Napoleon's Woman

by Samantha Saxon

  Titles by Samantha Saxon

  The Lady Spies Series

  NAPOLEON'S WOMAN

  ENGLAND'S ASSASSIN

  KING'S CODE

  NAPOLEON’S WOMAN

  (The Lady Spies Series #1)

  Samantha Saxon

  Tartan Publishing LLC

  TARTAN PUBLISHING LLC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2016 by Samantha Saxon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at samantha.saxon@live.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9971948-0-7

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Published as The Lady Lies, Berkley Sensation edition, June 2005

  Reissued as Napoleon's Woman, Tartan Publishing, March 2016

  Cover Design by Daniel Barajas

  To my husband, Gaston, for showing our children what a man should be

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  London, England

  September 24th, 1794

  The first thing he saw was feathers.

  The man wearing the ornate hat, he knew, was Christian St. John’s father, the Duke of York, home from a rousing victory as Commander of British forces at the Battle of Lincelles. The sun glinted off numerous metals as the duke emerged into the garden, making the uniform and the man that much more impressive, that much more heroic.

  "Pay up, Wessex," Daniel McCurren demanded, drawing Aidan’s attention toward his auburn haired friend whose blue eyes were lost in the sky above him. "I told ya Christian’s father would na miss his birthday celebration."

  Resigned, Aidan reached into his pocket and fished out a farthing. His own father, the Earl of Wessex, had sent a letter saying the regiment would be home in October, so it had been a sound wager. But if the Duke of York was home, his most trusted officer, the Earl of Wessex, would be too.

  "Here," Aidan tossed him the coin, smiling at the thought of seeing his father again, before punching the arrogant Scot square in the shoulder. "You skirt wearing blackguard."

  "It’s a kilt, you English puff." Daniel hit him three fold as hard, knocking him out of the tree they had been climbing and causing him very nearly to land on John Elkin’s chestnut head.

  "Apologies," Aidan grunted as he lay sprawled across the grass.

  John did not lift his eyes from the pages of his current read before giving Aidan a swift kick in the backside. "Think nothing of it."

  The force of the kick rolled Aidan on his back where he lay, trying to remember why he had befriended such a motley crew.

  John Elkin was a cynic whose warring parents had driven him firmly into the pages of his beloved books. But to a privileged few, he was fiercely loyal friend with a sardonic wit and a heart as soft as strawberry jam.

  His brawny assailant was Daniel McCurren, a charismatic Scot who made people grin when they saw him and laugh when they chastised him. The word fear could not be found in his vocabulary and, unfortunately, neither could humility.

  Christian St. John was the youngest son of the Duke of York and heir to absolutely nothing. He was carefree, gullible, and astonishingly naïve, believing the best of people until proven otherwise. All in all, he rather reminded Aidan of a pup.

  "Oh, nicely done, John." Daniel laughed overhead.

  "Careful, Daniel," Aidan tossed black strands from his eyes and glared up at his large friend. "Or I’ll not allow you to marry my sister."

  "Sarah?" John asked, surprised. "Daniel wishes to marry Sarah?"

  "He told me his intentions last week," Aidan smirked.

  "A bit young to contemplate marriage, aren’t you Daniel? Well, never mind." John was so amused by this revelation that he slammed his book closed. "I suppose I should offer my congratulations to the bride."

  "Take one step, Elkin, and I’ll throttle ya." Daniel promised, his eyes turned to slits but Aidan could see the hurt beneath the anger. Guilt washed over him and Aidan felt a child for allowing his annoyance to break the confidence of his closest friend. "Aidan, you should na divulge a man’s private affairs."

  "Man!" John chuckled. "You’re ten same as us."

  "I’ll be eleven in two weeks’ time," Daniel boasted, leaping on the change of subject. "A full year older than Christian."

  Aidan sat up, reclining on his elbows and squinting in the direction of his fair friend as Christian greeted his illustrious father. The duke clasped his youngest son’s shoulder then bent down to whisper in his ear. Aidan watched, curious, as Christian’s Nordic blue eyes turned and locked on him.

  "Aidan Duhearst," the duke called across the garden.

  His heart bumped with excitement. He knew then that he was correct, that his father was indeed home. Aidan rose, praying that it was his father, and not a footman, who had come to fetch them from the party.

  He dusted off his breeches and walked toward the duke, motioning to his sister as she sat on the lawn playing with the sixth of the seven McCurren boys. Sarah kissed the four year old on the cheek before sliding him from her lap.

  She began to rise but the duke stopped her, saying, "Just Aidan."

