Napoleon's Woman

by Samantha Saxon

  His throat constricted as melancholy settled in his chest. He swallowed and stared at the chubby cheeks of his young nephew, wishing he had a son to watch grow to manhood, wishing he had a son to leave the estate to, but it was not to be. He would die for his country, like so many men before him.

  Aidan sighed, regretting not dying in battle rather than swinging from a rope. He was not a particularly vain man, but he had killed quite a large number of Frenchmen and would prefer to be remembered for those feats and not his undignified demise.

  A legend, the woman had said. He smiled at the thought. Well, the legend of the Earl of Wessex had one last duty to perform. Aidan rose and walked to the water basin, carefully removing the bandage that covered the stitching in his head.

  He stripped and began to wash himself and his uniform of as much mud and blood as his water basin would allow. If he were to be hanged this day, he would bloody well look like an English gentleman.

  ***

  At dawn, the doors at the far end of the corridor clanked open. Aidan rose, shaking the stiffness from his legs then straightening his damp cravat. His uniform looked remarkably better after hours of his ministrations, and he was rather pleased with the result.

  Two soldiers followed the jailor to his cell, both in dark blue uniforms and both very young. Irritation burned away his fear when he realized the commanding officer had not bothered to escort him to the gallows.

  "Follow these men," the jailor ordered, opening the cell. Aidan set his jaw and glared down at the small man who stepped back instinctively. "Watch him carefully," the man cautioned the soldiers.

  One of the men pointed toward the entrance of the prison, which was set aglow by the morning sun. Aidan took a step toward the door, only to be shoved in the back by the now-brave soldiers. He stopped in the narrow corridor and turned, warning them with his eyes that another push would not be tolerated.

  Aidan straightened himself, determined to die with dignity as he emerged into the sunlight of the muddy courtyard. But his left brow arched when he saw not a hangman, but a demon of darkness masquerading as a blonde.

  Surely, even the French would not allow a woman to command the garrison, leaving him to wonder for a second time who she was.

  Beside her stood an old woman dressed entirely in black, and his fair enemy smiled at her, saying, "Did I not tell you that the earl would be a fine prize to present to the Emperor? It will be quite entertaining to see this tall tree fall at the foot of France." The young woman’s disdainful gaze lingered on him while her troops chuckled at her words.

  Aidan smiled with amusement of his own. "Not bloody likely," he sneered, knowing that he would never bow before Bonaparte.

  The stunning woman walked toward him, her hips swaying enticingly, her jade eyes sparkling. "When you are a corpse, my lord, you will have very little to say about the matter." Her smile was sweet and swift, before dying as she swung around to give instructions to her troops.

  "Load him, and guard him well, or you will have me to answer to." Aidan noted the wary looks on the faces of her young soldiers before the ruthless woman climbed into her ornate carriage with the old woman following after her.

  ***

  Lady Rivenhall was shaking when she settled in the comfort of her garish carriage that had been given her by Napoleon. "Pull the blinds," she said, a bit breathless, as Madame Arnott seated herself opposite her.

  Reaching out to pull the thick velvet across the windows, the old woman whispered, "I do not like this. You did not tell me he was so…"

  Celeste’s heart was pounding far too rapidly, which only added to her irritation with herself. "So what? Handsome? I had no idea. He was covered with blood and dirt last night. All I could really see was his size. However, it changes nothing," she said firmly.

  "As long as your interest in Wessex is not personal. It does no good to wish for things that will never be, my sweet."

  Celeste shook her head as the carriage lurched forward. "Wish for what? I do not expect to live through this war! Much less can I imagine a home with a husband and children."

  "Do not lie to me, Celeste," Marie said in clipped tones that revealed her anger. "You fight to end this war so you can have exactly that. The handsome earl is the embodiment of all those hopes and dreams you have buried in your heart. And if he lives, so too will your hopes of that life."

