The French Prize Read online

  She threw him a look. Raimund stood very tall, over six feet and broad-shouldered to go with it, but Olivia wasn’t a petite French femme. Hardy Australian farmer’s genes combined with hours spent in the gym grinding out her anger and frustration with weights had left her fit and well-muscled. As a result, she weighed a lot more than her size indicated.

  Besides, Raimund wasn’t interested in saving her. The only thing the Frenchman cared about was La Tasse.

  ‘Give me the case, Olivia. It will be easier for you.’

  She clutched it to her chest and glared at him. ‘No. I’ll take it.’ Determined to keep custody of La Tasse, she squirrelled her fingers under the tight cable ties. The plastic edges dug into her skin but the hold was secure. With a last stomach-hollowing glance over the precipice, she turned around and began gingerly lowering herself over the edge.

  Another shot ruptured the hushed countryside. Terror flattened her against the rock face, the stone and soil hot against her heaving chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, silently praying for strength.

  Hands grasped her shoulders. ‘Olivia?’

  She jerked her head up. Raimund stared worriedly down at her, and for the first time since this drama started, she perceived genuine anxiety in his expression.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She cast him a wobbly smile of reassurance. ‘Terrified but fine.’

  ‘Good.’ He checked over his shoulder, mouth grim, before focusing on her. ‘Please, you must hurry. He’ll be here soon.’

  In one fluid movement, he followed her over the edge. She closed her eyes as dislodged dirt and stones rained down over her head and shoulders. When she opened them again, he was perched at her side.

  ‘Come.’ In a heartbeat, he clambered below her.

  Taking a deep breath, she let herself slide a little before grabbing one-handed at the rock again. To her relief, the slope wasn’t as acute as she’d believed. Only from the top did the hillside look more like a cliff, though with the fingers of one hand locked in cable ties, the descent remained perilous.

  As she inched down, Raimund whispered up encouragement, promising her she hadn’t far to go, that it was all right to let go of the rock and slide. All lies. She’d barely moved away from the top, but the underlying urgency in his tone made her jaw clench with determination. Whoever was up there could shoot all they pleased. They wouldn’t lay a finger on the goblet. La Tasse was hers. She’d earned her prize. No one was taking it from her now.

  With another fortifying breath, she released her grip. For a startling moment, she hung against the side of the hill, arms outstretched like a stick insect clinging to bark. Then she began to slip.

  At first she dropped slowly, but as gravity exerted its force she rapidly gained speed. Squeaking in fright, Olivia scrabbled to gain purchase on the rock, but her fingers slipped and her nails broke on the loose shale. With only one hand free, her efforts proved hopeless, and she remained too conscious of the cup to risk using the other to halt her plunge. She bit her lip, trying not to cry out as her knees bumped against the stone, her palm chafed, and the cable ties gouged her fingers.

  A sob broke through as the fall rucked up her work shirt and exposed her already scratched stomach. One sharp rock and she’d be split right up the middle like a gutted animal. She squeezed her eyes shut against the thought, and, with her stomach and breasts burning, concentrated on the case held so tightly in her left hand—her ticket to finding Durendal and the fulfilment of a promise she’d made long ago. A promise she had every intention of keeping.

  Strong hands grabbed her ankles and slid up her legs to grip her thighs, ending her tumble. The hold loosened and she dropped into a pair of muscular arms that clamped protectively around her shoulders and pressed her against a broad chest. Her relief was so acute she almost whimpered in gratitude.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Raimund, his breath grazing her ear. ‘I have you.’

  He relaxed his hold and let her slide a fraction until her feet touched firm ground. Never had the earth felt so precious.

  Once sure she was stable, he stepped away. She glanced at him but he paid her no attention. His eyes were scanning their surrounds, flicking between a distant coppice and a goat track that snaked around the hill towards another valley, his expression steady and impenetrable.

  An unwelcome tear trickled down her cheek, a stupid reaction to fright. She swiped it away with her free hand and checked the case. Scratches and dirt covered the aluminium, and a crack split the handle, but the ties and locks had held. The cup was safe.

