Seduction

by Brenda Joyce

  Julianne now saw that his breeches were bloodstained and dirty. She wondered if the bloodstains had come from his wound—or someone else’s. She didn’t want to look at his lean hips or his powerful thighs, so she quickly looked at his face.

  Her heart slammed. Their guest was a very handsome man with swarthy skin, pitch-black hair, high cheekbones and a straight, patrician nose. Thick dark lashes were fanned out on his face.

  She averted her eyes. Her heart seemed to be racing wildly, which was absurd.

  Amelia thrust the wet cloth and pitcher into her arms and rushed forward. Julianne somehow looked up, aware of how hot her cheeks were. “Is he breathing?” she heard herself ask.

  “I don’t know.” Amelia touched his forehead. “To make matters even worse, he has an infection, as the wound was not properly cared for. Doctor Eakins was not optimistic.” She turned. “I am going to send Billy down for seawater.”

  “He should bring a full pail,” Julianne said. “I’ll sit with him.”

  “When Lucas comes in, we will turn him back over.” Amelia hurried from the bedchamber.

  Julianne hesitated, staring at the stranger, then pinched herself. The poor man was dying; he needed her help.

  She set pitcher and cloth down on the table and approached. Very carefully, she sat beside him, her heart racing all over again. His chest wasn’t moving. She lowered her cheek to his mouth, and it was a moment before she felt a small puff of his breath. Thank God he was alive.

  “Pour la victoire.”

  She straightened as if shot. Her gaze slammed to his face. His eyes remained closed, but he had just spoken—in French—with the accent of a Frenchman! She was certain he had just said, “For victory.”

  It was a common cry amongst the French revolutionaries, but he resembled a nobleman, with his patrician features. She glanced at his hands—nobles had hands as soft as a babe’s. His knuckles were cut open and crusted with blood, his palms calloused.

  She bit her lip. Being this close made her uncomfortably aware of him. Perhaps it was of his near nudity, or his sheer masculinity. She inhaled, hoping to relieve some tension. “Monsieur? Êtes-vous français?”

  He did not move as Lucas said, “Is he awake?”

  Julianne half-turned as her brother entered the room. “No. But he spoke in his sleep. He spoke in French, Lucas.”

  “He isn’t asleep. He is unconscious. Amelia said he is with fever now.”

  Julianne hesitated, then dared to lay her palm on his brow. “He is very hot, Lucas.”

  “Can you tend him, Julianne?”

  She looked at her brother, wondering if his tone had been odd. “Of course I can. We’ll keep him wrapped in wet sheets. Are you sure Jack didn’t say anything about who he is? Is he French?”

  “Jack doesn’t know who he is.” Lucas was firm. “I want to stay but I have to get back to London tomorrow.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m examining a new contract for our iron ore. But I’m not sure I like leaving you and Amelia alone with him.” His glance was on their guest again.

  She stared, and finally Lucas stared back. When he chose to be impassive, it was impossible to know what he was thinking. “Surely you don’t think he might be dangerous?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  Julianne nodded, turning back to her charge. There was something odd about that exchange, she thought. She suddenly wondered if her brother knew who their guest was—but didn’t want to say so. She turned to glance after him, but he was gone.

  There was no earthly reason for him to withhold any information from her. If he knew who this man was, he would surely tell her. She was obviously wrong.

  She stared at the dark stranger, hating not being able to help him. She pushed a hank of thick, dark hair out of his face. As she did, he thrashed so suddenly that his arm struck her thigh. She leapt up in alarm as he cried, “Ou est-elle? Qui est responsible? Qu’est il arrivé?”

  Where is she? Who has done this? she silently translated. He thrashed again, even more forcefully, and Julianne was afraid he would hurt himself. He moaned loudly, in obvious pain.

  She sat back down on the bed, by his hip. She stroked his hot shoulder. “Monsieur, je m’appele Julianne. Il faut que vous reposiez maintenant.”

