Her Fiery Heart: Brides for the Earl's Sonsa

by Isabel Simonds

  “It's good to be out in the sea air.”

  “It is,” she said, low-voiced.

  He felt the sweetness of her voice thrum through him and ached for her in every part of his body. He sighed. He knew he was hopelessly in love.

  She was dressed as a lady today, as finely as she had been the day at the colonel's HQ. She wore a brown dress, made of silk, the sort a married woman would wear. Her hair was arranged in a demure up-style, all pins and curls.

  They were in the disguise of Lord Astley and his sister, Lady Claudine.

  He smiled. They had considered a disguise as man and wife. But that would have made accommodation needlessly difficult—they could not share a cabin. It had been awkward enough in the hotel the previous night. Even sleeping with a wall between them was getting hard. Every sigh or creak from her room set him into a fit of longing. He had spent the night imagining her and fighting his body's hunger.

  “I can see the houses, almost.”

  William turned back to the coast abruptly, and noticed she was quite correct—they were almost close enough to see the buildings now, the colors of them tan and white and yellow against the landscape's green grass.

  “That's true,” he commented. “Look. There's the harbor wall.”

  “So it is.”

  They were landing at Calais this time, heading towards Paris. William frowned. He hadn't asked her where she had been born.

  The reminder of her past made him feel uncomfortable. His father's warning had been playing in his head throughout the trip. He couldn't bear to think of it. It tortured him.

  He didn't want to admit it, but the words had sown in him a seed of doubt. The more he tried not to think of it, the more the awful thing seemed to grow. When he was in her company, as now, it was easy to forget it. But when he was away from her, he couldn't help the little questions.

  Is she really a spy? And working with us?

  If she wasn't, he had as good as condemned his entire battalion. No—the regiment! Maybe worse than that. The documents they carried contained military secrets that, if the French knew them, could jeopardize the whole war. He had taken a risk.

  And I don't know much about her—not really.

  “I can't wait to get there,” she said softly. “I want to be on dry land. Can we go to a cafe? I'm famished.”

  He had to laugh. “I promise,” he said gallantly, “that the very first thing we will do on landing is seek out a coffee house.”

  “Oh! Good!” she smiled. “And one with pastries? Please? There's nothing like a croissant.”

  William had to laugh now. Seeing her eyes light up at the prospect of French cooking, he couldn't possibly accuse her of being a spy. She was adorable!

  “My dearest, you shall have all the croissants you can.”

  She grinned at him. Reached across and took his hand in a brief squeeze. It was a sisterly gesture of affection, but it was nevertheless one that sent a jolt through his body. He gritted his teeth.

  He loved the fact that, being her brother, he could freely express affection to her in ways he would have been afraid to do, had they been out of character, so to speak. But in ways, it made it worse.

  I do not feel for her as a brother would a sister.

  She grinned at him, eyes sparkling. He could swear she knew and was tormenting him. He grinned back.

  “So, my sister,” he said, emphasizing the words, just to make her grin wider, “we are almost ready to get to the shore.”

  “We are indeed. And my food.”

  He laughed. “Indeed. And that.”

  They had a purse of Francs with them and had another guise the moment they hit land. There, they would transform into Henri Laroche, a prosperous merchant, and his sister, Francoise. They were traveling to Lourdes so that his deafness could be cured. That would cover the fact that he was to speak to no one on the journey.

  Finally, they reached the land. William felt his whole body relax as the ship hit the quay with a gentle lurch. He had not realized how much he found the rocking disconcerting. It would be good, he thought, fervently, to be back on firm earth.

  Catharine looked up at him, face flushed. She looked so happy to be here. He felt his heart tighten, just looking down into her eyes. She was so beautiful. He fought the urge to kiss her again, as he had that day in the town—that unforgettable kiss!

  I am the count now, and her brother. He tried to remind himself of that, work himself into the role. Beside him, he could feel Catharine take a deep breath, and her face went composed and blank. He knew she was getting into character too. He had seen her daily transform herself into his sister—demure and polite, barely noticeable when she chose to be invisible—and he had learned to admire the power of her mind.

  The captain spoke behind him. “Land, sir.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you.” William nodded. He turned to the captain and shook his hand. “It was a fine journey. Safe travels for the return.”

  “I thank you, sir. And you, milady.” He bowed low to Catharine, and she nodded, giving him a small smile.

  They turned and walked onto the deck.

  The moment her feet hit land, she seemed to transform. William, having seen her daily become Claudine, simply watched, admiring. It wasn't all acting, though, he was sure. She seemed genuinely elated to be here. Her cheeks went red, her color intensified. Her eyes shone. She was always beautiful, but now she was vibrantly vivid.

  The other people noticed it, too. He saw heads turn the moment they set off up the quay. Their luggage was to be sent on ahead to the hotel, in keeping with their new disguise. They walked up the path and toward the town.

  “Madame,” a man said, bowing to her. He was dressed as a French solider, in a full blue uniform. William swallowed hard, feeling all of his body respond with the need to attack, or flee. Beside him, Catharine was calm.

  “Bonjour,” she nodded, smiling.