  The most important matter taken care of, she regarded the front of her tattered shirt. Scarlet shapes grew and morphed over the fabric as her blood seeped through. Fearing the worst, she jammed the case between her knees and raised her shirtfront. Several large cuts on her ribcage, breasts and stomach dribbled blood, but the damage appeared superficial. Extremely painful but not life threatening.

  Dropping the shirt she looped her fingers back under the case’s cable ties and turned to Raimund.

  He examined her stomach and then her face. ‘Anything serious?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. We must run.’

  He grabbed her hand and did just that, wrenching her towards the wood. In a heartbeat, the air exploded with noise. Bullets buzzed past her head and detonated in puffs of dust around her feet, as if the dry ground had been hit by a sudden hailstorm. The sharp clap of gunfire sent startled birds screeching for the sky.

  ‘Allez, allez, allez!’ yelled Raimund, yanking her arm.

  Tripping on a rock, Olivia staggered and almost tumbled, but his powerful hold pulled her up and on. They lunged into the shelter of the coppice, Raimund zig-zagging through the trees, dragging her with him, while behind bullets thudded into the outer trunks. Even when the sound of gunfire had faded and they were deep inside the forest, he ran on.

  And on.

  Her lungs coated with dust, Olivia’s breath wheezed in her chest, each gulp of air tearing and painful, but Raimund didn’t falter. Despite the sweat on her palm, his grip on her hand remained tight.

  He changed direction often, darting left and then right through trees, sprinting across open ground before ducking back into the tree line. In minutes, she became disoriented. She had no idea where the hill was, the chateau or the car in which they’d arrived. Every inhalation burned and her aching leg muscles trembled with weakness, while her sweat- and blood-stiffened shirt scratched her throbbing, grazed stomach.

  Suddenly Raimund stopped, his halt so unexpected she ran straight into his unyielding back. With a grunt of expelled air she dropped on her rear. Her head woolly, she slumped onto her back and lay staring at the sky, panting.

  He crouched beside her. ‘You must get up.’ Narrow-eyed, he glanced back from where they had come and pursed his lips. ‘There’s still great danger.’

  She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but her throat was so raw and her breath so hoarse the words refused to form. They were pointless anyway. She had to keep going. She had to keep La Tasse secure. As much from Raimund as from whoever was chasing them.

  After several more rallying gulps of air, she sat up.

  ‘Come,’ he said when he’d hauled her to her feet. ‘I’ll take you somewhere safe.’ Without a second’s pause, he strode off. Knowing she had no choice, Olivia followed.

  They kept to the valleys and tree line, crossing farmland and startling the occasional goat. Though no more gunfire rocked the valley, Raimund crackled with tension like an electricity substation, his surveillance of their surrounds constant. She wanted to ask him what was going on, but each time she opened her mouth he raised a hand, indicating for her to remain silent.

  All around them, the countryside slumbered. Cicadas chirped, birds warbled and lizards bathed in the heat, but Olivia and Raimund walked relentlessly on.

  The afternoon drifted by. The sun faded towards the west, but even in the shade there was no respite from the steady throb of summer heat. Olivia concentrated on putting
one foot in front of the other, trying to not think about her raging thirst, which was so intense it masked the pain of her wounds. Her tongue sat swollen and strange in her mouth, as though it belonged to someone else. She tried to lick her lips and instead of soft flesh, encountered the harsh scrape of salt crystals and scabby skin.

  For the fifth time since she’d fallen, Raimund broke stride and moved alongside her to ask if she was okay. Although dirty and slightly dishevelled, he remained as cool as ever, as if they were a couple of tourists taking a summer stroll.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she muttered through tight, cracking lips.

  He frowned and opened his mouth to say more, but she waved her free hand at him. ‘I’m fine, Raimund.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Totally.’

  He eyed the box. Automatically, her fingers tightened around the strap. He gave her an appraising look and then nodded, but his expression told her he didn’t believe her. ‘We’ll be out of harm’s way soon. A little further and you can rest.’

