LITMIR.BIZ

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now the same in Britain? As a Jacobin, was she hunting men like him? Hoping to identify British agents, and then intending to betray them?

       Or did she think him a Frenchman? Now, he must make certain she never knew he was an Englishman. And how much did she know? Did she know he had just come from France? He needed information, damn it!

       He was sweating and out of breath. Agitation was more than he could manage, in his state. Too late, he realized that the floor was undulating beneath him. He dropped the page, cursing.

       Dark shadows were closing in on him.

       It was hard to breathe. The room was spinning slowly, with all of its furnishings.

       He must not faint now.

       Dom finally sank to the floor. As he lay there, struggling to remain conscious, he heard the footsteps rushing at him. Fear stabbed through him.

      “Monsieur!”

       He fought to remain alert, so hard, sweat covered his entire body. His fists clenched and he inhaled, opening his eyes. The first thing he saw was her gray gaze, trained upon his face, as she knelt over him. Her expression seemed to be one of worry.

       Miraculously, the room stopped swimming.

       He stared up at her and she gaze down at him with great anxiety.

       He was riddled with tension, lying prone beneath her. He was too weak to defend himself and he knew it. She must realize it, too.

       But a weapon did not appear in her hand. Instead, she touched his bare shoulders, clasping them. “Monsieur! Did you faint?” Her tone was hoarse. And then he realized why.

       He was naked; she was entirely clothed.

       “I fell, mademoiselle,” he lied smoothly. He would never let her know how weak he was. She must believe him capable of self-defense—even aggression. Somehow, he lifted his hand and touched her cheek. “You remain my savior.”

       For one moment, their gazes collided. Then she leapt to her feet, turning her head away, to avoid looking at his body now. She was crimson.

       He felt certain she had never seen a naked man before. Her inexperience would make her easy to manipulate. “I beg your pardon,” he said, praying he would not collapse again as he sat up. “I cannot find my clothes.”

       “Your clothes,” she said roughly, “were laundered.”

       He saw that she had her glance averted still, so he stood. He wanted to collapse upon the mattress; instead, he pulled the sheet from it and wrapped it around his waist. “Did you undress me?” He glanced at her.

       “No.” She refused to look at him. “My brother did—we had to give you a sea bath, to reduce the fever.”

       He sat on the bed. Pain exploded but he ignored it. Long ago, he had mastered the skill of keeping his expression frozen. “Then I thank you again.”

       “You came to us only in breeches and boots, monsieur. The breeches are not dry yet. It has rained since you came to us. But I will bring you a pair of my brother Lucas’s breeches.”

       He now sought her gaze until she met it. She remained undone by having glimpsed him unclothed. If he were fortunate, she hadn’t noticed how incapacitated he was. He smiled. “I would appreciate a shirt, as well.”

       She looked at him as if he had spoken a foreign language she did not understand. Nor did she find humor in his remark.

       He sobered. “I am sorry if I have offended your sensibilities, mademoiselle.”

       “What were you attempting to do, monsieur? Why would you arise without my help?”

       He was about to respond when he saw her letter, lying on the floor behind her, where he had dropped it. He knew better than to try to avert his eyes; she had already turned, to look behind her.

       He said softly, “When I fell, I knocked over the chair and I also bumped into the table. I apologize. I hope I have not broken the chair.”

       She swiftly retrieved the letter and placed it by the inkwell; as quickly, she lifted and righted the chair.

       “I was thinking to open the window for some fresh air,” he added.

       Without turning, she hurried to the window, unlatched it and pressed it outward. A cool blast of Atlantic air rushed into the room.

       He studied her very closely.

       She suddenly turned and caught him staring.

       And he knew he did not mistake the new tension that had arisen between them.

       Finally, she smiled back slightly. “I am sorry. You must think me very foolish. I…did not expect to return to the chamber and find you on the floor.”

       She was a good liar—but not as good as he was. “No,” he said, “I think you very beautiful.”

       She went still.

       He lowered his gaze. A silence fell. To be safe, he thought, all he had to do was play her.

       Unless, of course, she was the spy he feared, and her naiveté was theatrics. In that case, she was the one playing him.

       “JULIANNE? WHY ARE YOU so concerned?” Amelia said.

       They stood on the threshold of the guest bedchamber, looking into the room. It was a starry night outside, and Julianne had lit the fire, illuminating the chamber. Charles remained asleep and his supper tray was on the table, untouched.

       She was never going to forget the fear that had stabbed through her when she had found him lying on the floor; for one moment, she had been afraid that he had died! But he hadn’t been dead, he had fallen. When he had slowly stood up—absolutely, magnificently, shockingly naked—she had pretended not to look, but she had been incapable of looking away. “It has been over twenty-four hours since he last awoke,” she said.

       “He is recovering from a terrible wound,” Amelia pointed out, her tone hushed. “You are beginning to remind me of a mother hen.”

       Julianne flinched. Amelia was right, she was worried—she wanted him to wake up, so she could be reassured. But then what? “That is nonsense. I am merely concerned, as anyone would be.”

       Amelia stared, hands on her small hips. “Julianne, I may not have spoken with him as you have, but I am hardly blind. Even asleep, he is a very attractive man.”

       She fought to remain impassive. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

       Amelia laughed, a rather rare sound for her. “Oh, please. I have noticed that when you are with him, you cannot keep your eyes to yourself. It is a good thing he has been sleeping, or he would have caught you ogling him! But I am glad. I had begun to wonder if you are immune to men.”

       Amelia might not sound so cheerful if she knew what Julianne knew about their guest—and Julianne would soon have to tell her, as they were all under one small roof. Amelia was apolitical. Still, she was a patriot, and the most rational person Julianne knew. She would be horrified to learn that they were harboring an enemy of the state.

       “My, that sounds like the pot calling the kettle black,” Julianne said quickly, changing the subject.

       Amelia said softly, “I wasn’t always immune to handsome men, Julianne.”

       Julianne immediately regretted having taken such a tack. She had been only twelve years old the summer Amelia had fallen in love with the earl of St. Just’s younger son, but she recalled their brief, passionate courtship. She remembered standing at the window downstairs, watching the two of them gallop away from the house, Simon Grenville in pursuit of her sister. He had been so dashing, he had seemed to be a veritable black prince, and she had thought her sister terribly fortunate. She also recalled Amelia’s shock when they had learned of his brother’s death. He had been summoned to London, and Julianne remembered thinking that her sister shouldn’t cry, for Simon loved her and he would

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