Seduction

All thoughts of radical meetings vanished. Under normal circumstances, she would be alarmed at the news of an unexpected guest. They hadn’t been expecting Lucas, much less a guest. They had a single bottle of wine in the house. The guest room was unmade. The parlor had not been dusted. Neither had the front hall. Their cupboards were not full enough to support a dinner party. But Luke’s expression was so dire now that she did not think she need worry about cleaning the house or filling the pantry. “Lucas?”

“Jack brought him home a few hours ago.” He was grim. He turned to take up his horse’s reins. His back to her, he said, “I don’t know who he is. I am guessing that he must be a smuggler. In any case, I need you at home. Jack is already gone to get a surgeon. We must try to make the poor fellow comfortable, because he is at death’s door.”

GREYSTONE LOOMED AHEAD. It was a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old manor house, cast in pale stone, with high sloping slate roofs. Set atop rugged, near-white, treeless cliffs, against barren, colorless moors, surrounded only by a gray, bleak sky, it seemed stark and desolate.

Sennen Cove was below. Its wild tales of the adventures, mishaps and victories of smugglers, customs agents and revenue men were partly myth and partly history. For generations, the Greystone family had actively smuggled with the best of them. As deliberately, the family had looked the other way as the cove was laden with illegal cases of whiskey, tobacco and teas by their friends and neighbors, feigning ignorance of any illegal activity. There were evenings when the customs agent stationed at Penzance would dine in the manor with his wife and daughters, drinking some of the best French wine to be had, sharing the latest gossip with their hosts, as if the best of friends; on other evenings, beacon fires blazed, warning the smugglers below that the authorities were on the way. Jack’s ship would be at anchor, and the cove would explode with action as casks and cases were rushed into hiding in caves in the cliffs and Jack and his men fled the scene, the armed British authorities rushing down from the cliffs on foot, firing upon anyone who had been left behind.

Julianne had witnessed it all from the time she was a small child. No one in the parish thought smuggling a crime—it was a way of life.

Her legs ached terribly. So did her back. She rarely rode astride anymore, much less sidesaddle—her only option in her muslin dress. Keeping her balance at a brisk pace on the hired hack had been no easy task. Lucas had cast many concerned glances her way, and he had offered to pause for a moment so she could rest several times. Afraid that Amelia would linger with their neighbors and that the dying stranger was in the manor alone, she had refused.

The first thing she saw as she and Lucas trotted up the manor’s crushed-shell drive was the pair of carriage horses turned out behind the stone stables, which were set back from the house. Amelia was already home.

They hurriedly dismounted. Lucas took her reins. “I’ll take care of the horses.” He smiled at her. “You will be sore tomorrow.”

They were no longer arguing. “I am sore now.”

He led the pair of geldings away.

Julianne lifted her pale skirts and rushed up the manor’s two front steps. The house was a simple rectangle, longer than it was tall or wide, with three floors. The topmost floor contained attics and, once upon a time, living quarters for the servants they no longer had. The front hall remained in its original form. It was a large room, once used for dining and entertaining. The floors were dark gray stone, the walls a lighter version of the same stone. Two ancestral portraits and a pair of ancient swords decorated the walls; at one end of the hall there was a massive fireplace and two stately burgundy chairs. The ceilings were timbered.

Julianne rushed through the hall, past a small, quaint parlor with mostly modern furnishings; a small, dark library; and the dining room. She started up the narrow stairs.

Amelia was coming down. She held wet rags and a pitcher. Both women faltered as they saw one another. “Is he all right?” Julianne cried immediately.

Amelia was as petite as Julianne was tall. Her dark blond hair was pulled severely back, and her expression was characteristically serious, but her face lit up with relief now. “Thank the lord you are home! You know that Jack dropped off a dying man?” She was disbelieving.

“That is just like Jack!” Julianne snapped. Of course, by now, Jack was gone. “Lucas told me. He is outside with the horses. What can I do?”

Amelia turned abruptly and led the way up the stairs, her small body tight with tension. She marched quickly down the hall, which was dark, the wall sconces unlit, family portraits dating back two hundred years lining the corridor. Lucas had taken over the master suite long ago and Jack had his own bedchamber, but she and Amelia shared a room. Neither one cared, as the room was used only for sleeping. But the single guest chamber that remained had been left mostly untouched. Guests were rare at Greystone.

