust, aiming for his shoulder.

He side-stepped her neatly. She could not regain her balance fast enough to bounce away from his parry. In a flurry of circular motion, he engaged her foil, wrenching it from her grasp with such ferocity that she thought her wrist would break. Her weapon went flying harmlessly to the earthen floor.

She was gasping for air, as if she had just run a mile. Her opponent showed no such distress from their encounter. He studied her blandly, calmly, but something dangerous glittered in the depths of those blue eyes.

Gabrielle took a quick step backward and came hard against the stone wall. Putting her hands out in an imploring gesture, she said, "Please monsieur, let me go. I'm not the kind of boy you think I am."

He took a step closer, crowding her against the wall. Her eyes widened in alarm.

Gently, soothingly, he said, "Don't be afraid of me. I have no wish to hurt you. I just want to know who you are."

Her heart was pounding in her throat. "Please, monsieur," she pleaded.

"You're no river-urchin. Where did a boy like you learn to fence like that?"

He was standing too close to her, blotting out everything but the arrogant set of his shoulders and his dark head. She felt as if the walls were closing in on her and involuntarily, she inched away from him.