Seduction

by Brenda Joyce

  Julianne smiled—the change in topic meant she had won. “Tom and I are always discussing politics, Amelia. We share the same views. But that is hardly a courtship.”

  “He is smitten. He might not approve of your guest.” She glanced into the bedchamber—and paled.

  Charles was watching them both, his expression oddly alert, even wary.

  The moment he saw her looking at him, he smiled and began to sit up. The covers fell to his waist, revealing his muscular chest.

  Julianne did not move. Had he just looked at her as if she was an adversary he did not trust?

  Amelia hurried into the room, her face set. Julianne followed her into the bedchamber. Her tension escalated.

  Had he overheard their argument?

  If he had, he gave no sign. Instead, Charles exchanged an intimate, sidelong look with her. Her insides seemed to vanish—it was as if they shared a sinful secret.

  But didn’t they?

  Images flashed through her mind of him standing up, stark naked, after falling; of his so casually wrapping the sheet around his waist, clearly not caring about his modesty; and of his slow, suggestive smile before he kissed her, when he had been delirious.

  Her heart was rioting now.

  She glanced at Amelia closely, but Amelia gave no sign that she was interested in his broad, sculpted chest. He was pulling the covers up modestly. As Amelia went to the table to retrieve the dinner tray, Charles looked at her again, a warm light in his eyes.

  “Your sister, I presume?” he asked.

  Amelia faced him, holding his supper tray, before Julianne could speak. Her French was excellent; she also spoke Spanish and some German and Portuguese. “Good evening, Monsieur Maurice. I hope you are feeling better. I am Amelia Greystone.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Greystone. I cannot thank you and your sister enough for your hospitality and your kindness in nursing me during my recovery from my wounds.”

  Amelia brought Charles his tray. “You are welcome. I see that you are as articulate as my sister has claimed. Do you speak English?”

  Charles accepted the tray. In heavily accented English, he said, “Yes, I do.” Then he looked at Julianne again. His smile faded. “Should my ears have been…burning?”

  She knew she blushed. “You speak very well, monsieur. I mentioned it to my sister. That is all.” His English, although accented, was also very impressive, she thought.

  He seemed pleased. Turning to Amelia, who stood beside his bed, he said, “And what else has she said about me?”

  Amelia’s smile was brief and strained. “Perhaps you should ask her. Excuse me.” She turned to Julianne. “Momma needs her supper. I will see you later, Julianne.” She left.

  “She doesn’t like me,” he said, some laughter in his tone, speaking in French again.

  Julianne jerked and saw that he had lain his hand over his bare pectoral muscle. “Amelia has a very serious, sensible character, monsieur.”

  “Vraiment? I hadn’t noticed.”

  She felt some of her tension ease. “You are in fine spirits.”

  “How could I not be? I have slept several hours, and I am with a beautiful woman—my very own angel of mercy.” His gaze held hers.

  She felt her heart turn over, hard. She reminded herself that all Frenchmen were flirts. To cover up her agitation, she said, “You have slept for more than an entire day, monsieur. And clearly, you are feeling better.”

  His eyes widened. “What is today’s date, mademoiselle?”

  “It is July 10,” she said. “Is that important?”

  “I have lost all sense of time. How long have I been here?”

  She could not tell what he was thinking. “You have been here for eight days, monsieur.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Does that fact disturb you?” She approached. Her sister had left his tray on a bedside table.

  His smile came again. “I am simply surprised.”

  She pulled a chair over to his bedside. “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  She sat in the chair beside him. “Do you need help?”

  “Are you not tired of nursing me?”

  Careful to keep her eyes on his face, she said, “Of course not.”

  He seemed pleased by her answer. She realized they were staring at one another—continuously—helplessly. Somehow, Julianne looked away. Her cheeks seemed to burn. So did her throat and chest.

  She helped him settle the tray on his lap and sat back as he began to eat. A silence fell. He was ravenous. She stared openly, beginning to think that he found her as intriguing as she found him. All Frenchmen flirted…but what if he had the same feelings for her as she had for him?

  Her heart leapt erratically. She became aware of the shadows in the room, the flames in the small hearth, the dark, moonlit night outside—and the fact that it was just the two of them together, alone in his bedchamber, at night.

  When he was done, he lay back against his pillows, as if the effort of eating had cost him, but his gaze was serious and searching. Julianne removed the tray to the table, wondering what his intent regard meant.

  It was very late, and it was improper for her to remain with him. But he had just awoken. Should she leave? If she stayed, would he kiss her again? He probably didn’t even recall that kiss!

  He said softly, “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  She colored, about to deny it. Then she changed her mind. “I am unaccustomed to spending so much time in a stranger’s company.”

  “Yes, I imagine so. It is obviously late, but I have just awoken. I would like your company, mademoiselle, just for a bit.”

  “Of course.” She trembled, pleased.

  “Would it be possible to borrow your brother’s clothes now?” His smile came and went, indolently.