Glancing grimly at Julianne, she paused before the open door of the guest bedroom. “Doctor Eakins just left.”

The guest room looked out over the rocky beaches of the cove and the Atlantic Ocean. The sun was setting, filling the small chamber with light. The room contained a small bed, a table and two chairs, a bureau and an armoire. Julianne faltered, her gaze going to the man on the bed.

Her heart lurched oddly.

The dying man was shirtless, a sheet loosely draped to his hips. She didn’t mean to stare, but stretched out as he was, little was left to the imagination—the man was very big and very dark, a mass of sculpted muscle. She stared for one moment longer, hardly accustomed to the sight of a bare-chested man, much less one with such a powerful physique.

“He was on his abdomen a moment ago. He must have turned over when I left,” Amelia said sharply. “He was shot at close range in the back. Doctor Eakins said he has lost a great deal of blood. He is in pain.”

Julianne now saw that his breeches were bloodstained and dirty. She wondered if the bloodstains had come from his wound—or someone else’s. She didn’t want to look at his lean hips or his powerful thighs, so she quickly looked at his face.

Her heart slammed. Their guest was a very handsome man with swarthy skin, pitch-black hair, high cheekbones and a straight, patrician nose. Thick dark lashes were fanned out on his face.

She averted her eyes. Her heart seemed to be racing wildly, which was absurd.

Amelia thrust the wet cloth and pitcher into her arms and rushed forward. Julianne somehow looked up, aware of how hot her cheeks were. “Is he breathing?” she heard herself ask.

“I don’t know.” Amelia touched his forehead. “To make matters even worse, he has an infection, as the wound was not properly cared for. Doctor Eakins was not optimistic.” She turned. “I am going to send Billy down for seawater.”

“He should bring a full pail,” Julianne said. “I’ll sit with him.”

“When Lucas comes in, we will turn him back over.” Amelia hurried from the bedchamber.

Julianne hesitated, staring at the stranger, then pinched herself. The poor man was dying; he needed her help.

She set pitcher and cloth down on the table and approached. Very carefully, she sat beside him, her heart racing all over again. His chest wasn’t moving. She lowered her cheek to his mouth, and it was a moment before she felt a small puff of his breath. Thank God he was alive.

“Pour la victoire.”

She straightened as if shot. Her gaze slammed to his face. His eyes remained closed, but he had just spoken—in French—with the accent of a Frenchman! She was certain he had just said, “For victory.”

It was a common cry amongst the French revolutionaries, but he resembled a nobleman, with his patrician features. She glanced at his hands—nobles had hands as soft as a babe’s. His knuckles were cut open and crusted with blood, his palms calloused.

She bit her lip. Being this close made her uncomfortably aware of him. Perhaps it was of his near nudity, or his sheer masculinity. She inhaled, hoping to relieve some tension. “Monsieur? Êtes-vous français?”

He did not move as Lucas said, “Is he awake?”

Julianne half-turned as her brother entered the room. “No. But he spoke in his sleep. He spoke in French, Lucas.”

“He isn’t asleep. He is unconscious. Amelia said he is with fever now.”

Julianne hesitated, then dared to lay her palm on his brow. “He is very hot, Lucas.”

“Can you tend him, Julianne?”

She looked at her brother, wondering if his tone had been odd. “Of course I can. We’ll keep him wrapped in wet sheets. Are you sure Jack didn’t say anything about who he is? Is he French?”

“Jack doesn’t know who he is.” Lucas was firm. “I want to stay but I have to get back to London tomorrow.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m examining a new contract for our iron ore. But I’m not sure I like leaving you and Amelia alone with him.” His glance was on their guest again.

She stared, and finally Lucas stared back. When he chose to be impassive, it was impossible to know what he was thinking. “Surely you don’t think he might be dangerous?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

Julianne nodded, turning back to her charge. There was something odd about that exchange, she thought. She suddenly wondered if her brother knew who their guest was—but didn’t want to say so. She turned to glance after him, but he was gone.

There was no earthly reason for him to withhold any information from her. If he knew who this man was, he would surely tell her. She was obviously wrong.