  Her dimpled smile faded and her green eyes met his.

  Aidan indicated his ignorance with a discreet shrug and walked toward the Duke of York.

  "Will you join me in my study?"

  Stunned, Aidan could do nothing but give one brusque nod. He followed the duke’s broad back, listening to the rhythmic clicking of his Hessian boots on the white marble, a disconcerting contrast to Aidan’s lighter footfall.

  The footmen opened black double doors at the end of the hall, closing them the moment they passed into the room. He glanced around, nervous and more than a little curiou
s.

  As many times as he had visited Christian’s town home, he had never set foot in this room. Not that they hadn’t tried. Christian had devised a scheme to pilfer a cheroot or two. But when the time came and the footmen distracted, not even McCurren could muster the courage to turn that doorknob.

  "Aidan, have a seat."

  He did. His lanky legs stretching to reach the carpeted floor as he settled in the enormous leather chair opposite the desk. He waited, watching as the duke stared out the tall windows with his hands clasped behind his back.

  "You are aware, are you not, that I have just returned from Lincelles?"

  "Yes, Your Grace." He sat up determined to sound more dignified, more mature. "All of England is aware of your victory."

  The duke turned to face him, laughing at some private amusement Aidan did not understand.

  "Yes, well, ‘twas not my victory," he said, sitting at his desk and placing his forearms on the polished mahogany.

  "No, Your Grace." Aidan grasped the padded arms of the chair, afraid that he had offended in some way.

  "We were outgunned at Lincelles." The duke lifted blond brows. "The French had column, after column of cannons." He sighed. "I’ve never seen such a force."

  The duke stared through the wood of the desk and Aidan waited, not sure what to say.

  "As our troops assembled, the French fired their cannons, confident that we would not charge. But we did." He nodded. "The first line of infantry was cut to ribbons, and when the second faltered. . ." He paused, taking a breath before starting again. "A lone dragoon officer rode to the front of the line, his sword drawn as he charged into the fray."

  Aidan’s heart stopped.

  "Nothing touched him. And when he reached the French line, he sailed his mount over the cannons as if borne on wings." The duke was lost in his memories, narrowing his pale eyes as if he could see them. "I have never seen anything more glorious in all my days.

  Wave after wave of British infantry charged the French line to assist the brave officer who rode, cutting down their gunners as they reloaded their cannons. It was this unrelenting resolve that broke their line, and their will." He met Aidan’s eye. "A resolve carried across the battlefield of Lincelles by your father."

  Aidan’s chin quivered, and he could not breathe, his nostrils flared as he struggled to take air into lungs locked by shock.

  "I have never met a finer, braver man than your father."

  The duke’s words faded as Aidan braced himself against the pain of knowing it was his fault, knowing that he had not been enough to keep his father home. If he had been a better son, a better brother, then perhaps his father would not have left them.

  "The Earl of Wessex was the noblest of gentlemen, and I suspect that I shall never have the privilege of knowing another man like him."

  Aidan stared at the carpet his mouth agape as the meticulous pattern blurred. He heard a metallic ping and absently glanced up, only to see his father’s gold ring shining against the dark wood.

  "I know this is difficult, Aidan, but as of this moment…you are the Earl of Wessex."

  Aidan had always known that one day he would be required to fill his father’s shoes, to ascend to the title he has been bred to. But not yet.

  He wasn’t ready.

  He reached for the Wessex signet and placed it on his middle finger, then watched in horror as the weight of the cold metal caused the ring to slide off. With a shaky hand, he pushed it up and clenched his fist, terrified that he would never grow to fit it.

  Chapter One

  London, England

  April 20th, 1811

  At a small desk buried in the depths of Whitehall, an old man sat staring at three well-worn dossiers. He reached for the first, as was his ritual, and reread every detail, every event concealed therein. And when he was finished, he closed his eyes in the silence that was only obtainable in the wee hours of the morning…and prayed.

  He prayed for protection, he prayed for guidance, but most importantly, he prayed for forgiveness.

  He repeated this process with each subject of his well-maintained files and then slowly rose, picking up the papers before walking to the fire. He stared into the flames, hesitant to let go, and with a heavy sigh, let the women of Whitehall slip from his fingers.

  The fire flared, and the papers curled, charring from the edges. He stabbed with the poker, stirring the flames and meticulously burning them until nothing remained but ashes…ashes and his tortured conscience.

  Chapter Two

  Albuera, Spain

  May 16, 1811

  Aidan did not know where he was or how he had gotten there.