  That would certainly make her feel better, she thought. She went to retrieve the clothes, handed them to him and left the room. In the hall, she covered her warm cheeks with her hands. What was wrong with her? It was as if she was a young girl, when she was a grown woman! He had been delirious when he had kissed her. He seemed lonely now. That was all. And she had a dozen questions for him—even if she kept thinking of the pressure of his lips on hers.

  Behind her, the door opened, revealing Charles, now clad in Lucas’s breeches and a simple lawn shirt. He didn’t speak, which increased her tension, and he waited for her to precede him into the chamber. He moved her chair back to the table, but held it out for her. The silence felt even more awkward now than before.

  He was a gentleman, she thought, taking the seat. He would never take advantage of her and attempt another kiss.

  He sat in the second chair. “I am starved for news, mademoiselle. What happens in France?”

  She recalled his delirium and wanted to ask him about the battle he had spoken of. But she feared that might distress him. Very carefully, she said, “There has been good news and bad news, monsieur.”

  “Do tell.” He leaned toward her.

  She hesitated. “Since defeating the French in Flanders, Britain and her Allies continue to send troops to the front lines along the French–Belgian border, strengthening their position. Mainz remains under siege, and there are royalist rebellions in Toulon, Lyons and Marseilles.”

  He stared, his expression as hard as stone. “And the good news?”

  She searched his gaze, but could not find a flicker of emotion now. “The royalists were crushed near Nantes. We do not know yet if their rebellion has been ended, once and for all, but it seems possible.”

  His expression never changed; it was almost as if he hadn’t heard her.

  “Monsieur?” Impulsively, she blurted, “When will you tell me the truth?”

  “The truth, mademoiselle?”

  She found herself incapable of drawing a breath. “You were delirious.”

  “I see.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Was it a secret?”

&nbs
p; She felt as if they were in the midst of some terrible game. “Monsieur, you wept in my arms in your delirium, that you lost so many men—soldiers—your soldiers. I know that you are an officer in the French army!”

  His stare never wavered.

  She reached for his hand and gripped it. He did not move a muscle. “I have wept for you, Charles. Your losses are my losses. We are on the same side!”

  And finally, he looked down at her hand. She could not see into his eyes. “Then I am relieved,” he said softly. “To be amongst friends.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  HAD HE THOUGHT that he was amongst enemies? “I have cared for you for an entire week,” Julianne said, removing her hand from his.

  His green gaze was on her face now. “I feel certain you would care for any dying man, no matter his country or politics.”

  “Of course I would.”

  “I am a Frenchman—you are an Englishwoman. What should I have thought, upon awakening?”

  She began to realize the predicament he might have thought himself to be in. “We are on the very same side, monsieur. Yes, our countries are at war. Yes, I am English and you are French. But I am proud to support the revolution in your country. I was thrilled to realize that you are an officer in the French army!”

  “You are a radical, then.”

  “Yes.” Their gazes remained locked. His eyes were not as hard as before, but still, she felt oddly uncomfortable, as if she had been pushed off balance, as if she were in an important—no, crucial—interview. “Here in Penzance, we have a Society for the Friends of Man. I am one of the founders.”

  He now sat back in his chair, seeming impressed. “You are an unusual woman.”

  She couldn’t smile. “I will not be held back by my gender, monsieur.”

  “I can see that. So you are a true Jacobin sympathizer.”

  She hesitated. Was she being interviewed? Did she even blame him? “Did you think that you were in a household filled with enemies?”

  His smile did not seem to reach his eyes. “Of course I did.”

  She hadn’t had a clue as to his distress; he had been a master at hiding his thoughts and feelings. “You are amongst friends. I am your friend. In my eyes, you are a great hero of the revolution.”

  His brows lifted. And now she knew he had relaxed. “How much more fortunate could I be? To wind up in your care?” Suddenly, he reached for her hand. “Am I being too direct, Julianne?”

  She went still. He had never called her by her name before; he hadn’t even called her Miss Greystone. It had always been “mademoiselle.” Yet she did not protest. “No.”

  And he knew that she had just allowed him an intimacy—and perhaps opened the door for even further intimacy.

  He did not release her hand. It was late and dark and they were alone. “I hope you are not afraid of me,” he said softly.

  She slowly looked up from their clasped hands. “Why would I be afraid of you, monsieur?”

  He met her gaze. “Hero or not, I am a stranger…and we are alone.”

  She didn’t know what to say. His stare was unwavering, intense. “I enjoy our conversation, monsieur,” she finally said softly. “We have so much in common.”

  “Yes, we do.” He was pleased. Then, “I am glad you think of me as you do, Julianne.”

  “What else could I possibly think?” She managed a fragile smile. “You are fighting for equality in France and the freedom of all men, everywhere. You have put your life in jeopardy for a great, universal cause. You almost died for the sake of freedom.”

  He finally let go of her hand. “You are a romantic.”

  “It is the truth.”

  He studied her. “Tell me what you are thinking.”

  He spoke in a murmur, but he had that tone of command again. She knew she flushed. She managed to look down at the table between them. “Some thoughts are meant to be privy.”