  He was breathing hard now, she saw, but he wasn’t moving and he felt warmer than before. Yet that had to be her imagination. And then he started to speak.

  For one moment, she thought he was trying to speak to her. But he spoke so rapidly and furiously, so desperately, that she realized he was delirious.

  “Please,” she said softly, deciding to speak only in French. “You have a fever. Please, try to sleep.”

  “Non! Nous ne pouvons pas nous retirer!” It was hard to understand him, but she strained to make sense of the rapid-fire, jumbled words. We cannot go back now, he had said. There was no doubt in her mind that he was French. No Englishman could have such a perfect accent. No Englishman would speak in a second language while in a delirium.

  Julianne crouched by his side, trying to understand him. But he was thrashing violently, enough so that he rolled onto his back, all the while shouting. He cursed. They could not go back. They could not retreat! Was he speaking about a battle? He shouted. So many had died, but they had to hold this line! No, no, he screamed. Do not retreat! Hold the line! For liberty!

  Julianne clasped his hot shoulder, tears blurring her eyes. He was most definitely reliving a terrible battle that he and his men were losing. My God—could he be a French army officer?

  “Pour la liberté!” he cried. “Go on, go on!”

  She stroked his shoulder, trying to offer him comfort.

  The river was filled with blood… Too many had died… The priest had died… They had to retreat. The day was lost!

  He wept.

  She did not know what to do. She had never seen a grown man cry. “You are delirious, monsieur,” she tried. “But you are safe now, here, with me.”

  He lay panting, his cheeks wet with tears, his chest shining with perspiration.

  “I am so sorry for what you have suffered,” she told him. “We are not on the battlefield. We are in my home, in Britain. You will be safe here, even if you are a Jacobin. I will hide you and protect you—I promise you that!”

  He suddenly seemed to relax. Julianne wondered if he was sleeping.

  She inhaled, shaken to the core of her being. He was a French army officer, she was certain. He might even be a nobleman—some of the French nobility had supported the revolution and now supported the Republic. He had suffered a terrible defeat in which many of his men had died and it was haunting him. She ached for him. But how on earth had Jack found him? Jack did not support the revolution, yet he wasn’t exactly a British patriot, either. He had told her once that the war suited him immensely—smuggling was even more profitable now than it had been before the revolution.

  The man was so hot to the touch. She stroked his brow, suddenly angry—where was Amelia? Where was the ocean water? “You are burning up, monsieur,” Julianne told him, continuing in his native tongue. “You must be still and get better.”

  They had to get his fever down. She re-wet the cloth, and this time, stroked it over his neck and shoulders. Then she laid the cloth there, picking up and wetting another one.

  “At least you are resting now,” she said softly, then realized she had lapsed into English. She repeated what she had said in French, sliding the cloth across his chest. Her pulse accelerated.

  She had just laid the wet cloth on his chest again, where she meant to leave it, when he seized her wrist violently. She cried out, shocked, and her gaze flew to his face.

  His green eyes were blazing with fury.

  Frightened, she gasped, “Êtes vous reveillé?” Are you awake?

  He did not release her, but his grasp gentled. So did his eyes. “Nadine?” he whispered hoarsely.

  Who was Nadine? Of course, she knew—the woman was
his lady love or his wife. It was hard to speak. She wet her lips. “Monsieur, you have been wounded in battle. I am Julianne. I am here to help you.”

  His stare was feverish, not lucid. And then suddenly he reached for her shoulder, still holding her wrist.

  He winced, breathing hard, but his gaze did not waver. An odd light flickered there and she became breathless.

  He slowly smiled. “Nadine.” And his strong, powerful hand slid across her shoulder, to the back of her neck. Before she could protest or ask him what he was doing, he began to pull her face down toward his.

  In shock, she realized he meant to kiss her!

  His smile was infinitely seductive, confident and promising. And then his lips were plying hers.

  Julianne gasped, but she did not try to move away from him. Instead, she went still, allowing him the shocking liberty, her heart lurching, her body tightening. Desire fisted, hard.

