Seduction

She started. “Of course I don’t mind.” But she wondered if he would be able to make it down the stairs, which were rather steep and narrow.

“These four walls might madden me,” he added, buttoning up the rest of his shirt.

She watched his long, blunt fingers sliding the buttons into the buttonholes. Last night, his hands had been on the arms of his chair as she had rubbed his neck. Eventually, she had seen his knuckles turn white. She still could not believe her audacity—or how touching him had affected her.

He sat and began to pull his stockings on.

She wanted to ask him about his family, but she said, “Can I be of help?”

“Haven’t you helped enough already?” He seemed wry.

He knew she was as nervous and anxious as a debutante, she thought, flushing. She watched him pull both boots on. “Where does your family live?”

He stood up. “My family is from le Loire. My father’s shop was in Nantes.” He smiled, extending his arm. “Will you walk with me, Julianne? I can think of nothing I wish to do more.”

Julianne took his arm. “You are so very gallant. Of course I will walk with you. I just hope we are not rushing your recovery.”

“I enjoy your concern.” His gaze slid over her features, lingering on her mouth.

She forgot to be worried about his welfare. He was thinking about kissing her.

“I would be rather dismayed,” he added softly, “if you were not concerned about me.”

Her smile failed her. He gestured and they traversed the corridor in a new silence. She felt his thoughts racing. She wished she knew exactly what he was thinking, certain he was thinking about her.

Suddenly she realized his breathing was becoming labored. “Monsieur?”

He paused, leaning against the wall. “I am fine.”

She gripped his arm more tightly, to steady him, and his biceps pressed against her breast. Their gazes locked.

Her heart slammed.

And then he sagged, as if his knees had buckled. Julianne leapt forward, wrapping both of her arms around his waist, afraid he would fall entirely over and down the stairs. She embraced him, her face pressed against his chest.

“You are far too weak for this,” she accused breathlessly. She could hear his heart pounding beneath her ear.

He was silent, breathing hard, and she felt his frustration change. He grasped her waist loosely, his chin pressing against her temple, and she felt his breath against her cheek.

They were in one another’s arms.

Breathing became impossible. Her heart thundered. And his entire body began stiffening against hers.

Julianne went still. She looked up; his eyes were heated now.

“Julianne,” he said. “You are far too tempting like this.”

His tone had been rough. She wet her lips. “Monsieur.” Did she dare confess that she was as tempted by him?

“Charles,” he said softly, tightening his embrace. “You are so beautiful… You are so kind.”

She could barely think. Most of her body remained pressed against his. Her breasts were crushed by his chest. Her skirts covered his legs. She felt his knees against her thighs. He was stirring against her, a sensation she had never before experienced. She wanted to tell him that she would not mind, if he thought to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her—she wanted, desperately, to kiss him back.

Suddenly he shifted and she was the one with her back against the wall. His gaze moved to her mouth but he released her, stepping backward. “I do not want to take advantage of you.”

She wasn’t sure she had ever been so disappointed. “You cannot take advantage of me.”

One brow cocked upward, skeptically. “You are a woman without experience.”

“I have had a great many experiences,” she tried.

“I am not referring to assemblies and debates, Julianne.” His gaze was searching.

She did not know what to say. “I have been courted. Tom Treyton is smitten with me.”

He stared. “Let us go downstairs. I am determined, now.”

Dismay consumed her. Why hadn’t he kissed her? And didn’t he care about Tom? It was a moment before she could speak. “Are you certain? You are obviously weaker than either of us realized.”

“I am certain,” he said softly, “that I must regain my strength, which I will not be able to do lying in bed with your tending to my every whim.” He suddenly pulled away from her, seized the banister and started downstairs, giving her no choice but to follow.

In the hall below, he paused, lightly holding on to the banister, glancing carefully around.

For one moment, Julianne almost had the feeling that he was memorizing the details of her home. “Perhaps we should sit before the hearth,” she said, indicating the two burgundy chairs there.

“Is that the parlor?” he asked, glancing at a pair of closed doors.

