Chapter III

Maurice was saddling his horse and tying down his bags and guns. Aimee and Stefano looked on, one upset, the other was disappointed. Maurice jumped on the horse in one swift motion. Aimee walked up to him, "Will you return?"

It had been a two night stay at the little inn. Maurice had felt a connection between himself and the girl, but he had not acted upon it, knowing he had to leave for Paris eventually. As for the Italian, he was a good man to talk and play chess against. A good compatriot, but he did not get to close to him either.

The big gray turned to face the stable door, "I will return when my business in Paris is finished. So long my friends," the big horse carried the Sergeant out the door into the frigid cold. The barmaid and Italian just stared on.

Maurice had no intention of heading back to the inn. Maybe after he rescued Napoleon and his forces marched up here, but no, he could not return. He had liked the girl, which was why he hadn't acted why he had stayed the complete gentleman. He knew he was going to leave her…abandon her. A pain shot through him…was it guilt? He could not be sure.

Did they suspect his lie? Maurice was sure Stefano did, the Italian was very perceptive. Aimee, on the other hand, was clever, but very trusting. The girl knew though, he knew she did. Those eyes, her tears, they ripped at his heart…she knew.

"Must keep riding, must rescue Napoleon," he told himself, shaking his head. This did not force out the thoughts though, no matter how hard he tried.

Twenty kilometers out the rider stopped and found a small grove of trees of the side of the main road to set up camp. It wasn't much, a small fire and some dried beef for dinner. The bitter cold swirled around him, his nose felt as though it was going to fall off. He broke off a small piece of a baguette and washed it down with wine.

Still his mind was turning even when his body was ready to shut down. What was she doing right now? He glanced at his watch in the dim light, "Ten," he mumbled. She should be asleep…should be. Aimee worked the days, but she also admitted to working nights for extra tips. Before he left, he gave Aimee one-thousand francs to give her a reason not to work nights. He gave Stefano one-thousand to keep a watch on the girl.

Rolling out his bedroll, Maurice buried himself deep in the wool blankets. The winter air still found its way in and he shivered. This damned cold; it was sinking into his bones. Warm thoughts crept into his mind, the adventures in Egypt, the fireside at some mansion in Italy, the warm trickle of a good wine, and Aimee. His eyes snapped open at the thought of her.

"No," he told himself, "I must not think of her," he willed his thoughts away and again he was cold. The continual forcing of her memories began to physically hurt him. His head was throbbing.

"You know comrade, the old Maurice would never force such thoughts from his mind, he would embrace them," came a voice Maurice had not heard for over a year. Poking his head out, he saw a figure clad in the uniform of Napoleon's army. He quickly hid again, "And neither did my old friend hide like a child at the sight of an old friend," the soldier replied.

It was Jacques, a friend he met in Italy and fought with up until the invasion of Russia. That is where Jacques died, killed by Russia's most cunning general, General Winter. It was a little more than disturbing to have him here, "Jacques…I thought you were…"

"…Dead?" finished the apparition, laughing heartily, "I am, but I'm not that dead. You still remember me my good friend and I told you so long as you remembered me, I'd remember you," Jacques walked around the campfire, "and as for you and this mission of yours. It is a noble effort to rescue good old Napoleon, but is it worth it to abandon this woman?"

The initial shock began to wear off, "I've only known her for two days Jacques. I've known Napoleon for sixteen years."

"I never knew you swung that way, maybe it was a bad idea to be in your squad" Jacques laughed, receiving an angry look from his friend, "I kid my friend," he tossed a stick into the dying fire, "But if you're that dedicated, bring her along. I'm sure the Great Emperor would love to meet her," the ghost became serious, "Go to her…she needs you and more importantly you need her, deny it all you want you do need her. Be that damned gentleman you're so proud of and rescue her."

Jacques was right…of course he was, he always was, "I shall wait till…" a gun fired in the distance and a shrill cry could be heard. Both men looked in the direction of the noise; it was where Maurice had just come from. Maurice looked around to find Jacques gone, no doubt startled back to the netherworld be this commotion.

Mind racing, Maurice swung into the saddle of his big gray and sprinted it to the noise. A full moon and a starry sky guided his way, Saint Sebastian riding with him. The cool winter air made his determination that much harder, his heart steeled for battle.

The sounds of horses could be heard now, the whinnying and stomping. Maurice withdrew his blunderbuss filled with scatter shot. Lowering himself, he forced the horse to run faster.