She stared at the dark stranger, hating not being able to help him. She pushed a hank of thick, dark hair out of his face. As she did, he thrashed so suddenly that his arm struck her thigh. She leapt up in alarm as he cried, “Ou est-elle? Qui est responsible? Qu’est il arrivé?”

Where is she? Who has done this? she silently translated. He thrashed again, even more forcefully, and Julianne was afraid he would hurt himself. He moaned loudly, in obvious pain.

She sat back down on the bed, by his hip. She stroked his hot shoulder. “Monsieur, je m’appele Julianne. Il faut que vous reposiez maintenant.”

He was breathing hard now, she saw, but he wasn’t moving and he felt warmer than before. Yet that had to be her imagination. And then he started to speak.

For one moment, she thought he was trying to speak to her. But he spoke so rapidly and furiously, so desperately, that she realized he was delirious.

“Please,” she said softly, deciding to speak only in French. “You have a fever. Please, try to sleep.”

“Non! Nous ne pouvons pas nous retirer!” It was hard to understand him, but she strained to make sense of the rapid-fire, jumbled words. We cannot go back now, he had said. There was no doubt in her mind that he was French. No Englishman could have such a perfect accent. No Englishman would speak in a second language while in a delirium.

Julianne crouched by his side, trying to understand him. But he was thrashing violently, enough so that he rolled onto his back, all the while shouting. He cursed. They could not go back. They could not retreat! Was he speaking about a battle? He shouted. So many had died, but they had to hold this line! No, no, he screamed. Do not retreat! Hold the line! For liberty!

Julianne clasped his hot shoulder, tears blurring her eyes. He was most definitely reliving a terrible battle that he and his men were losing. My God—could he be a French army officer?

“Pour la liberté!” he cried. “Go on, go on!”

She stroked his shoulder, trying to offer him comfort.

The river was filled with blood… Too many had died… The priest had died… They had to retreat. The day was lost!

He wept.

She did not know what to do. She had never seen a grown man cry. “You are delirious, monsieur,” she tried. “But you are safe now, here, with me.”

He lay panting, his cheeks wet with tears, his chest shining with perspiration.

“I am so sorry for what you have suffered,” she told him. “We are not on the battlefield. We are in my home, in Britain. You will be safe here, even if you are a Jacobin. I will hide you and protect you—I promise you that!”

He suddenly seemed to relax. Julianne wondered if he was sleeping.

She inhaled, shaken to the core of her being. He was a French army officer, she was certain. He might even be a nobleman—some of the French nobility had supported the revolution and now supported the Republic. He had suffered a terrible defeat in which many of his men had died and it was haunting him. She ached for him. But how on earth had Jack found him? Jack did not support the revolution, yet he wasn’t exactly a British patriot, either. He had told her once that the war suited him immensely—smuggling was even more profitable now than it had been before the revolution.

The man was so hot to the touch. She stroked his brow, suddenly angry—where was Amelia? Where was the ocean water? “You are burning up, monsieur,” Julianne told him, continuing in his native tongue. “You must be still and get better.”

They had to get his fever down. She re-wet the cloth, and this time, stroked it over his neck and shoulders. Then she laid the cloth there, picking up and wetting another one.

“At least you are resting now,” she said softly, then realized she had lapsed into English. She repeated what she had said in French, sliding the cloth across his chest. Her pulse accelerated.

She had just laid the wet cloth on his chest again, where she meant to leave it, when he seized her wrist violently. She cried out, shocked, and her gaze flew to his face.

His green eyes were blazing with fury.

Frightened, she gasped, “Êtes vous reveillé?” Are you awake?

He did not release her, but his grasp gentled. So did his eyes. “Nadine?” he whispered hoarsely.

Who was Nadine? Of course, she knew—the woman was his lady love or his wife. It was hard to speak. She wet her lips. “Monsieur, you have been wounded in battle. I am Julianne. I am here to help you.”

His stare was feverish, not lucid. And then suddenly he reached for her shoulder, still holding her wrist.

He winced, breathing hard, but his gaze did not waver. An odd light flickered there and she became breathless.

He slowly smiled. “Nadine.” And his strong, powerful hand slid across her shoulder, to the back of her neck. Before she could protest or ask him what he was doing, he began to pull her face down toward his.