  Celeste’s chin quivered, and she knew she would soon cry. She closed her eyes to stop the tears and let the numbness take over. "I am going to sleep," she said.

  But Celeste did not sleep.

  Her mind was filled with the image of the Earl of Wessex as he regally stepped out of the prison. The man had taken her breath away. He was every bit as handsome as she dreamt him to be. His black hair, now clean, contrasted with his light skin to capture the eye and hold the spectator enthralled. The dark locks were in disarray and curled at the collar, but far from detracting from his looks, it enhanced them, making him more dangerous, more masculine.

  And his eyes…his eyes were so green the grass would envy them. But when he drew the corners of his lips up to expose a mouth full of white teeth, the appearance of deep dimples in his cheeks had all but made her weak in the knees.

  Then she remembered the feel of his bare chest. Surprisingly smooth skin covering hardened, battle ready muscles. Celeste was accustomed to seducing men, to teasing and touching to have them comply with her every wish.

  Yet, never in her life had she felt such a burning need to touch a man as she did last night, to unnerve him as much as he did her. True, she needed to discover his identity, but she need not have been so wantonly seductive in the process. And he had wanted to touch her. They both knew it, and it was that thought that kept her awake most of last night.

  Marie had been right. She wanted Wessex to live, wanted to know he survived because of her. The fact that he would never know it was she that had arranged his freedom was of no consequence. The legend would live, and she could dream, and that would be enough. Celeste closed her eyes, filled with new resolve, and slept…and dreamed.

  ***

  It was spring and night still came early.

  A large flock of birds echoed from the trees just north of the encampment. A small deserted cottage had been commandeered to sleep the ladies, while the remainder of the guards slept in wagons or tents in the fields surrounding a small garden.

  The earl studied the troops. Young and untried, and most assuredly devoted to the beautiful witch that had cast her spell on their young hearts.

  "What I wouldn’t give to be in that cottage." One of his guards lamented in French as he passed Aidan his dinner, stew and a stale baguette.

  "Oui, but I think the Emperor would object to your enjoying his mistress." The shorter man laughed, and Aidan looked down at his food to hide his shock.

  The men left him to eat, which was rather difficult in shackles. But Aidan’s mind was not on the tasteless stew, his mind was busy mulling over how to use this new information to his advantage. He broke the stale baguette in half, hoping that the center would prove easier on his teeth. However, his hand stilled when he caught sight of a shimmer of black buried deep in the heart of the loaf.

  He glanced at the soldiers seated by the fire several yards away, and removed the gleaming metal. A key? His heart seized, and his brows furrowed in confusion. He looked up and counted his guards, hope swelling in his chest as he slipped the key into the pocket of his trousers. He would need to wait until they slept, giving him time to plan his stratagem for his escape.

  Aidan rolled his blanket into a makeshift pillow and lay down, causing his shackles to sound his movements. The guards glanced in his direction before resuming a game of hazards being played by the campfire. He smiled to himself, filled with the knowledge that he would survive, that he would once again walk the grounds of Blackmore Hall, but all the while wondering who would have given him that key…and why?

  He considered the question for hours listening as conversations d
ied, only to be replaced by the sound of crickets and a soft breeze. Aidan fished for the key in his pocket and unlocked the shackles on his hands and then his feet. Lifting his head to check that his guards were indeed asleep, he rolled unobserved over the side of the wagon facing the woods. And then was gone, swallowed by the dark.

  Chapter Four

  Celeste waited anxiously for the sounding of the alarm, but it had not come. What was Wessex waiting for? Didn’t the man realize he was wasting valuable time? She shifted impatiently in her bed, and then she heard him. He entered the bedchamber so quietly that had she been asleep, she would never have known he was there.

  She stifled a scream, but realized he would expect a struggle. Celeste flipped over and reached for her knife, but Wessex was too fast. He had her pinned beneath his powerful thighs with one hand over her mouth and the other clasping both of her wrists.