  The man's eyes sparkled appreciatively, and William had to smile at the power she had to charm all those around her. He wondered if she had ever been to Calais and knew their way, but then she started to speak to the soldier.

  She spoke in rapid French, a little too fast for him to follow in places, but he understood enough to know the thrust of it—she was asking for directions to the hotel.

  The man nodded and seemed friendly enough, pointing her in the right way. All the same, there was something about the way he turned to study him that gave William pause. He tensed.

  He can't know I'm English. That's not possible.

  All the same, the fellow's glance was darkly mistrustful, and William felt himself grow nervous.

  He turned to Catharine, raising his brow, an inquiry. She nodded.

  “He said to go that way,” she said, in slow, exaggerated French. She pointed out the way. William nodded. Another good part of their disguise was that it allowed her to give him directions and speak slowly. They headed in the required direction along the street.

  They walked slowly, and William started to feel uneasy. They were staying in a good hotel—it was part of the benefits of their illustrious disguise. But this area of town looked distinctly seedy to him, not the sort of place a good hotel might be. Where were they going, exactly?

  He wanted to ask her, but he couldn't risk breaking the disguise. Not here, where someone might see them. He leaned toward her, putting his hand on her arm to alert her that he wanted to ask a question. She turned.

  He pointed around them, raised his shoulders in an inquiring shrug. Tried to convey the thought: “Are you sure we're in the right place?”

  She nodded, soothingly. “Oui, mon frere,” she said. “C'est la.” Yes, brother. It's here.

  William felt himself getting frustrated. He didn't want to break the disguise and argue with her, but all the same, after another three or four minutes of walking, when nothing had appeared yet, he started to get worried. It really wasn't here.

  The place was dank; the buildings were close together here. The smell of
the wharf—salt, fish, a faint undercurrent of decay—was strong. He shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold. He recalled the soldier's stare and started to wonder if, just perhaps, they had been deliberately misled.

  He looked round. There was nobody here. He had to risk a question.

  “Do you think we should...”

  “Hush,” she whispered, urgently.

  He heard feet, suddenly. He whipped round. There was someone else here. Someone following them.

  He wanted to say something, desperately, but then, all of a sudden, a French soldier appeared behind them. He blocked their path. William automatically reached for Catharine, trying to get her behind him, when another man appeared behind him.

  “No!” William shouted, whipping round again to face the new threat. He had quite forgotten he was supposed to be deaf. Beside him, Catharine stared at him. Her face was blank, her eyes eloquent. They spoke shock, and grief, and regret.

  “Cat?” he said, using her first name, her nickname, without thinking. “What in...”

  “Silence!” the officer said. He hit him in the stomach. William doubled over, gasping. He straightened up, but the man behind him grabbed him before he could reach down into his boot to find the knife he'd strapped there.

  He looked round wildly for Catharine as booted feet echoed in the alley. He saw her. On the edge of the group who attacked him, she stood, watching. Mute, but with a message for him in her eyes.

  I am sorry, she seemed to be saying. Forgive me.

  “Cat!” he yelled. She should run, before they came for her, too. How the Blazes did they know he was English?

  At that moment, the officer appeared. The man she had spoken to. The man in the street. He went over to her. She glanced at him, and William saw the spark of recognition. They knew each other.

  He had been betrayed.

  That was his last thought, before someone hit him very hard on the back of the head and everything went silent.

  Chapter 11: In the darkness

  William woke to pain. His arm, which was underneath him, ached. His head ached. When he bent his knees, his legs ached. He couldn't feel his feet.

  “Uh...” he groaned. He reached out a hand and found cold stone floor. He struggled to sit. As he did, his head swam. He opened his eyes.

  It was dark, and he shut his eyes again, because it hurt less when they were shut. He sighed. Memory came back. The alley. The French. A thorough beating. He winced. Were any ribs broken? He felt bruised and achy all over, and he couldn't yet tell.

  He looked round again, risking opening his eyes. It was dark in here, but not completely so. It was a room with a single window, too small for him to climb through. It was a storeroom, he guessed. Well, it was a prison now. He sighed and leaned back against the wall.

  “Damn everything.”

  He was furious but too tired to really feel it. Worse than the fury was hurt.

  I trusted you. I trusted you beyond my father. I let you into my heart, into its core, where nobody else dwells. And this is what you did?

  He closed his eyes again, not wanting to even contemplate the breadth of his foolishness.

  The documents had all been with her. She had them in her bag, close about her person.

  He imagined those documents where they were now, pored over by French colonels. They were encoded, but it was a simple code, one that the French military would easily crack. That meant that all his men were as good as dead. And countless others with them.

  I have just betrayed my country. Because I am a fool.

  William felt a tear trace his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting anger at himself flood in, replacing the hurt.

  “You just as good as shot Bates, and Burrell, and Sanfield! All of them will die because you're a stubborn, willful fool.”

  He did cry, then. Big, anguished sobs that let out all his pain. He couldn't live with himself. And, stupidly, he didn't want to. Not now that he didn't have her.

  “Dammit! I loved you.”