“That is the library. The parlor is the room closest to the front door.”

He stared past the library doors, which were closed.

“That is the dining room.” She answered his unspoken question. He was pale. He should not have come downstairs yet.

He faced her. “Where are your mother and sister?”

Did he want to know if they were alone? “Amelia took Momma outside for her daily ambulatory. They will be back shortly, as Momma cannot go far.”

“I was hoping for a tour of the premises.” He finally smiled at her, but it did not reach his eyes, and she found that odd, until she realized that he was unusually pale. Perspiration was beaded upon his brow.

“You cannot go far, either. Your tour will have to wait.”

His brow lifted at her tone.

“We are going back upstairs,” she said, meaning it. “You are not the only one capable of giving orders. You are still ill!”

He looked at her. Some amusement began to shimmer in his eyes. “You are so worried about me. I will miss your anxious concern when I leave.”

She started. She had almost forgotten that, one day, he would return to France. But surely that was weeks away, or even months! “You almost fell down the stairs,” she managed.

He slowly smiled. “And if I had? I would hardly suffer from your attentions after such a fall, Julianne.”

“Your hurting yourself again isn’t amusing—not at all. Have you forgotten how ill you were?”

His smile faded. “Actually, I have not.”

She took his arm, guiding him back to the stairs, glancing at him uncertainly. “Am I being too shrewish?”

“You could never be shrewish. I think I rather like being ordered about by you.”

She smiled. “I thought pale, fainting, compliant females were in vogue.”

He chuckled. They started up the stairs, this time going up them while abreast. Julianne had no intention of releasing him, and he leaned on her again. “I don’t care for vogues. And I have never cared for women who swoon.”

She was fiercely glad she had never fainted, not once in her life. They traversed the hall in silence. As they entered the bedchamber, he said, “And will you order me to bed?”

She saw the humor in his eyes. But she also thought there was another innuendo in his words. Now, she was afraid to look at the bed.

She wet her lips and managed to sound brisk. “You may sit at the table, if you wish, and I will bring us both a light luncheon.”

“Maybe,” he said, stumbling slightly, “I had better lie down.”

Julianne rushed to help him.

A FEW HOURS LATER, Julianne hesitated outside Charles’s door. When she had brought him a light luncheon earlier, she had found him soundly asleep. She had placed his lunch tray on the table, covered him with a thin blanket and left.

His door was ajar, and in case he was still sleeping, she did not knock. She peered into the bedchamber and was rewarded by the sight of him at the table, eating the stew she had left for him earlier. “Hello,” she said, stepping inside.

“I fell asleep,” he exclaimed, setting down his fork, his plate empty.

“Yes, you did. Obviously our small outing was far too strenuous for you. And I can see that you have enjoyed your late lunch.”

“You are an excellent cook.”

“Charles, I burn everything I touch—I am not allowed to cook. It is a rule in this house.”

He laughed.

“You are feeling better,” she remarked, pleased.

“Yes, I am. Come, sit and join me.” As she did so, he said, “I hope I was not as difficult as I recall, in demanding to go downstairs earlier.”

“You were not too difficult,” she teased. “Are you in a rush to recuperate fully?” She hesitated, reminded that he would leave Greystone Manor and return to France when he was well.

“As much as I enjoy your hovering over me—” he smiled “—I prefer being able to see to my own needs. I am not accustomed to being weak. And I am used to taking care of those around me. I can hardly take care of anything right now.”

She absorbed that. “This must be awkward for you.”

“It is. We must repeat our attempted outing tomorrow.” His tone was one of command, and she knew she would not refuse. He smiled. “However, you are the one bright light in this difficult circumstance. I like being here with you, Julianne. I have no regrets.” His gaze locked with hers.

She wanted to tell him that she was so glad he was there, in her care, and that she had no regrets, either. Instead, she hesitated.

“When you worry, you bite your lip.” He spoke softly. “Am I a terrible burden? It must be maddening, to have to care for a stranger day in and day out. I am taking up all of your time.”