In shock, she realized he meant to kiss her!

His smile was infinitely seductive, confident and promising. And then his lips were plying hers.

Julianne gasped, but she did not try to move away from him. Instead, she went still, allowing him the shocking liberty, her heart lurching, her body tightening. Desire fisted, hard.

It was a desire she had never before felt.

Then she realized that he had stopped kissing her. She was breathing hard against his motionless mouth. She was acutely aware of the fire raging in her own body. It took her a moment to realize that he was unconscious again.

Julianne sat up straight, in shock. Her mind scrambled and raced. He had kissed her! He was with fever; he was delirious. He hadn’t known what he was doing!

Did it even matter?

He had kissed her and she had responded as she hadn’t dreamed possible.

And he was a French army officer—a revolutionary hero.

She looked at him. “Whoever you are, you are not going to die—I won’t allow it,” she said.

He was so still that he could have been a corpse.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE WERE DOZENS of men in the mob, screaming in rage, fists shaking in the air, and he knew he must run… As he did, the cobblestones beneath his feet changed, turning red. He did not understand—and then he realized he was running in a river of blood!

He cried out, as the stately Parisian buildings vanished. Now, the river of blood was filled with screaming, dying men. Panic and fear consumed him.

And he knew he must wake up.

He felt cotton beneath his hands, not dirt, not blood. He fought the bloody river and saw Nadine smiling at him, her eyes shining, the moon full and bright behind her. He had kissed her—except, that wasn’t right, because Nadine was dead....

Nadine was dead, and he was lying in a bed— Where was he?

Terribly drained, Dominic realized that he had been dreaming. His memories remained jumbled, and dread and fear filled him, but he fought the rising panic. He had to think clearly. It was a matter of life and death.

It wasn’t safe for him to remain in France now.

Someone knew who he really was.

And he recalled being ambushed outside Michel’s apartments. He tensed with more fear and alarm, fighting both emotions. And all of his memories of the past year and a half returned forcefully then. He had gone to France to find his mother and fiancée and bring them home to England. He had never found Nadine, but he had found his mother, hiding above a bakery in Paris, her townhome destroyed. After seeing her safely aboard a Britain-bound ship at Le Havre, he had returned to Paris, hoping to find Nadine.

He had never meant to stay in France, gathering information for his country. Although his mother, Catherine Fortescue, was a Frenchwoman, his father was the earl of Bedford and he was an Englishman to the core. Dominic Paget had been born on the family estate at Bedford. An only child, he had been educated at Eton and Oxford. With William Paget’s passing, he had inherited both the title and the earldom. Although he took up his seat in the Lords several times a year—he felt a duty to the country as a whole, for he must also look after Bedford’s interests—politics had never interested him. In fact, several years ago he had turned down a position in Pitt’s ministry. His responsibilities were clear—and they were to the earldom.

He hadn’t discovered what had happened to Nadine. She had last been seen in the riot that had destroyed his mother’s home. Catherine feared that she had been trampled to death by the mob. When he had returned to Britain, he had been concerned enough about the revolution in France to meet with several of his peers, including Edmund Burke, a man with great political connections. The information Dominic had gleaned while he was in France was so unsettling that Burke had introduced him to Prime Minister Pitt. But it was Sebastian Warlock who had persuaded him to return to France—this time with one single ambition: espionage.

It was impossible to determine who had learned the truth about Jean-Jacques Carre—the identity he had assumed. It could have been any one of dozens of Parisians, or even a mole planted amongst Michel’s command. But someone had discovered that Carre was no print-shop owner and no Jacobin. Someone had learned that he was really an Englishman and an agent.

His tension escalated wildly now. He was frighteningly weak—and thus vulnerable. Pain stabbed through his back with every breath he took.

Was he with friends—or foes?

Was he still in France?

Afraid and fully alert, he noted that he was not shackled. Very carefully, he opened his eyes, just enough so he could peek out through his lashes.

He did not change the pattern of his breathing. He did not move a single muscle, other than his eyelids. He sensed he was not alone. He wanted whoever was with him—whoever was guarding him—to think he was asleep.