  He could say it to the darkness, with no one else to hear him. He could allow himself to know that, in all its truth. He had loved her. He had opened his heart in ways he had never opened it before, to anyone. And even now, when she had betrayed him, and everything he cared for, he still did.

  “Catharine Favor,” he said to the darkness, imagining her here. “I could hate you, but I just can't.”

  He laughed. It was a bitter laugh, a sound that mocked at sanity. He shivered, hearing it echoed in the room. In this dark, alone, not knowing his fate, he could so easily go mad.

  Maybe I should.

  He knew his future—torture and death. He couldn't give them much information, other than who the documents were meant for. Wallace had stressed that, saying that, if they were captured, they should tell all they knew—it could do their captors little good, anyway, without the documents.

  He laughed, bitterly. They didn't need to torture him—they already had the documents.

  Madness felt very enticing right then.

  He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He must have slept because he was woken by the sound of someone opening the door. Someone lifted the bucket in the corner and then replaced it. They peered at William, who closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. Oddly, he wasn't frightened. He felt resigned.

  Do what you must, he wanted to say. I don't care.

  He had lost the only person he had loved so absolutely. He didn't want to live anymore.

  The person—William hadn't really seen them—waited a breath longer, then shut the door. William breathed in and smelled the faint trace of ale and tobacco and knew the fellow had probably been drunk.

  Well, at least he's too inebriated to do me any harm.

  He closed his eyes, leaning back on the wall. He was going to die here. The first thing that came to his mind, besides Cat, was that he hadn't said goodbye to his brothers. He sniffed. He would have liked to do that. They meant a lot to him.

  “Well, it serves me right,” he said to the darkness. He closed his eyes again, resigned to sleep.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  William opened his eyes at the noise weaving its way into his dreams to wake him. He was exhausted. He had fallen onto his side, and he fought to sit up. It was truly dark, the window a square of black. It was night. He closed his eyes again, seeing the glass was clean. He must have dreamed the rain.

  Tap. Tap.

  There was a noise. Something at the window-pane. He sighed. He was too tired for this.

  “Go to sleep,” he muttered at the noise. It stopped. He curled up on his side again, grabbing at his coat to wrap it about himself. It was cold. He was hurting. He wanted to sleep.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  He shot upright, feeling angry, now. If someone wished to torment him, they could do it face-to-face.

  “Show yourself!” he hissed. No answer. The tapping started again.

  William sighed, convinced he was mad. He might as well give into it. He stood.

  That was when he saw it. The face at the window.

  Pale, with big dark eyes, he thought he had imagined it at first. It was her face. He must be dreaming, conjuring it out of his fevered mind.

  He stared at her, transfixed. She was like she was in the encampment, her hair loose about her shoulders, her long, thin face haunted. She stared in at him. He saw her mouth move.

  “Cat!” he whispered. If this was madness, let it take him! In his insanity, she was restored to him, as if the betrayal never was. He stood and walked to the window.

  She looked into his face. Pointedly, she gestured to the door. He nodded. Feeling like a fool, he went and stood where the apparition had directed him. He stayed there. The face disappeared.

  He stood where he was, leaning on the door, where he'd been bidden. He laughed. Why was he doing this? He was entirely mad. Starting to see things. He was about to walk away from the door when he heard it. The key, turning in the lock.

  He stood upright, wh
ipping round. Found himself looking into her face.

  “Cat!” he said, too surprised to think more.

  “Shhh,” she said. She lifted her finger to her lips, eyes intent. He nodded.

  She opened the door a little wider. They both winced as the hinges creaked. They paused. No one came. Nodding, she stepped aside for him to come through. He did so. She shut the door behind him, locking it. Then she gestured for him to walk on.

  As he did as she suggested, he saw something. A French solider, the guard who must have been set to check on him. He was on a bench by the wall, fast asleep. A bottle lay at his side that must have contained brandy. William sniffed, noting again that the fellow smelled of alcohol.

  He saw her stoop and carefully return the keys to where they should have been, beside the soldier's belt. Then she stood and gestured him forward. He walked on.

  They must have been in what was a merchant's house, he realized—winding corridors led down to the lower reaches of the house, which had been where he stored his things. He stood aside at a staircase, frowning at her. She gestured he should go up. He followed.

  Somewhere in the building, men were drinking. He could hear laughter, someone clinking a glass to another, the scrape of a chair on a flagstone floor. He tensed. She nodded to the left. He moved that way. They went down another hallway, dark and cold, stone-walled, and then, just as he thought they were going to wander about this cavernous place forever, he felt something. Cold air, blowing in. There was a door.

  Sucking in great gulps of clean air, he stumbled through. There, in the garden, he breathed in heaving lungfuls and let the stillness of the night calm his heart. Her hand touched his sleeve.

  He nodded and followed her where she led. She walked down a path that went downhill a little, and then, as his hair began to stand on end—what if they were followed? What if there was no way out?—they reached a black, wrought-iron gate. They went through.

  He let her go first and then shut the gate behind them both, trying not to make too much noise about it. She was already walking. They ran together down the alley. If he listened in the silence, he could hear the sea.