Chapter Eleven – Is This Not a Crime?
Pyrénées-Orientales, Occitanie, France
The train hummed steadily as it sped through the French countryside, dim lanterns swaying gently in the common car. Spencer and Alex sat across from one another at a narrow table, the remnants of a modest supper between them. A battered deck of cards lay open, mid-game, between their wine glasses.
Spencer smirked as he took another trick. "I thought aristocrats were meant to play fair."
Alex arched a brow. "And I thought soldiers were supposed to use strategy on the battlefield."
"This isn't a battle," he said with a shrug, eyes twinkling.
She leaned in slightly, her voice soft but firm. "See, that's where you're wrong, my love. I am always in battle."
He chuckled, running a finger along the rim of his glass. "Whist, apparently, is no exception."
Their banter slowed as the train continued through the dark, a soft quiet settling between them—comfortable and companionable. Outside the window, the landscape rolled past in shades of charcoal and navy, the occasional flicker of a distant town's light painting Alex's profile in gold.
They barely noticed the Night Porter at first—an older French man in a double-breasted uniform with thinning hair and eyes that lingered too long. When Spencer stepped away to refresh their drinks, the porter leaned in, brushing imaginary dust from Alex's shoulder.
"You're not often the sort we see in second class," he said, low and thickly accented, his eyes flicking over her dress.
Alex stiffened. "No? And what sort might that be?" She purposely replied in flawless French.
He had a slimy smile. "Not many ladies with your... refinement. Rare beauty, if you don't mind me saying."
She did. And she minded more when his hand grazed her waist under the guise of steadying her.
By the time Spencer returned, the man had disappeared down the corridor. Alex said nothing, unsure whether to trust her instincts or dismiss the discomfort as an over active imagination.
Soon after, Spencer escorted her to the women's sleeper car. They stood in the narrow passage, the train swaying beneath them.
"Sleep well," he said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "I'll be right over there," he tilted his head in the direction they'd just come from.
He was her guardian angel, she thought, always watching over her. Smiling, she stretched to her toes, kissed him light, sweet, lingering.
Inside, the compartment was modest but clean. Each bunk had a thin blanket, a modest mattress, and a curtain for privacy. A cracked mirror hung over the basin at the end, beside a tin pitcher and a bar of lavender soap.
The space was cramped but orderly—smelling of wool, dust, and perfume. It was far from luxurious, but for a woman that hadn't slept in nearly forty eight hours, it would do quite well.
Alex crawled into her bunk, tugging the curtain shut and letting the train's lull coax her into a restless doze.
Hours later, Alex shifted under her thin blanket, half-asleep, she felt the sudden tug of the curtain. Before she could move, a hand clamped over her mouth, and a weight pressed her into the mattress.
Panic jolted her awake
The porter. That same glint in his eyes. His breath sour with wine.
She tried to scream but it came out a muffled whimper.
"Shh," he breathed against her ear.
She squirmed, trying to yell, but his hand stayed firm, breath hot and rancid on her cheek.
"This real silk, isn't it?" he muttered, pawing at the edge of her nightdress. "Didn't expect to find something so fine down here."
Alex thrashed harder. His other hand gripped her thigh.
"Bet those silk-stocking types you run with don't know what to do with a girl like you," he whispered, voice thick with lust. "But I do."
"Think you're too good for a man like me?" he sneered as she bucked beneath him
Panic surged as she struggled, his weight pressing her down, one hand fumbling beneath her skirts.
Her arms flailed, searching for any kind of weapon. Her hand struck something on the nightstand. There was a dull crash and then something spilling down her arm… her fingers were slick with kerosene- the oil lamp!
She desperately felt around for the cold metal, blocking out the man's hands too near her privates, muffled crying trying to escape beneath her assaulter's hard hand.
And then she found it, her hand quickly wrapping around the handle.
In one swift motion, she swung the lantern with all the strength she had, oil flinging in every direction, the metal crashed against him, sending a shock of pain through her ignored it, and bashed him over the head with it again.
He groaned, falling half onto the mattress, groggy and dazed.
Wriggling free, she nearly fled, but anger that this man had thought he could rape her raged through her veins. She reared over him with a cry of fury and brought the lantern down once more. Then again.
The sound of the other women screaming penetrated her fogged mind. Someone flung open the door and began shouting for help in Spanish and French.
