What had seemed to take so long on foot passed in only a few moments by phaeton, and she quickly lost sight of the French army as the road bent behind her. She urged the horse to more of a trot until she was close to where she thought they had stopped. The rye grasses showed no signs of their mad dash, so Jane pulled the horse to a halt and stood on the bench of the phaeton spying for Vincent. The rye rustled and parted like the Red Sea as he limped out. She pushed aside the easel and helped him clamber into the cavity in the rear.

He lay down with a groan.

She did not want him to worry about the soldiers on the march, and there was little either of them could do, save flee. Jane kissed the split skin above his eye and the rank scent of his unwashed flesh sent another wave of nausea through her. Staggering back, Jane again was sick in the field.

Vincent raised himself on his elbow. ‘Muse?’

‘I will be well shortly. The stress has made the nausea worse. I am sorry it alarms you.’ She straightened and pushed him back into the compartment of the dogcart phaeton. ‘Now lie still.’ Jane arranged one of the blankets around him and climbed back into the bench seat.

She urged the horse into motion. Though she wanted nothing more than to push him to a gallop and race toward Brussels, that would draw unwanted attention to them, so she kept him to a slow and leisurely walk. By necessity, the road took them past Gemioncourt. Jane tensed, waiting for someone to come out and stop them, but they passed by unnoticed. Were it not for the dread twisting knots in her stomach, Jane might have been out for a Sunday ride.

Once past Gemioncourt, she urged the horse into a trot, which also had the benefit of smoothing out his gait and making the ride gentler for Vincent. Jane’s chief concern though, was to put as much distance between themselves and the camp as possible before the French army arrived, increasing the number of men that might be employed for pursuit.

They had gone nearly an hour down the road when she heard horses thundering toward them. Jane glanced over her shoulder, heart rising into her throat.

Three French officers galloped toward them. The one in front saw her take notice of them and shouted, drawing his sabre.

If Jane were an innocent, she would stop and see what he had to say, but if Jane were an innocent she would not have the escaped prisoner they sought in the back of her phaeton. ‘Vincent. They have spotted me. Can you hide yourself if I stop?’

‘I am not certain I have the strength.’