Impulsively she seized his hand. “You could never be a burden. I am pleased to care for you. I do not mind, not at all.” And she felt as if she had admitted all of her feelings for him.

His green eyes darkened and he returned her grasp. “That is what I wanted to hear.”

She stared into his eyes, which were smoldering. Breathlessly, she whispered, “Sometimes, I think you deliberately guide me into making admissions and confessions.”

“Our conversations flow freely. That is your imagination, Julianne.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“I wonder if I will ever be able to repay you for all you have done and are doing for me.”

When he looked at her that way, she felt as if she were melting. “I would never take any kind of repayment from you. When you are well again, you will take up arms for the revolution. Why, that is all the repayment I will ever need!” She touched his hand again.

He took her hand and suddenly clasped it firmly against his chest. She went still. For one moment, she was certain he meant to kiss her palm. Instead, he looked up at her from beneath his heavy dark lashes. She felt his heart beating, thickly, a bit swiftly. “What would your neighbors do, if they knew I was here?”

“They must never learn that you are here!” She added, “You have a disconcerting habit of changing subjects so suddenly.”

“I suppose I do. Your neighbors do not share your sympathies, I fear.” He released her.

“No, they do not.” She was grim. “There are a few radicals in the parish, but since Britain joined the war against France, patriotism has swept most of Cornwall. It is best if my neighbors never know that you are here—or were here.”

It was as if he hadn’t heard her. “And may I ask who your neighbors are and how close they are to this manor house?”

He was interviewing her again, she thought, but she did not blame him. If she were in his position, she would be asking him the same questions. “The village of Sennen is just a short walk from the manor, and it is much closer than the farms that border Greystone. We are rather isolated.”

He absorbed that. “And just how far is the closest farm?”

Did he truly think that he was in jeopardy from their neighbors? “Squire Jones leases his lands from Lord Rutledge, and he is about a two hours’ ride from us. Two other farmers lease their lands from the earl of St. Just, but they are perhaps fifty kilometers away. Penrose has a great deal of land to the east, but it is barren and deserted. The Greystone lands here are also barren—we have no tenants.”

“Does the squire call? Or Rutledge?”

“The only times Squire Jones has ever called was when his wife was terribly ill. Rutledge is a boor and a recluse.”

He nodded. “And St. Just?”

“St. Just has not been in residence in years. He runs in very high Tory circles in London, as does Penrose—who is rarely in the parish. I believe they are friends. Neither man would ever call, even if they were here.”

“How far away is St. Just? Penrose?”

“The manor at St. Just is an hour from here, by horseback—in good weather. Penrose’s estate is farther away.” Attempting levity, she added, “And the weather is rarely good, here in the southwest.” She reached across the table to take his hand. “I don’t blame you for asking so many questions. But I don’t want you to worry. I want you to rest and heal from your ordeal.”

His gaze held hers. “I am exercising caution. Where are we, exactly, Julianne?” He glanced down at her hand, as if he did not want her to touch him now, and then he slid his hand away from hers. “Is it possible to have some maps?”

Almost hurt, she said, “We are above Sennen Cove. You are more worried than you have let on!”

He didn’t respond to that. “How far is Sennen Cove from Penzance?”

“It is an hour’s drive by coach.”

“And the Channel? We are on the Atlantic, are we not? How far is it on foot to the closest point of departure?”

He was already thinking about returning to France, she thought, stunned. But he was weak—he could hardly leave anytime soon! “If you walk down to Land’s End, which I can do in fifteen minutes, you are, for all intents and purposes, facing the southernmost portion of the Channel.”

“We are that close to Land’s End?” He seemed surprised, and pleased. “And where is the closest naval station?”

She folded her arms across her chest. This was undoubtedly how he was when in command of his troops. He was so authoritative, it would be hard to refuse him—not that she had any reason not to answer him. “There is usually a naval gunship at St. Ives or Penzance, to help the customs men. Since the war began, our navy has been diverted to the Channel. From time to time, however, a gunship will cruise into one port or another.”

He steepled his hands and leaned his forehead there, deep in thought.