Alex sat frozen, breath ragged, staring at the bloodied man now slowly crawling out of her bed like wounded animal, the lamp still gripped in her trembling hand as the voice from outside grew louder.
And then footsteps. Fast. Purposeful.
Spencer.
Spencer heard the commotion first and stood. The next cry—undeniably Alex—hit him like a jolt of electricity. Panic struck. Then instinct took over.
"Alex!" he shouted, his voice raw with fear as he sprinted down the corridor.
He rounded the corner just in time to see her crouched over a man—wild-eyed, hair a tangle, her entire body shaking. The porter was barely conscious, blood streaming from his face. Spencer's stomach lurched.
Alex raised a broken lantern over her head.
He rushed forward, grabbing her by the arms and yanking her back. She fought him—still in fight mode, hands rigid around the shattered lamp, body taut like a wire.
"Easy. Easy," he soothed, voice gentle but firm, pulling her into his arms, holding her tight, trying to calm the tremors running through her.
She blinked hard, breath jagged, but stopped struggling. He cradled her to his chest. She trembled like a leaf, the fight slowly draining out of her.
"You're all right," he murmured, though the rage in his chest was difficult to suppress. His gaze shifted to the porter, groaning on the floor. His shirt collar, the bed, the floor—everything was stained with blood.
Spencer's fists clenched. "What'd he do?" he demanded, voice tight with control.
Alex, shaking, slowly pulled away from him, tears welling in her eyes as she spoke. "He- he touched me. He… tried to—" Her voice broke, and she shuddered, unable to finish.
Spencer's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing into a cold, lethal glare he turned to the man, who was trying to crawl away, breath ragged, a smear of blood trailing behind him.
"I was just checking on her," the porter rasped, his face twisted into a sneer. "She wanted it- she called me in-"
Spencer's boot came down on his throat.
"Did you touch my wife?" His voice was ice, steady and deadly.
The porter wheezed, hands clawing at Spencer's boot. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"Answer me," Spencer pressed harder. "Did. You. Touch. My. Wife?"
The man wrapped his fingers around Spencer's ankle, trying to lift the weight crushing his windpipe. "She attacked me!" he wheezed.
"You lie!" Alex shouted.
With a bloodied sneer, he spat in Alex's direction. "You rich bitches think you can get away with any-"
Spencer snapped.
In one motion, he yanked the man up and slammed him against the wall. The porter gasped, legs kicking, fingers scrabbling at Spencer's iron grip.
Shouts echoed down the corridor—officials responding to the noise.
Two uniformed men burst into the car.
One roughly grabbed hold of Spencer, ripping him off the Porter. The other manacled Alex.
"He tried to rape me!" Alex cried out. "Is that not a crime on your train!?"
"She's lying," the porter gasped from the floor. "Didn't want her husband to know what a whore she is."
Rage blinded Spencer. With a low growl, Spencer wrenched free and dove at her attacker. His fist nearly connected before he was grabbed again and knocked across the face by a blow he didn't see coming and couldn't defend himself from.
Alex screamed, struggling against her captor. "Stop! Stop hurting him!"
The porter staggered upright, dabbing at the blood on his chin with a handkerchief. "Arrest her," he croaked, pointing at Alex. "She tried to kill me. Arrest them both!"
The man gripping Spencer released one hand to seize Alex- big mistake.
Spencer twisted, broke free, and elbowed the guard in the nose. The man dropped with a grunt.
He turned, delivering a brutal punch to the porter's jaw, sending him sprawling again.
Alex, still held, stomped on her captor's foot. As he recoiled, she kneed him hard in his manhood. He doubled over just as Spencer reached her, yanking her free.
"We need to go," he said, urgency lacing every word.
Alex wrenched her arm free, grabbing the only bag she had left to her name more important to her.
A cacophony of shouts and slamming doors echoed the corridor.
More men were coming.
Adding her bag to the ones already over his shoulder, he grabbed Alex's hand, and pulled her into a sprint.
They tore through the narrow corridor, past startled passengers, into the next car, weaving through packed aisles. Behind them, the pounding of boots grew louder.
Finally, they reached the last carriage; the luggage car.
Spencer shoved the door open and kicked over a tower of stacked bags. They tumbled down, forming a barricade behind them.
"Go!" he barked, pushing Alex toward the end of the train.
As she maneuvered down the aisle, she gasped. "We're leaping off the train?!"