  It was a desire she had never before felt.

  Then she realized that he had stopped kissing her. She was breathing hard against his motionless mouth. She was acutely aware of the fire raging in her own body. It took her a moment to realize that he was unconscious again.

  Julianne sat up straight, in shock. Her mind scrambled and raced. He had kissed her! He was with fever; he was delirious. He hadn’t known what he was doing!

  Did it even matter?

  He had kissed her and she had responded as she hadn’t dreamed possible.

  And he was a French army officer—a revolutionary hero.

  She looked at him. “Whoever you are, you are not going to die—I won’t allow it,” she said.

  He was so still that he could have been a corpse.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THERE WERE DOZENS of men in the mob, screaming in rage, fists shaking in the air, and he knew he must run… As he did, the cobblestones beneath his feet changed, turning red. He did not understand—and then he realized he was running in a river of blood!

  He cried out, as the stately Parisian buildings vanished. Now, the river of blood was filled with screaming, dying men. Panic and fear consumed him.

  And he knew he must wake up.

  He felt cotton beneath his hands, not dirt, not blood. He fought the bloody river and saw Nadine smiling at him, her eyes shining, the moon full and bright behind her. He had kissed her—except, that wasn’t right, because Nadine was dead....

  Nadine was dead, and he was lying in a bed— Where was he?

  Terribly drained, Dominic realized that he had been dreaming. His memories remained jumbled, and dread and fear filled him, but he fought the rising panic. He had to think clearly. It was a matter of life and death.

  It wasn’t safe for him to remain in France now.

  Someone knew who he really was.

  And he recalled being ambushed outside Michel’s apartments. He tensed with more fear and alarm, fighting both emotions. And all of his memories of the past year and a half returned forcefully then. He had gone to France to find his mother and fiancée and bring them home to England. He had never found Nadine, but he had found his mother, hiding above a bakery in Paris, her townhome destroyed. After seeing her safely aboard a Britain-bound ship at Le Havre, he had returned to Paris, hoping to find Nadine.

  He had never meant to stay in France, gathering information for his country. Although his mother, Catherine Fortescue, was a Frenchwoman, his father was the earl of Bedford and he was an Englishman to the core. Dominic Paget had been born on the family estate at Bedford. An only child, he had been educated at Eton and Oxford. With William Paget’s passing, he had inherited both the title and the earldom. Although he took up his seat in the Lords several times a year—he felt a duty to the country as a whole, for he must also look after Bedford’s interests—politics had never interested him. In fact, several years ago he had turned down a position in Pitt’s ministry. His responsibilities were clear—and they were to the earldom.

  He hadn’t discovered what had happened to Nadine. She had last been seen in the riot that had destroyed his mother’s home. Catherine feared that she had been trampled to death by the mob. When he had returned to Britain, he had been concerned enough about the revolution in France to meet with several of his peers, including Edmund Burke, a man with great political connections. The information Dominic had gleaned while he was in France was so unsettling that Burke had introduced him to Prime Minister Pitt. But it was Sebastian Warlock who had persuaded him to return to France—this time with one single ambition: espionage.

  It was impossible to determine who had learned the truth about Jean-Jacques Carre—the identity he had assumed. It could have been any one of dozens of Parisians, or even a mole planted amongst Michel’s command. But someone had discovered that Carre was no print-shop owner and no Jacobin. Someone had learned that he was really an Englishman and an agent.

  His tension escalated wildly now. He was frighteningly weak—and thus vulnerable. Pain stabbed through his back with every breath he took.

  Was he with friends—or foes?

  Was he still in France?

  Afraid and fully alert, he noted that he was not shackled. Very carefully, he opened his eyes, just enough so he could peek out through his lashes.

  He did not change the pattern of his breathing. He did not move a single muscle, other than his eyelids. He sensed he was not alone. He wanted whoever was with him—whoever was guarding him—to think he was asleep.