  Cool air rushed past his face, a welcome confusion to his warm skin. He cracked his eyelids, shutting them when light sliced through his already throbbing head, tenfold worse than anything he had experienced after a night of excess.

  He tried again, slowly this time, blinking, straining to focus. Dirt. He could see the ground, but the ground was moving. No, wait. He was moving, but his legs were not. His hair felt wet and sticky, black clumps stuck to his forehead. Dropping his gaze, he tried to comprehend the blood spattered across the front of his uniform.

  And then he saw her, and he was no longer confused.

  An angel.

  His angel.

  He would have thought an angel would have wings and yards of billowy white cloth, but his angel wore an ice blue ball gown. He laughed. God must have known he was an Englishman, creating the perfect emissary to meet his tastes.

  A sense of peace washed over him and he smiled to himself, pleased that he had died alongside his men. His head bobbed as he struggled to remain conscious. He lifted it with a jerk and noticed the beautiful blonde angel was speaking.

  To him? What would his angel want to know? What would he tell her? How could he explain what had happened at Albuera? Explain how he had failed his men?

  He could not.

  Guilt stabbed at his gut and he groaned in pain when he was unceremoniously thrown on a hard wooden chair, his wrists burning as a rope cut into his flesh.

  "Idiots," she snapped in French. "Unbind him."

  His angel looked angry, but not at him. A soldier to his right cut the ropes that were securing his wrists, and the tension in his shoulders eased. He felt two drops of blood slide down his cheeks, competing to drip on his already soiled jacket. But he had no idea from whom it had come.

  Confused, Aidan struggled to listen to his seraph, but the words meant nothing and his attention wandered to the dim room in which he now sat. Two men, dressed as French infantry soldiers, stood on either side of him, and a third guarded the door. To his left was a functional sideboard with a pitcher and several glasses.

  In front of him, a colonel in the French army sat behind a battered desk talking to his angel. French and English merged in his mind, and he was unsure which language they spoke.

  "Where was he found?" The angel’s tone was curt.

  "Albuera. He was found with one leg pinned beneath his horse and seven of our soldiers surrounding him. All dead."

  "And the horse?" His angel asked in French, he was sure.

  "Dead. Impaled with a lance."

  Aidan grimaced, the screech emanating from Thor when the lance pierced the stallion’s chest playing in his head. The horse had nearly drowned in a puddle where he fell. Drowning would have been so much faster, so much easier.

  "No, you fool. Obviously, the horse was dead," the seraph said, dissolving the memory of his loyal stallion to that of carcass. "How else would he have become trapped beneath the animal? Describe the horse. Its quality? Its tack?"

  Why she would want to know, Aidan could not fathom.

  The colonel sputtered. "He…the horse…the horse was a very fine quality."

  Aidan scoffed at the enormity or the man’s underestimation, but then again, he was French.

  "And," she prodded when the solider did not continue. He sensed urgency in her tone as her fair brows lifted with irr
itation. "The tack, colonel!"

  Aidan stared, never having seen an angry angel before, but concluding that he had neither the training nor temperament to judge angelic behavior.

  "Also of high quality with no markings of any kind," the colonel reported.

  "Hmmm?" The angel walked toward Aidan, tapping a delicate lace fan in the palm of her left hand and cocking her head to one side as she looked down at him.

  He stared, captivated.

  Her eyes were huge. Green with blue flecks, or was it blue with green flecks? He decided they were green and very beautiful. Her golden hair was piled high atop her head in an elegant coiffure as if she had just waltzed off a ballroom floor.

  Aidan had no doubt that she would dance beautifully and he suppressed the urge to take her in his arms and do exactly that, but he was too tired. So, he contented himself with a good, long, thoroughly delightful look.

  The ethereal woman’s nose was small and tipped up ever so slightly at the end. And her mouth, God, her mouth was the perfect width, and her lips were full and so damn succulent. His chest tightened. He had not had a woman in seven long months, and this heavenly creature would tempt a saint, much less a sinner like himself.

  "What is your name?" The angel asked in English with not one hint of a French accent.

  His name?

  Blood dripped from his chin and his brows furrowed as the fog began to clear. Aidan looked about the room, at the colonel, at the bars on the windows of the dirty chamber. He listened to the clank of metal and the distant cries of men on the other side of the heavy oak door. He blinked. Albuera! He had been fighting at Albuera with Beresford.

  Damnation! He had been captured!

  His head snapped up and his body tensed with the instinct to fight his way out of the room, but the sound of a pistol being cocked behind his head held him in his chair.