LITMIR.BIZ

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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?

       He cursed again. Then he moved to the window, his balance precarious enough that he knocked the chair over. There, he gripped the sill and stared past the barren cliffs at the ocean beyond them.

       He had no doubt it was the Atlantic Ocean he gazed upon. He knew the steel-gray color of those often stormy waters. And then he stared at the pale rock cliffs, the desolate, flat landscape. In the distance, he saw the silhouette of a lone tower. He was not in Brest, he thought. The landscape looked very much like that of Cornwall.

       Cornwall was renowned for its Jacobin sympathies. He turned, leaning against the sill for balance. The small table was before him, with her writing tablet, the inkwell, and the parchment page. He took two steps to the table, grunted hard and seized its edge to keep from falling down.

       Dominic cursed again. He wasn’t going to be able to run from anyone if he had to, not in the next few days. He wouldn’t be able to even seduce her, for that matter.

       His gaze found the parchment. She had been writing the letter in French.

       Dread arose. He seized it and read the first line.

       My dear friends, I am writing to celebrate with you the recent victories in the National Assembly, and especially the triumph of establishing a new Constitution, giving every man the right to vote.

       She was a damned Jacobin.

      She was the enemy.

       And now, the words seemed to gray on the pale page. Somehow, he managed to read the next lines.

       Our Society is hoping that more victories over the Opposition will come. We want to ask you how we can further aid our cause of equality and liberty in France, and throughout the Continent.

       The words were now blurring rapidly, and becoming darker, and he could not make them out. He stared blindly at the vellum. She was a Jacobin.

      

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