He wasn't gonna sugarcoat it. "We're leaping off the train."
Without giving her time to hesitate, he hauled her onto the shaky back platform. Wind howled around them, the blur of night rushing past.
Alex stumbled out beside him, eyes wide.
"Keep your legs loose. Don't stiffen up. As soon as your feet hit the ground, drop and roll." Spencer's voice was firm in her ear. "Just let the momentum carry you. Stay close, stay low, and follow my lead… Ready?"
She nodded, heart hammering in her chest.
Spencer glanced over the edge at the blurring landscape- too rocky.
The shouting behind them increased; glass cracked. He whipped his head back to see a hand reaching through the broken window, clawing at the luggage
Goddamn it, they were running out of time.
His eyes frantically scanned the terrain… there! Up ahead, he spotted it: a hill sloping toward a sandy shoreline.
"When I say 'now', you jump," he muttered, eyes narrowing at the approaching incline. He let go of her hand, knowing being attached could only injure the both of them. "Don't forget to roll."
"O- okay."
"Not yet…" he murmured, waiting for the perfect timing.
Shouts erupted behind them. The train guards had breached the luggage car.
"Now!" Spencer shouted, tossing their bags off the train.
They leapt.
The ground shifted beneath their feet as they quickly rolled downhill, gravel and dirt scattering as they tumbled down.
When they finally came to a stop at the base of the slope, Alex lay gasping, her arms scraped but intact.
She glanced at Spencer to make sure he had favored fine and saw that he was already by her side, pulling her to her feet.
"Come on," he said breathlessly. "We're not out of danger yet.
As soon as Alex put weight on her right foot, her ankle gave out. She gasped, face twisting in pain.
"You're hurt," Spencer said, almost accusingly. And a mess. Her nightgown, once cream-colored, was streaked with dirt. A gash bloomed red on her scraped knee, and the torn sleeve of her navy jacket flapped uselessly in the breeze. Twigs tangled in her blonde curls, giving her the look of a very elegant wreck.
Alex let out a bitter laugh. "Of course I am. We just leapt off the train!" she exclaimed, teeth chattering from the early cool, crisp morning air.
"I'm aware," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. The absurdity of the last hour was starting to settle in like fog: the escape, the fall, the fact that they were somewhere in the hills of southern France with no civilization in sight. He scoffed and shook his head, then gave her a sideways look, his lips twitching.
"You attract trouble like—" He broke off, huffed a laugh, then smirked. "Hell, damn near as much as I'm attracted to you."
Before she could respond, he slid one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. She didn't protest this time. Her head dropped against his chest, and now that the adrenaline was ebbing, she trembled faintly in his arms.
He set her down on a stone wall, before going to retrieve their baggage. He'd dropped them higher up the hill. When he returned with them, Alex was shivering in her thin lacy nightgown- which he normally loved seeing her in.
Now, however, she needed clothes.
He rummaged through her bag, hastily pulling out a dress and stockings, and handed them over.
She gave him an arched look, her mouth twitching into something wry as she glanced at his selection. "You're much better at disrobing me than dressing me."
With a pointed glance, she held out her hand for her bag.
Smirking, he handed it over. Then turned his attention to his rifle, make sure nothing happened to it during the fall.
He disassembled and reassembled the parts; wanted to run a test shot, but thought it wise not to alert anyone of their presence with the sound of gunshot.
The sky was beginning to lighten. Peach and lavender streaked the horizon. The slopes below rolled toward the Mediterranean, silver under the morning haze. The scent of salt and wild thyme floated on the breeze.
Down the hillside, faint lights flickered across the shore—civilization. Maybe a village. Maybe, if they were lucky, a port.
"The next stop was Barcelona," Spencer said aloud, more to himself than her. They'd been just over an hour from it. That meant those lights below might be… Port-Vendres. Or Collioure.
Once Alex called out that she was ready, he scooped up the bags—and her—and started forward again, picking a careful path through the scrub and stones. The hills were steep in places, the trail barely a path at all. Gnarled olive trees leaned into the wind, and rows of sleeping vineyards lined the terraces like ghosts. His steps were measured, steady, despite the sting in his thigh and the weight of her in his arms.
"You don't have to carry me," she insisted for the second time. "Really, Spencer, put me down. I'm too heavy."
"I've carried elk heavier than you."
Her brow arched. "What in God's name is an elk?"