“When will you leave?” she heard herself ask, her tone strained.

He looked up at her. “I am in no condition to go anywhere, obviously. Have you told the Jacobins in Paris about me?”

She started. “No, not yet.”

“I ask that you do not mention me. I do not want word of my having been wounded to get back to my family. I do not want to worry them.”

“Of course not,” she said, instantly understanding.

Finally, he softened. He took her hand and shocked her by kissing it. “I am sorry. You have been nothing but kind, and I have just rudely interrogated you. But I need to know where my enemies are, Julianne, just as I need to know where I am, if I ever have to escape.”

“I understand.” Her heart beat so wildly now she could hardly think. Such a simple kiss—and she was undone!

“No, Julianne, you can’t possibly understand what it is like to be surrounded by one’s enemies—and to fear discovery with every breath one takes.”

He still held her hand to his chest. She tried to breathe, she tried to think. “I will protect you.”

“And how will you do that?” He was openly amused. But his grasp on her hand tightened. Somehow, her knuckles were pressed against the bare skin exposed by the top and open buttons of his shirt. “You are such a tiny woman.”

“By making sure that no one knows about you.”

His eyes darkened. His smile vanished. “Amelia knows. Lucas knows. Jack knows.”

“Only Amelia knows who you are and she would never betray me.”

“Never,” he said, “is a dangerous concept.”

“If a neighbor called, they would not realize you are upstairs in this room,” she insisted.

“I trust you,” he said.

“Good,” she cried fervently, their gazes locked.

He lifted her hand to his lips, but slowly. Now Julianne froze. His gaze on hers, he pressed his mouth to the back of her hand, below her knuckles. This time, the kiss was entirely different. It wasn’t light, innocent or brief. His mouth drifted over her knuckles and the vee between her thumb and forefinger. And then his eyes closed and his mouth firmed. He kissed her hand again and again.

As he kissed her, her heart exploded. His mouth moved over her skin another time, with more fervor, and her entire body tightened—her own eyes closed. His mouth became insistent and fierce, as if he enjoyed the taste of her skin, as if so much more was to come. She finally allowed her mouth to part. She heard a small moan escape her lips. He separated her fingers and nuzzled the soft flesh there. She felt his tongue.

“Are there weapons in the house?”

Her eyes flew open, meeting his hot yet hard green gaze.

“Julianne?”

She was trembling. Desire made it almost impossible to breathe, to speak. “Yes.” She wet her lips. She inhaled. Her body was throbbing, the need acute.

“Where?”

She exhaled. “There is a gun closet in the library.”

He continued to stare. Then he lifted her hand, kissed it and released it. Abruptly, he stood.

If he ever truly kissed her, with the passion that raged between them, she might lose all of her good sense, she thought.

He glanced at her. “Do you know how to use a pistol? A musket?”

She must find her composure, she thought. “Of course I do. I am a good markswoman.”

She added, “You do not feel safe.”

His gaze moved over her features, then met her eyes. “I do not feel safe here, no.”

Julianne slowly stood up. He watched her, and she wasn’t sure she trusted herself to speak now. So she turned and left the room. She went downstairs, her body on fire, wondering if she should kiss him. She was certain he would allow it.

In the library, she paused, finding herself staring through the glass doors of the gun closet.

Three pistols and three muskets were racked within. It wasn’t locked. It never was. When there were revenue men descending on the cove, those guns were instantly needed. Julianne took out a pistol, then closed the glass door. She retrieved powder and flint from the desk before going back upstairs.

Charles was standing by the window, staring at the threshold, clearly waiting for her to return. His eyes widened when he saw her with the pistol, powder and flint.

Their gazes locked. Still tight with desire, Julianne crossed the room. She handed him the pistol. She managed, “I doubt you will need to use it.”

He put the pistol in the waistband of his breeches. She handed him the flint and powder. He slipped the powder bag’s strap over one shoulder. He put the flint in his pocket. Then, slowly, he reached for her.

She went into his arms.

But he did not kiss her. “I hope not.”