  They continued on. A midge landed on Olivia’s arm. She smacked it away and scratched at the place where it had bitten into her flesh. The skin felt dry and rough, like the surface of a paperbark tree. Vaguely, she wondered where all her sweat had disappeared to.

  The further they progressed, the more her mind wandered, dreaming up images of lakes and oceans and icy-cold water. Raimund became two men, and then three. A giggle bubbled in her chest. Only willpower prevented it erupting from her mouth and shattering the hypnotic quiet.

  Deep in the still-functioning recesses of her mind, she recognised the signs of dehydration and heatstroke. She’d suffered it once before when, as a child, her motorbike broke down out on the far edges of her parents’ vast New South Wales sheep station and she’d been forced to walk miles in the deadly summer heat without water or shade. Her symptoms now were no different. She’d taken three bottles of water to the chateau, but had been so intent on her task she’d failed to open a single one, which left breakfast the last time she’d had anything to eat or drink. And that was several hours ago.

  She raised a hand to wipe her eyes and staggered, then giggled at the swimming world.

  ‘Shh, Olivia. It’s okay. I have you.’

  Despite Raimund’s encouragement the giggles kept coming. When they stopped, she found herself sitting on the ground with her back against the trunk of a tree. She frowned and lifted her left hand, peering at her fingers and tilting her head in confusion. Something was missing, but what?

  Raimund held the case in front of her eyes. ‘Do not worry. I have it.’

  She reached out to snatch it from him and toppled sideways. Gently, he pushed her back upright.

  She regarded him owlishly. ‘Give it to me. It’s mine.’

  ‘Non. You are dehydrated and suffering from some shock, I suspect. It’s better if I look after La Tasse.’

  She plopped out her bottom lip. ‘It’s mine.’

  To her astonishment, he smiled and caressed her lip with his thumb only to snatch it away a second later, the smile vanishing with it. He shook his head and sighed deeply. Then as easily as if he were lifting a child, he gathered her up, hoisted her over his shoulder and continued the march on.

  ‘Mine,’ she repeated to his backside.

  ‘Non, Olivia. La mienne.’

  But by then, she was too exhausted to argue.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Olivia woke with a pounding head and a mouth that felt and tasted like a dried-up sewer. She moaned and, with an effort, opened her gummy eyelids.

  ‘Where am I?’ she mumbled.

  ‘Shh,’ said Raimund, cupping her head and holding a glass to her mouth. ‘Drink and then rest. You have nothing to fear. This house belongs to me. You are safe.’

  She swallowed thirstily, closing her eyes and savouring the drink. It tasted of very sweet orange and felt faintly oily on her tongue. She frowned, trying to work out what it was.

  ‘It’s water mixed with glucose and electrolytes. Do not worry. I will not poison you. You have my word.’

  He released her head and settled her back on the pillow. She opened her eyes. Raimund’s face was in shadow, as inscrutable as ever. But then he tenderly brushed his hand over her forehead and across her hair, the movement as soothing as his deliciously accented voice.

  ‘The gunman … the guard …’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself with that right now. Sleep, Olivia. I’ll keep watch.’

  Overwhelmed with tiredness, she slid back into sleep, lulled by a press of soft lips against her forehead that felt real instead of dreamed.

  The room was still dim when she woke again. She stared at the ceiling, blinking away the grit of sleep and trying to orient herself.

  As her eyes adjusted to the faint light, she realised they were in some kind of farmhouse, a gîte or rural cottage, the sort commonly rented out to summer tourists. From the little she could see, it appeared well maintained and equipped. The ceiling and walls were whitewashed and the bed on which she lay, large and comfortable. The sheets a fine percale, the pillows stuffed thick with down.

  Across the room, in the wall opposite the end of the bed, was what she assumed to be a window. Someone had nailed a heavy blanket across it, blocking out the night. She twisted her head to the right, to where the room’s only source of light lay. Raimund sat on a wooden stool at a rustic timber table staring intently at La Tasse lying on its side in front of him. Behind it, a gas lantern was turned down very low, casting light and shadow across his still face. In his right hand he held a fork, as though he was about to tuck into a meal.