  The vague outlines of a small bedroom came into his line of vision. He saw an armoire, a window. A moment later, he smelled the tang in the air, and tasted its salt.

  He was near the coast, but what coast?

  He fought fiercely to retrieve every possible memory. Had he dreamed of a long journey in the back of a wagon, mostly by night? Had he dreamed of the rocking of a ship, the creaking of masts, the whisper of canvas—and being in the throes of a terrible agony? What happened to him after he had been shot? Hazy images tried to form, and suddenly he thought he remembered a woman with titian hair, hovering over him, bathing him, caring for him.

  And then a woman moved into his line of vision, bending over him. He glimpsed titian hair, her pale visage, an ivory dress.

  She murmured, “Monsieur?”

  Dominic recognized the sound of her voice. So she had cared for him; it had not been a dream.

  He could not assume that she was a friend and an ally. Could he defend himself if necessary? Escape? He was so exhausted, so weak! Who was she and why had she nursed him through his illness? Was she a friend of Michel’s? How had he come into her care? He debated waiting her out—sooner or later, she would leave him, and then he could decide what predicament he was in. His first order of business would be to search the room, then the house. He had to discern his location. And he needed a weapon with which to defend himself.

  On the other hand, she could not be alone. She had to have comrades. When she left, someone else might be sent to guard him, and it might even be a man.

  He opened his eyes fully and looked into the startled gray gaze of the woman.

  She was seated in a chair, pulled up to his bedside, a writing tablet on her lap, a quill in her hand. She started and whispered, “Monsieur, vous êtes reveillé?”

  He had no intention of answering her, not yet. Instead, he took a quick inventory of his surroundings. He saw that he lay in a narrow bed in a room he did not recognize. The chamber was a modest one, simply furnished, and it was hard to discern if he was in a bourgeois’s or a nobleman’s home. If the latter, they were impoverished.

  One window let in the daylight—it was early afternoon. The sunlight was gray and weak, not at all like the bright summer sunshine in the Loire Valley.

  How had he gotten to this bedchamber? Had he been taken in a wagon and then a ship—or had that been a dream? Damn it, he did not recall anything after being shot in the alley in Nantes! The only thing he was now certain of was that he was on the coast—but where? He could be in Le Havre or Brest, he thought, but he was unce
rtain. He could be in Dover, or Plymouth. Even if he was in England, he had to protect his identity. No one could ever guess that he was a British agent.

  But she had spoken to him in French.

  She spoke again. He became absolutely still, focusing on her, as the woman repeated what she had said before. “Sir, are you awake?”

  Her color was high, a question in her eyes. Although she was speaking French, she had a slight accent. He felt certain she was English. And that should relieve him—except, he did not like the fact that she was speaking in French. Was she partly French, as he was? Or did she assume him to be a Frenchman, for whatever reason? Had she met him when he was undercover? Did she know the truth or any part of it? Where did her sympathies lie? If only he could remember more!

  And why the hell was he stark naked beneath the thin sheets?

  She suddenly got up. He watched her warily as she walked across the room, noticing that her figure was very pleasing, not that he really cared. She might be an ally—or she might be the enemy. And he would do whatever necessary to survive. Seducing her was not out of the question.

  He now saw that she was putting the tablet and the parchment on the table, placing the quill into an inkwell there. She took up a cloth, dipping it in a basin of water. He did not relax. The hazy images became more focused, of this woman bending over him and bathing him with the cloth…of her face, close to his, as he prepared to kiss her....

  He had kissed her. He was certain of it.

  His interest sharpened. What had happened between them? Surely this was to his advantage.

  She returned, her face pale except for two bright splotches of pink on her cheeks. She sat, wringing out the cloth, as he watched her closely, waiting to see what she would do next. His body stirred.

  In France, living on the verge of death every day, he had lost all the morality he had been raised with. There had been so many French women in his bed, some pretty, some not, very few whose names he had even known, much less recalled. Life was short—too short. He had realized that morality was a useless endeavor in a time of war and revolution.