"Big deer. With antlers."
"So a stag. Got it." She shook her head, looking down at the sloped terrain beneath their feet, all loose rock and red earth, stitched with the wild roots of vineyards clinging to the hills. The path was barely more than a goat track, winding between shrubs and crumbling stone walls. "Really, Spencer, you could trip. And then where would we be?"
His hold instinctively tightened. "I won't trip." His voice was calm, resolute. And true enough, his stride didn't falter.
And for a long while, it didn't.
But when their path veered, narrowed, one side a rock wall, a sheer drop on the other.
Alex inhaled sharply, chest tightening. "Put me down. I'm not a fan of heights. You'd think jumping off a British passenger vessel would've cured me, but alas, no. Still quite terrified," she added, her voice quickening as she tried to mask her nerves.
Spencer set her down, but didn't let her go, his arm steady around her.
"I won't be a burden," she said, scanning the hillside. "I can use a stick as a crutch. I'm sure there's one tall and strong enough somewhere."
"Yeah. Right here." He helped her to her feet and offered his left arm as support for her right ankle.
She chuckled. "I meant something a bit smaller, you Sasquatch."
"You like that I'm big," he said, eyebrows waggling.
Alex laughed. "I'll admit—it has its advantages."
She reached up, brushing a finger over his lips. "There it is," she murmured, when he smiled. She loved seeing that expression on him—unguarded, real.
Then she wrapped her arms around his neck. He lifted her feet off the ground without hesitation, and their lips met, fierce and grateful and full of all the adrenaline they hadn't yet burned off.
The Mediterranean stretched ahead—dark, vast, and endless—touched now by a bleeding line of orange that kissed the horizon. Morning was coming. The world around them was slowly waking.
Spencer's legs kept moving, the weight of his responsibilities sat in his chest, heavy and unrelenting, urging him to hurry.
Alex winced with each step. Spencer had an arm wrapped around her waist, guiding her gently down the narrow path. Her limp was getting worse. Every step felt like a fresh struggle, like the world was dragging at their heels.
They crested a small ledge overlooking the jagged coastline below, Port-Vendres still tucked out of sight beyond the next hill. He stopped, just for a moment, and helped his wife to a nearby ledge to rest.
Then a low-hanging branch caught Spencer's coat, jerking him back mid-step.
"Son of a—" He snapped, yanking free with a sharp growl. He turned, broke the branch clean from the tree with a swift, angry tug, and hurled it into the brush below. It cracked through the undergrowth and vanished.
Alex's sharp breath made Spencer freeze and turning in her direction. Her face was lanced with pain. Guilt lanced through him. "Did I hurt you?" Had he missed something?
She shook her head, eyes filling. He would never hurt her. Her pain derived from guilt. She looked down, teeth catching her lip.
"I just..." Her voice came out strained. "I'm sorry. I don't blame you for being mad at me. It's my fault."
"What?" Spencer's frown deepened.
"All of this—Arthur, the duel, the Earl..." she turned slightly, gesturing toward the wild hills behind them, toward the life they'd just thrown themselves off a train to escape. "The train," she choked. "God, the train." She shook her head, voice cracking. "It's all because of me. I brought this chaos into our lives. And I'm so... so sorry."
He didn't say anything at first. Just stood there, the ache in his chest turning molten. It angered him, watching her carry a burden that didn't belong to her.
He looked away, jaw clenching, breath fogging faintly in the dawn chill.
She reached out, her hand feather-light against his jaw. That simple touch undid him.
He exhaled. Then, gently, brushed a smudge of dirt from her cheek, his voice quieter now.
"Alex, I'm not mad at you. I don't blame you. I'm… my family... needs me." It was tearing him apart. He'd abandoned them to face a war alone. "They need me, Alex. And I'm failing them."
Her eyes filled with pain. "No, you're not. Never." Alex took a breath, her hand trembling slightly where it pressed to her chest. "I'm the one that's failing you."
Disagreeing, he stepped forward, brushing the loose strands of hair from her cheek, "The only thing you have to be sorry for," he said, voice rough and low, "is that you're too damn desirable."
That startled a short laugh out of her. It escaped like a hiccup, half joy, half pain.
Spencer gathered her up, then dropped down to sit with his back against a sturdy olive tree, settling her across his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"We'll move again in a minute," he said, even as he closed his eyes for a beat.