made my way back to Jersey, it was Prigent who informed. I managed to hide in a ditch and later escape.”
“I believed you at the time. But since then I’ve had reason to revise my opinion. I talked to one of the others, who told me the truth.”
“Then he lied.”
“No, LaRoche. You lied. Worse, you were not only spying for us, but you were also sharing British intelligence with the French. Playing both sides. I call that treasonous.”
LaRoche raised his hands and began an impassioned appeal in rapid-fire French, which Laura could not follow. D’Auvergne answered in kind, his neck and jowls reddening with barely controlled anger.
“I hold you responsible for the lives of my men,” the admiral bellowed.
Alexander spoke up. “Are the others . . . dead?”
The admiral looked at him. “I don’t know. Since my sources of information have been cut off, I can’t say for sure. If they haven’t yet been executed, I fear it is only a matter of time.”
Alex said something in French under his breath, and the admiral nodded his grim agreement.
“I am going to find out,” Alexander declared.
The older man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“Alexander Carnell. Alan Carnell’s brother.”
“Arrest him, sir,” François exclaimed. “He is an officer in Napoleon’s navy and an escaped prisoner of war.”
“I am not here as an officer,” Alexander calmly replied. “I am here as a brother. If Alan is alive, I want to free him.”
“I want that too,” d’Auvergne said. “If you are determined, I will deliver you to the Brittany coast in my own ship.”
“Thank you for the offer, sir, but I have already arranged a less conspicuous means of travel.”
The admiral’s brows rose, impressed. Then he turned to the waiting soldiers. “Officers, arrest this man.”
François grinned slyly at Alex, but the expression soon faded, for the uniformed men marched right past Alexander and advanced on him instead.
“Careful,” Alex warned. “He is armed.”
François pulled out the pistol he had briefly tucked away. “Arrêtez! Stop where you are.”
He stumbled slightly, as though dizzy, and aimed the gun at Laura. Standing to one side of him, Mrs. Tobin struck him with her meat mallet. The blow glanced off his head, not enough to kill him but certainly enough to infuriate him. He whirled on the older woman and raised his gun.
From the corner of her eye, Laura saw Alex lunge. He threw himself at François, tackling him to the veranda. The gun went off with a loud pop, and Laura screamed.
The soldiers sprang into action, pulling Alexander from François and yanking away the gun. Blood stained both men’s chests bright red.
Alex groaned and rolled to his feet, winded but otherwise unhurt. François leapt up and, evading the soldiers, bolted through the house and out the front door. Alex ran after him. Emerging out the front of the house, he saw François trip over a plank, hand clutched to his chest. He splashed through one of the small streams crossing the road and turned up Hill Street and out of view. Alexander followed, lungs burning.
He rounded a corner, and there saw François, half-sitting, half-lying, head propped against a wooden fence, legs sprawled, bloody hand pressed over his heart. Alexander’s own heart beat painfully at the sight.
He advanced cautiously, as though approaching an injured but beloved animal who might bite out of fear or pain.
When he didn’t lash out, Alexander knelt beside him. And suddenly François was no longer man or enemy, but boy, friend, and neighbor.
François looked up at him, and for the first time in years, his scowl fell away and the customary hatred in his blue eyes faded. It was just the two of them, as it had been all those years ago in Bretagne, sharing hopes, dreams, and the losses of loved ones.
“Alexandre . . .” François murmured. “I have missed you.”
“And I you, Fañch.”
Rapid footfalls drew nearer.
François winced. “Go. Leave me to my fate.”
“Non.” Struggling to speak over the burning lump in his throat, Alexander said hoarsely, “Friends share everything, remember?”
François reached out a trembling hand and laid it on Alex’s arm. In the language of their childhood, he said, “Ma digarez, breur kozh.”
“No. I am sorry, my brother.”
“I forgive you,” François whispered. “May God forgive me.”
“He will, mon ami, par la grâce de Jésus.”
François nodded, then glanced heavenward. “Enora is waiting?”
“Oui. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
“I am not . . .” And he was gone, blue eyes wide to the sky.
But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for the one who