He saw the fire in the distance. "Lock," Click, "And load," he mumbled. In the light he could see five men, three on horse back, two on the ground. The woman who screamed he could not find.

He was close now; he could smell the cheap whiskey. Shouldering his weapon, he urged his mount to make a leap over the shrubbery surrounding the small campsite.

The first rider had no time to react as he got a face full of shot. The rider, dead before he fell, hit the ground with a dull thud.

The others turned their heads when the flared musket was fired, but were to slow to react as Maurice had drawn two pistols from his saddle holsters. Before the other two riders could lift their musketoons, two lead balls slammed into their chests. The muskets fired wildly as the riders hit the ground.

Sliding off his horse and drawing his saber in one smooth motion, Maurice approached the stunned outlaws still left standing. They were backing up while shakily lifting their pistols level. With a quick motion, Maurice disarmed his opponents, even taking off a thumb.

Blood dripped from the blade, traveling down from hilt to the downward pointed tip. A small trail was forming of little drops of red. The fire reflected the cold anger and the hard determination of the man.

Maurice did not need the firelight to see the fear in the men, "Where's the girl?" he bellowed, slowly lifting his blade. They did not speak. The saber point made contact with the thumbless outlaw, "Where is she you despicable vermin? I have no inhibitions of running my blade through your throat."

"You lie," The thumbless man replied with a snarl. The saber penetrated the neck, making those his last words. A look of shock was frozen on the man's face as Maurice placed his boot against his chest and kicked the man off the saber.

The blade found its way to the other man's neck, "Your turn, tell me where she is, or go to hell with them," Maurice said, nodding to the dead body.

The single outlaw thumbed to a small thicket of trees, "Over there," he said in a meekly voice. He was sure this man in the gray winter coat was the devil.

Maurice motioned with his head, "Mount up and get the hell out of here," the outlaw did as he was told and rushed on his mount and darted off into the night, leaving his four dead comrades behind.

With bloody blade in hand, he ran to the thicket. A cold rage burned in his heart, no one would do such a thing, not even an outlaw.

"Now that you don't have your gentleman or his lackey to protect you," Said a masculine voice, the sound of a knife coming out of its sheath could be heard over the low, evil laugh.

A loud yell and a heroic leap caught the fiend by surprise. The knife blade was raised just in time to parry the saber blow. Both men leapt back into fighting positions.

"Hello hero," Mocked the older man, "I was just about to get my Francs worth out of this young woman." He took out a pistol, careful to hide it from his adversary, "She's a fighter, shot one of my friends."

"You will die before you lay another grubby hand on her, swine," The saber swung down again and the knife blocked it. Maurice had seen the man's hand reach for a pistol. He brought his boot up and kicked the object out of his hand.

The old man became less cocky and more defensive as Maurice took a single step backward. He laughed when Maurice lowered his blade, "That was a dumb move…friend."

The old man made a mad dash, knife held high. Maurice grinned, the moment he had waited for. Side stepping right, he swept his saber down and cut the man behind the knees, collapsing him instantly. He hit the ground with a thud.

Maurice loosened his own pistol, the one he had threatened the same man with the first night in the tavern. The old man looked desperately at the pistol barrel, then to Maurice's wrath filled eyes, "Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord," muttered the frightened man, trying to appeal to Maurice's religious sensibilities.

The same thumb cocked the same hammer of the same pistol that the old man had seen before, "God is busy, he sent me to deal with rapists like you," a flash in the dark, a thud of a bullet contacting flesh and bone, then silence. Maurice lowered the pistol and returned the pistol to its holster.

He walked over to Aimee and got on his knees. Before he could say anything, her arms wrapped around him, "I knew you would come back for me, I knew it," she said through her sobs of relief.

He returned the embrace, "I'm here angel, I'm here," he felt he grip at the winter coat and felt her dig into his chest, crying more and more letting all her anguish out. He lifted her head as her crying calmed, "Have you been to Paris?" a weak grin crossed his face as he couldn't believe he was asking this. She would be put in even more danger, but he felt like he must.

A smiled crossed her face despite the tears, "No I haven't."

"Would you like to go with me," Maurice asked.

An immediate, "Yes," came from the red-head as she threw her arms around his neck once more, a happy giggle in her voice.

The sounds of steps sounded behind Maurice, "Hey, are you taking Italians with you on this trip?"

Maurice turned to see a battered and bruised Stefano, "You look like hell my friend," A hearty laugh, "Of course I take Italians, but only if they're my friends," He helped Aimee up, "Let's get out of this dreary place, I have a nice spot not too far from here…"