Read Online La Flamme (Historical Romance) by Constance O'Banyon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Constance O'Banyon
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, adventure, Romance, Historical, Mystery, Adult, Action, France, Marriage, sensual, wedding, husband, Year 1630, European Renaissance, LA FLAMME, Kings Command, Pledge, Family Betrayed, Parisian Actress, Destroy, Alluring
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frantically grabbed for him in the darkness, only to have him slip out of reach. At last she gripped his arm and pulled his limp body to her.
"God help me," she cried. "Help me save my brother!"
As if in an answer to her prayer, a floating object brushed up against her—-it was a log! With renewed hope, she pushed Richard between her and the log so she could retain a grip on him and keep them both afloat.
She didn't know from whence came her strength, but she was able to cling to the log even though her injured leg felt like it was on fire. But at least the flood waters were sweeping them away from Garreth's soldiers.
.:■.-] 68 CONSTANCE OBANYON
Sabine heard one of them call loudly. "They've drowned. No one could survive in that. Let's go—we've done what we came to do."
Sabine clung to her lifeline, knowing that now was not the time to mourn her father and Thea. She had to save her brother.
Richard was strangely silent, and she spoke soothingly to him, trying to reassure him. Blackness was all about them, and the bitter taste of death lingered in Sabine's mouth.
After a while, the rain stopped and the clouds parted to allow a weak moon to shine down on them. Sabine prayed for strength, and it seemed God had granted her prayer, for she was able to keep Richard's head above water.
In her heart anger and hatred raged. She would live— she would come out of this, and so would Richard. They had a debt to pay—a debt of honor—a debt of revenge that would one day destroy Garreth Blackthorn!
8
Two brightly painted wagons blocked the roadway. The first one was helplessly stuck to its axle in mud, trapping the other behind it.
Monsieur Jacques de Baillard swore in his native French and kicked at the offending wheel. He was a tall man with an angular nose and dark hair and eyes. Not handsome, but a man with refinement and polish, that drew one's attention.
"How can we leave this cursed land if the rain continues to impede our progress?"
His wife, Marie, sat in the driver's seat, her wet, straw-colored hair plastered to her head. She called for the saints to give her patience and cast her husband a disparaging look. "If you had waited until the roads dried, as I told you, Jacques, you would not be stuck."
He looked at his wife in exasperation. "Madame, if you cannot help, don't hinder."
"I married a fool, and that is the burden I must bear all the days of my life. Why did I listen to you, Jacques?" she asked, not expecting an answer. "Come to London, you said, where we will make our fortune on the stage. The nearest we got to a stage was when we performed in that little park across the street from the theater."
Jacques had heard this all before. "Marie," he said patiently, "this is not the time to criticize. Do you not see that we are stuck?"
She snorted, then picked up a wide-brimmed hat and clamped it on her head, hoping it would offer her some protection against the rain. Then she continued to rebuke him.
"All we got for our trouble here were riots and condemnation. I can't believe you did not bother to find out before we arrived that the English do not allow women to act. You made fools of us all because you did not know that their female roles are played by men dressed as women. It was humiliating to have rotten fruit thrown in my face. And poor Odette Broglie was driven off by a deranged mob, in fear of her life."
"Do you not think I know this, Marie?" Jacques glared at her, his mind more on the wagon than her vocal complaints. "Was I not there?"
"What wonderful idea do you have now, Jacques? The Broglie brothers and sisters have deserted us. All that is left of the de Baillard Players is you, me, and Ysabel—we are hopelessly stuck, and have no funds to buy passage back to France."
Jacques was not listening to his wife. "I must hitch all four horses to the wagon to pull it free," he muttered.
"Humph," Marie said, glancing back at the second wagon. "Why don't you ask that crazed
"God help me," she cried. "Help me save my brother!"
As if in an answer to her prayer, a floating object brushed up against her—-it was a log! With renewed hope, she pushed Richard between her and the log so she could retain a grip on him and keep them both afloat.
She didn't know from whence came her strength, but she was able to cling to the log even though her injured leg felt like it was on fire. But at least the flood waters were sweeping them away from Garreth's soldiers.
.:■.-] 68 CONSTANCE OBANYON
Sabine heard one of them call loudly. "They've drowned. No one could survive in that. Let's go—we've done what we came to do."
Sabine clung to her lifeline, knowing that now was not the time to mourn her father and Thea. She had to save her brother.
Richard was strangely silent, and she spoke soothingly to him, trying to reassure him. Blackness was all about them, and the bitter taste of death lingered in Sabine's mouth.
After a while, the rain stopped and the clouds parted to allow a weak moon to shine down on them. Sabine prayed for strength, and it seemed God had granted her prayer, for she was able to keep Richard's head above water.
In her heart anger and hatred raged. She would live— she would come out of this, and so would Richard. They had a debt to pay—a debt of honor—a debt of revenge that would one day destroy Garreth Blackthorn!
8
Two brightly painted wagons blocked the roadway. The first one was helplessly stuck to its axle in mud, trapping the other behind it.
Monsieur Jacques de Baillard swore in his native French and kicked at the offending wheel. He was a tall man with an angular nose and dark hair and eyes. Not handsome, but a man with refinement and polish, that drew one's attention.
"How can we leave this cursed land if the rain continues to impede our progress?"
His wife, Marie, sat in the driver's seat, her wet, straw-colored hair plastered to her head. She called for the saints to give her patience and cast her husband a disparaging look. "If you had waited until the roads dried, as I told you, Jacques, you would not be stuck."
He looked at his wife in exasperation. "Madame, if you cannot help, don't hinder."
"I married a fool, and that is the burden I must bear all the days of my life. Why did I listen to you, Jacques?" she asked, not expecting an answer. "Come to London, you said, where we will make our fortune on the stage. The nearest we got to a stage was when we performed in that little park across the street from the theater."
Jacques had heard this all before. "Marie," he said patiently, "this is not the time to criticize. Do you not see that we are stuck?"
She snorted, then picked up a wide-brimmed hat and clamped it on her head, hoping it would offer her some protection against the rain. Then she continued to rebuke him.
"All we got for our trouble here were riots and condemnation. I can't believe you did not bother to find out before we arrived that the English do not allow women to act. You made fools of us all because you did not know that their female roles are played by men dressed as women. It was humiliating to have rotten fruit thrown in my face. And poor Odette Broglie was driven off by a deranged mob, in fear of her life."
"Do you not think I know this, Marie?" Jacques glared at her, his mind more on the wagon than her vocal complaints. "Was I not there?"
"What wonderful idea do you have now, Jacques? The Broglie brothers and sisters have deserted us. All that is left of the de Baillard Players is you, me, and Ysabel—we are hopelessly stuck, and have no funds to buy passage back to France."
Jacques was not listening to his wife. "I must hitch all four horses to the wagon to pull it free," he muttered.
"Humph," Marie said, glancing back at the second wagon. "Why don't you ask that crazed
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