Trembling, she slipped her hands up his heavy biceps, which flexed beneath her palms.

He did not smile. He slid his fingertips over her cheek, then tucked a tendril of hair behind her ears. “Thank you.”

Somehow, Julianne nodded—and he released her.

CHAPTER FOUR

HE HEARD HER before she appeared in the open doorway. Dominic pushed the maps she had brought him aside, already having entirely familiarized himself with the southernmost part of Cornwall. He picked up his quill to resume the letter he was writing to his “family” in France. After all, that was surely what Charles Maurice would do, and if Julianne ever thought to spy, she would read the reassuring letter he was writing to the family he did not have. He had learned long ago to take elaborate precautions to guarantee than no one ever suspected he was using an alias.

Julianne arrived on the threshold, smiling. He slowly smiled back, meeting her gaze. Some guilt nagged at him. He owed her greatly; she had saved his life. He now knew she would not be very enamored with Dominic Paget—a titled, powerful Tory. It almost amazed him that his life had come down to this constant game of deception, of plot and counterplot.

He still didn’t know her well, but he knew that she was genuinely kind, as well as intelligent, educated and opinionated. She was also terribly beautiful and completely unaware of it.

He stared openly, aware that she noticed his obvious admiration for her. His body stirred. He was recovering more swiftly now and his body had begun to make demands—urgently.

He knew he shouldn’t seduce her. She was a gentlewoman, without experience, and in love with his alias—not him. She was already clay in his hands. The problem was, he wasn’t interested in being moral. He was fairly certain that his time in London would be brief. His assignment was to ensure that the British resupplied Michel Jacquelyn’s army. Once he had arranged that and was assured that the correct quantity of troops, weapons and other sorely needed supplies were being routed to La Vendée, he would be sent back to the Loire Valley or Paris.

His entire body tightened. He refused to allow his memories of the wars or the mobs to form. He was sick of dreaming of death, of being afraid, and he was sick of how a small gesture or word could cause those memories to come flooding vividly back.

“I have brought tea,” she said softly. “Am I interrupting?”

He had been anticipating her company. She was an interesting woman and their conversation was never mundane. Sometimes, though, he felt like shaking some common sense into her.

She should not trust him!

He took his time answering, considering her carefully. He wondered how she would feel if she ever knew the truth about France—or about him.

Sometimes, he wanted to tell her. Usually that was when she spouted her nonsense about liberty and equality in France, and for all. His anger was instant, but he would hide it. He wanted to tell her that the ends did not justify the means, that France was a bloodbath, that innocent men and women died every day, that he hated the tyranny being inflicted on the country—that it was tyranny, not freedom!

Sometimes, he wanted to shout at her that he was a nobleman, not some damned revolutionary—that his mother was a French viscountess, and that he was the earl of Bedford!

But there was more. Sometimes, when she looked at him with those shining gray eyes, he felt a terrible stabbing of guilt, which surprised him. And then he felt like shouting at her that he was no hero. There was nothing heroic about running a print shop in Paris and fawning over the local gendarmes so they would never suspect the truth about him, or about flattering and befriending the Jacobins so they would truly think him one of them.

Writing ciphers by candlelight, then smuggling them through a network of couriers to the coast, to be transferred to London, was not heroic—it was terrifying. It was not heroic to pretend to be that Frenchman or to pretend to be a French army officer—it was not heroic to take up a musket and march off into battle, fighting to defend one’s birthright against one’s countrymen. It was all a great necessity, a matter of survival.

It was all madness.

How shocked and horrified she would be by it all.

But she would never hear any such nonsense from him. He was too deep in this alias to get out. If anyone at Greystone learned that he was an Englishman, much less that he was Paget, there was but one obvious conclusion to draw—that he was a British agent. After all, he had been transported from France, he’d been speaking French and he now posed as a Frenchman. The leap would be a simple one to make.

Her sister and two brothers could be managed, certainly—they were patriots. He did not worry about their mother; he had eavesdropped and learned that she was mentally incapacitated.