  "What were you reaching for, Mademoiselle?" He hissed, skimming over the small table to the side of her bed. Then he saw it and released her left hand, oblivious to her blows as he retrieved the knife and held it to her throat.

  She stilled.

  "You’re a deadly one, aren’t you? But then I’m sure many of my countrymen have learned that lesson far too late. How many men have died by your graceful hands, I wonder?"

  His face hardened, and even in the dim light she could see the rage that he struggled to control.

  "I should kill you now?" he spat, pressing the tip of the knife into her throat. She winced as the blade pierced her delicate skin, leaving blood oozing from the wound.

  Celeste closed her eyes, strangely calm as she awaited the final thrust. Penance for all the men she had been unable to save. But if this man, this myth could escape…She would happily die for that.

  But what was he doing here?

  "You…you English are more foolish than I had imagined. You escape then wander back into the camp you are fleeing from," she rolled her eyes. "You will be captured by morning."

  "I think not," Wessex said, glaring down at her with contempt. "When the alarm sounds, you will order your men to search the woods and the surrounding areas. When I am not found, they will assume that I have slipped through them. No one would consider looking for me in their own camp."

  "And in the morning you will be found and then hanged" she said, hoping for him to see the error in his plan.

  "After the forest has been searched, I can escape quite easily."

  She admired his logic. None of the soldiers would explore an area that had already been searched. "Leaving me to sound the alarm."

  His smile became feral as he bent down over her body. His face was mere inches from hers, causing her breath to shorten considerably.

  "You shall not be able to sound any alarm," he whispered.

  She shivered beneath him. "Why not just murder me now?"

  He laughed softly as he sat back on his haunches. "I need you to speak with your men, both now and when they return from their search of the forest. And if we are discovered…" She could sense his satisfaction. "Napoleon’s mistress will make an excellent hostage."

  Celeste inhaled her shock, and in the next moment they heard shouts coming from the direction of the encampment. Before she knew what was happening, he was off the bed and dragging her with him. He twisted her arm painfully behind her and pulled her into his chest. Her forearm was trapped against the hard contours of his abdomen and the twisted muscles in her own back.

  Celeste felt his muscles bunch as he bent down and hissed in her ear. "Order them to search the woods and surrounding areas. Give them two hours, no more." He pressed the knife further into her neck, adding, "One sound and your pretty little throat will be slit, and you will be dead before you hit the floor. Do you understand?"

  She nodded and jerked her arm away from his punishing hold. "I need my dressing gown." She took one step toward the garment.

  "No. Light that candle," he ordered.

  "What do you mean? No!" Celeste felt her face pale. "I cannot allow my men to see me in such a state of undress."

  The Earl of Wessex lit the candle and held it up as he circled her, openly and appreciatively examining her body beneath the thin muslin chemise. His smile was lazy, and the hair at the nap of her neck prickled. Lord, he was handsome.

  "When you open that door to receive the news of my escape, I can assure you that your sergeant will not be looking at your face, mademoiselle, and therefore will see no signs of distress that would force me to kill you both."

  His gaze slid to her eyes, and she knew that he would indeed kill them. But then his brows furrowed with confusion. He reached up, touching the wound on her neck. Celeste winced at the sting of it, and watched in disbelief when he turned his hand over to examine his blood stained fingers as if he had not been there to inflict the injury.

  Celeste very nearly laughed at the absurdity of the situation, saying with utmost sarcasm, "Knives are for cutting, my lord."

  His eyes crashed into hers, but just as she began to read them a crisp knock sounded, causing her to start. Wessex slipped behind the battered door with his knife at the ready, nodding for her to open it.

  Celeste grasped the rustic wooden handle and sighed loudly in frustration when the soldier’s eyes immediately settled to her breasts.

  "Yes, what is it?"

  "The prisoner has escaped, Lady Rivenhall."

  "You imbeciles," she spat. "How did a man in shackles escape his guard?"