The vague outlines of a small bedroom came into his line of vision. He saw an armoire, a window. A moment later, he smelled the tang in the air, and tasted its salt.

He was near the coast, but what coast?

He fought fiercely to retrieve every possible memory. Had he dreamed of a long journey in the back of a wagon, mostly by night? Had he dreamed of the rocking of a ship, the creaking of masts, the whisper of canvas—and being in the throes of a terrible agony? What happened to him after he had been shot? Hazy images tried to form, and suddenly he thought he remembered a woman with titian hair, hovering over him, bathing him, caring for him.

And then a woman moved into his line of vision, bending over him. He glimpsed titian hair, her pale visage, an ivory dress.

She murmured, “Monsieur?”

Dominic recognized the sound of her voice. So she had cared for him; it had not been a dream.

He could not assume that she was a friend and an ally. Could he defend himself if necessary? Escape? He was so exhausted, so weak! Who was she and why had she nursed him through his illness? Was she a friend of Michel’s? How had he come into her care? He debated waiting her out—sooner or later, she would leave him, and then he could decide what predicament he was in. His first order of business would be to search the room, then the house. He had to discern his location. And he needed a weapon with which to defend himself.

On the other hand, she could not be alone. She had to have comrades. When she left, someone else might be sent to guard him, and it might even be a man.

He opened his eyes fully and looked into the startled gray gaze of the woman.

She was seated in a chair, pulled up to his bedside, a writing tablet on her lap, a quill in her hand. She started and whispered, “Monsieur, vous êtes reveillé?”

He had no intention of answering her, not yet. Instead, he took a quick inventory of his surroundings. He saw that he lay in a narrow bed in a room he did not recognize. The chamber was a modest one, simply furnished, and it was hard to discern if he was in a bourgeois’s or a nobleman’s home. If the latter, they were impoverished.

One window let in the daylight—it was early afternoon. The sunlight was gray and weak, not at all like the bright summer sunshine in the Loire Valley.

How had he gotten to this bedchamber? Had he been taken in a wagon and then a ship—or had that been a dream? Damn it, he did not recall anything after being shot in the alley in Nantes! The only thing he was now certain of was that he was on the coast—but where? He could be in Le Havre or Brest, he thought, but he was uncertain. He could be in Dover, or Plymouth. Even if he was in England, he had to protect his identity. No one could ever guess that he was a British agent.

But she had spoken to him in French.

She spoke again. He became absolutely still, focusing on her, as the woman repeated what she had said before. “Sir, are you awake?”

Her color was high, a question in her eyes. Although she was speaking French, she had a slight accent. He felt certain she was English. And that should relieve him—except, he did not like the fact that she was speaking in French. Was she partly French, as he was? Or did she assume him to be a Frenchman, for whatever reason? Had she met him when he was undercover? Did she know the truth or any part of it? Where did her sympathies lie? If only he could remember more!

And why the hell was he stark naked beneath the thin sheets?

She suddenly got up. He watched her warily as she walked across the room, noticing that her figure was very pleasing, not that he really cared. She might be an ally—or she might be the enemy. And he would do whatever necessary to survive. Seducing her was not out of the question.

He now saw that she was putting the tablet and the parchment on the table, placing the quill into an inkwell there. She took up a cloth, dipping it in a basin of water. He did not relax. The hazy images became more focused, of this woman bending over him and bathing him with the cloth…of her face, close to his, as he prepared to kiss her....

He had kissed her. He was certain of it.

His interest sharpened. What had happened between them? Surely this was to his advantage.

She returned, her face pale except for two bright splotches of pink on her cheeks. She sat, wringing out the cloth, as he watched her closely, waiting to see what she would do next. His body stirred.

In France, living on the verge of death every day, he had lost all the morality he had been raised with. There had been so many French women in his bed, some pretty, some not, very few whose names he had even known, much less recalled. Life was short—too short. He had realized that morality was a useless endeavor in a time of war and revolution.

The images he had awoken to were always there, in the back of his mind, haunting him. That enraged mob, the bloody street and then the bloody river in Saumur. The family he had seen guillotined, the priest who had died in his arms. His morality had died long ago, perhaps with Nadine. Sex was entertainment, an escape, because death was the only certainty in his life.

Tomorrow, someone could assassinate him.