  She observed him quietly, thinking how handsome he appeared in the lamp glow. Softer somehow, as though the yellow light had mellowed his hard planes and turned him human, into a man capable of feeling.

  Seemingly unaware of her scrutiny, he remained focused on the cup, his concentration absolute. Then he picked it up in his left hand, and using the tines of the fork, began scratching away under the rim as casually as if he were clearing dirt from under his fingernails. Olivia stared on in silence, made stupid by horror, but then her mind and mouth connected in a croaky yell.

  ‘Stop!’

  She tried to sit up, but in her agitation became tangled in the sheet. Only then did she realise that, except for her underpants, she was naked.

  She hovered half upright, blinking, unsure what to do and vaguely aware that the entire room stank of camphor. In a flash, Raimund was by the bed, pushing her back down on it, whispering calming words in French. They made no difference.

  She struggled against him, trying to sit. ‘Let me go!’

  He seized her shoulders and held her down on the mattress. Olivia attempted to punch him, only to discover her hands were covered in bandages.

  ‘Olivia, stop. Go back to sleep. There is nothing to fear. We are under no threat at the moment. I promise.’ His voice was soft and even, as though he were talking to a panicky child. It made her furious.

  She glared at him. ‘And leave you alone with the cup? Not a chance.’

  ‘You need sleep.’

  ‘The only thing I need is the cup. And to get it the hell away from you.’

  His grip on her shoulders tightened, his mouth stiffening into a thin hard line. In the low light, Raimund’s dark eyes seemed to smoulder like burning peat. The kind, concerned man was gone. When he spoke, his voice was obdurate, the tone indicating he had no more tolerance for her petty tantrums.

  ‘La Tasse is mine.’

  ‘The cup belongs to the world, Raimund. Not just to you.’

  He let go of her and stood, staring down as though she was of no consequence, his expression impassive.

  ‘Sleep. It will be morning soon and you have a long day ahead.’

  Then he turned and sat once more at the table, and lifted the cup. Much to Olivia’s relief, the fork stayed set aside, although in dangerous proximity.

  She watched him warily, contemplating her next move. Her
lack of attire was a problem, as were her bandaged hands. If she were to steal the cup from Raimund and escape from wherever the hell they were, she needed not only her hands free, but her clothes and boots.

  She stared at the ceiling and bit her lip. She didn’t know where she was, her head throbbed, her stomach and chest stung, and she was stuck in a room that reeked of mothballs with a man who wanted to attack one of the most significant historical finds in years with a kitchen utensil. But no matter how comfortable the bed, lying there and doing nothing was not an option. Not when La Tasse was at stake.

  Her eyes on Raimund, Olivia began tearing at the bandages on her right hand with her teeth, and when it was free, used it to unravel the left. Exposed, her hands felt greasy and smelled strongly of antiseptic cream. The skin of one palm was lightly grazed and she had suffered a small cut from the cable ties on the other, but even that was barely noticeable. Despite what the bandages implied, her injuries were more an irritant than impairment. She wiped her hands on the sheet to remove the cream then shucked the sheet down the bed, wincing as it tugged away from her scabs.

  Raimund had placed plasters over the worst cuts and abrasions, but many remained exposed. More plasters covered her breasts. Olivia’s face flamed as she realised the implication of this. Raimund had not only seen her practically naked, he’d bathed and dressed her injuries. All of them.

  Humiliation could wait, though. Finding clothes took priority.

  Tentatively, she touched her feet to the cool timber floor. Breath tight, she waited, expecting Raimund to turn around and challenge her, but he remained fixated, staring at the goblet like it was the Holy Grail. Then, as if reading Braille, his finger drifted over the few recognisable words etched into the clay. Olivia knew they would tell him nothing. La Chanson du Chevalier Gris needed to be read in full, and even then, she doubted he possessed the skill to decipher its meaning.