  "We do not know, mademoiselle," the man said with a twinge of embarrassment.

  Rolling her eyes dramatically, she ordered, "Search the woods and fields. You have two hours. Find him!"

  The threat of the consequences of failure sent the man running down the hall. She closed the door and lifted her chin. The earl arched a black brow and stalked toward her.

  "You’re quite the actress…Lady Rivenhall, was it? You’re English." She compressed her lips with determined silence, intimidated by his suppressed anger in his voice.

  "A traitor and a whore." Wessex lifted her wrists and bound them with the sash of her dressing gown. "My, you are a busy woman," he drawled then grabbed her chin and stuffed a washcloth in her mouth, cutting her lip on her own teeth in the process.

  Her handsome hero lay down on her bed, pulling her after him. Her heart was pounding with fear, more afraid to touch him than she had been of his knife. He pulled her flush against his lean body, back to chest, backside to groin.

  His large hand splayed over her stomach with the weight of her breasts resting heavily against his thumb. He pressed himself against her derriere, and she heard a soft sigh of satisfaction escape his lips, the undeniable evidence of his desire hardening against her backside.

  "Now, isn’t this preferable to sleeping in the woods?" he whispered in her hair, his lips almost touching her ear.

  A shiver skidded down her spine, forcing her to close her eyes at the incomprehensible pleasure of being held by the Earl of Wessex.

  The man did not move, and Celeste remained paralyzed with fear as she contemplated the outcomes of this night. But then she felt his even breathing as his arm relaxed against her hip. Her eyes opened wide in disbelief.

  The man was going to sleep! A hundred soldiers swarmed around him, searching for him, and he slept!

  Lady Rivenhall lay awake for two hours, unjustifiably annoyed with the man that slept beside her. Then the expected knock at her door roused the tall earl to wakefulness.

  She opened the door as before, the nervous soldier’s gaze slipping down to her breasts as he bowed his head in an attempt to look submissive.

  "We have searched the wood and the outlying areas, Lady Rivenhall, but have been unable to locate the prisoner."

  "Have the guards responsible for the prisoner ready for my inquiry tomorrow morning. There is no use in posting guard tonight. The man will be a great distance from here, unless he is as stupid as our night watch. Leave me." Celeste waved the man away with an air of disgust and slammed the door.
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  "Well played, Lady Rivenhall. Now, don your boots and, your dressing gown." He commanded, blowing out the candle that had illuminated the small bedchamber.

  When she had complied, Wessex lifted her with ease through the window and followed quickly behind. Celeste’s fear was overshadowed by anxiety for the earl’s safety, knowing that her men were encamped no more than one hundred yards to the east of the cottage. If the guards chanced to look their direction as they ran toward the forest…

  The earl grabbed her painfully about the upper arm, interrupting her thoughts. "Stay low to the ground and walk, don’t run. If you disobey me…" He paused, and crouched to the ground when a group of soldiers burst into laughter.

  It was difficult to disobey since the man had rebound and gagged her, but she was amazed by his boldness. Walk! As if she had spoken aloud the earl added, "Any sudden movement or noise will draw their attention, so keep your progress fluid."

  They stalked across the open field, clinging to tall grass and the occasional tree. The earl was acutely aware of their surroundings. Every noise or movement drew a turn of his head, along with his attention.

  The edge of the wood lay just ahead, and Celeste prayed, for his sake, that he leave her and take flight. But he did not. They continued walking for what seemed like hours before he stopped and removed the muslin sash and gag.

  She drew in a deep breath as if to scream, but he stopped her with his words. "Your troops can not hear you." She sensed his satisfaction. "The only things that will respond to your cries are wolves."

  Celeste laughed out loud. "Wolves are hardly more dangerous than my present situation, my lord."

  "Quite true. Nevertheless, deserters and criminals might venture the forest to locate the source of such a feminine howl." He threw something at her feet and the moon captured a glint of steel.