Tomorrow, an enraged mob could drag him from this house and stone him to death, or he could be led in chains, past cheering crowds to the guillotine.

She smiled slightly and then she laid the cool cloth on his forehead.

He flinched, surprising them both. Then he seized her wrist. “Qui êtes vous?” Who are you? She had spoken to him in French, so he spoke back to her in that language, as well. Until he knew where he was and who she was—and if it was safe to reveal himself—he would simply follow her lead.

She gasped. “Monsieur, you are awake! I am so very glad!”

He did not release her. Instead, he pulled her closer, down toward him, his heart racing with his fear. He hated this vacuum of knowledge; he had to find out who she was and where he was. “Who are you? Where am I?”

She seemed frozen, mere inches between their faces now. “I am Julianne Greystone, monsieur. I have been caring for you. You are at my family home, and you are safe here.”

He studied her, not willing to relax. The fact that she spoke of his being safe meant that she knew something of his activities. Why else would she suggest that he might otherwise be in danger? And who did she believe him to be in danger from? The Jacobins? Someone specific—like the assassin in Nantes?

Or did she think him in danger from his own allies? Did she think him a Frenchman in danger from the British?

Was her family home in England—or France? Why did she keep speaking in French?

She wet her lips and whispered hoarsely, “Are you feeling better? The fever has broken, but you remain so pale, monsieur.”

He fought a sudden wave of dizziness. God, he was so weak. He released her. But he did not regret intimidating her. He wanted her nervous and flustered and easily manipulated.

“I am sore, mademoiselle. My back aches, but yes, I am better.”

“You were shot in the back, monsieur. It was very serious,” she said softly. “You were very ill. We feared for your life.”

“We?”

“My sister, my brothers and I.”

There were men in the house, he thought. “Did you all care for me?”

“My brothers are not here. I cared for you mostly, monsieur, although my sister, Amelia, has helped, when she is not caring for Momma.” Her color increased.

He was alone with three women.

He was relieved, but only slightly. Of course he would work this situation to his advantage. He might be terribly weak, but he would find a weapon, and three women would not be a match for him—they must not be a match for him, not if he meant to survive. “Then it seems, mademoiselle, that I am entirely in your debt.”

Impossibly, she blushed another time and leapt to her feet. “Nonsense, monsieur.”

He studied her. She was very susceptible to seduction, he thought. “Do you fear me, mademoiselle?” he asked softly. She was very nervous.

“No! Of course not!”

“Good. There is nothing to fear, after all.” He slowly smiled. They had kissed. She had undressed him. Was that why she was so nervous?

She bit her lip. “You have suffered through an ordeal. I am relieved you are well.”

How much did she know? “Yes, I have.” He was calm. He hoped she would continue and tell him how he had gotten to that house, and what had happened to him after Nantes.

She fell silent, but her gray gaze never wavered.

She would not enlighten him, he thought; he would have to draw her out. “I am sorry to have put you out. Surely there are servants to do your bidding?”

It was a moment before she spoke. “We have no servants, monsieur. There is a stable boy, but he comes for just a few hours every day.”

There was more relief, but he remained wary.

“You are staring,” she said hoarsely.

He glanced at her hands, which she clasped tightly against her white muslin skirts. There was no wedding band, no diamond ring—there were no rings at all. “You have saved my life, mademoiselle, so I am curious about you.”

Her elegant hands lifted. She crossed them over her chest, defensively—or nervously. “You were in need. How could I not help?” Then, “You have not told me your name.”

The lie came as naturally as breathing. “Charles Maurice. I am forever in your debt.”

She finally smiled at him.

“You do not owe me,” she said firmly. She hesitated. “You must be hungry. I will be right back.”

The moment he heard her footsteps fading in the hall, he sat up and tossed the covers aside, about to stand. Pain shot through his back and chest. He froze, moaning.

And the room spun.

Damn it!

He refused to lie back down. It took him an endless moment to fight the pain, to will away the dizziness. He was in far worse condition than he had assumed. Then, slowly and carefully, he stood up.

He leaned against the wall, exhausted. It took a moment for the room to stop turning. But the minute the room was still, he staggered to the armoire. To his dismay, it was empty. Where were his clothes?