  “Yes, some are. I am thinking that I am fortunate to have been brought into your care. And not because you are a Jacobin.”

  She jerked to look up at him.

  “When I first woke up, I remembered dreaming of a beautiful woman with titian hair, tending me, caring for me. And then I saw you and realized it was not a dream.”

  He had just walked through that open door....

  “Am I being too forward? I am accustomed to speaking directly, Julianne. In war, one learns that time is precious and no moment should go to waste.”

  “No. You are not being too forward. ” She trembled. He was feeling the same pull toward her that she felt toward him. Amelia would be shocked if she knew what was unfolding; her brothers would be furious.

  “And does your sister think of me as you do?”

  She was so off balance that, for one absurd moment, she thought he was asking her if Amelia also found him attractive.

  “I do not have the impression that she thinks of me as a war hero,” he said.

  It was hard to think about Amelia just then. But he was waiting for her to respond. She inhaled. The change of topic had been so abrupt. “No, she does not,” Julianne breathed.

  “She is not as radical as you are?” he supplied.

  She took a breath, finding her composure. “She isn’t radical at all, monsieur.” She could not tell what he was thinking or feeling. She did not want to worry him. “But she is not political, and she would never turn you over to the authorities, I promise you that.”

  For another moment, he stared, considering her words. Then he rubbed his neck, as if it ached. Before she could ask him if he was all right, he said, “And have you been able to aid our Jacobin allies in France? Is it easy to send word to them?”

  “It isn’t easy, but there are couriers these days. One must merely pay handsomely to get a message across the Channel.” Did he wish to send word to France? She tensed. Wouldn’t he want Nadine to know he was alive?

  “What’s wrong?”

  The French woman had to be a lover—he could not possibly be married, not when he’d flirted with her as he had. But she hated ruining the evening by asking about her. She was afraid she would learn that he still loved her. She smiled quickly. “I was just thinking that I wish I could be of more help to our allies in Paris. Thus far, we have merely exchanged a few letters and ideas.”

  He smiled at her. “And what is your brother, Lucas, like? I will have to eventually find a way to repay him for my use of his clothes.”

  She looked closely at him, sensing he wished to ask far more. “Lucas will not mind you wearing his clothes. He is a generous man.”

  “Would he turn me over to the authorities?”

  He was worried, and rightly so, she thought. She hesitated. Hadn’t she feared that Lucas would do just that? Charles was most definitely interviewing her.

  “No,” she finally said. “He would not.” She would not allow it.

  “Is he a radical, then, as you are?”

  She was grim. “No.”

  “Julianne?”

  “I am afraid that my brother Lucas is a patriot,” she said carefully. “He is a conservative. But he has no time for politics. He manages this estate, monsieur, providing for this family, and that occupies all of his time. He is rarely here—and I would never tell him who you are, if he suddenly appeared.”

  “So you would withhold the truth about me from your own brother in order to protect me?”

  She smiled weakly. “Yes, I would.”

  “You believe that he would turn me in.”

  “No! He could not do any such thing, anyway, because we would never tell him who you are.”

  “Are you expecting him in the near future?”

  “He always sends word when he is returning. You do not have to worry about him.” But Lucas hadn’t sent word a week ago; he had simply appeared. She decided not to tell Charles that.

  He scrutinized her and said, “And your other brother?”

  “Jack doesn’t care about this war, not one way or another.”

  “
Really?” He was mildly disbelieving.

  “He is a smuggler, monsieur. The war has raised the price of whiskey, tobacco and tea—indeed, it has raised the price of many items—and he says it is good for his business.”

  He rubbed his neck again, and sighed. “Good.”

  She didn’t blame him for his questions. Of course he would want to know who the members of her family were—and what their politics were, as well. He would want to know if he was safe. She watched him massage his neck. Was his tension that great? How could it not be? “I have been wondering why Jack brought you here.”

  He looked at her.

  When he did not respond, when she could not decipher his direct regard, she said, “I haven’t seen Jack since he brought you here—he comes and goes very erratically, and he was gone when I arrived at the manor and found you here in a terrible state. I have been wondering about it. Lucas only said that Jack found you bleeding to death on the wharf in Brest.”

  He hesitated. “I have a confession to make, Julianne. I do not remember how I got here.”

  She was stunned. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she cried, concerned.

  “We have just barely become acquainted.”

  She could not absorb that explanation. Why hadn’t he asked her how he had gotten to the manor, if he couldn’t recall it? How odd! But she felt terribly for him. “What do you remember? Are there other memory lapses?”

  “I recall being wounded in battle,” he said. “We were fighting the La Vendée royalists. The moment I felt that ball in my back, I knew I was in dire jeopardy. Everything became a haze of pain—and then it was simply darkness.”

  He had been in that great battle against the La Vendée royalists! When she had told him the news of the rout, he hadn’t even blinked. She wondered why he hadn’t revealed how pleased he was—for surely their defeat had thrilled him. It seemed odd that he would receive news of his last battle with such an impassive demeanor. “Isn’t Nantes inland?”

  He studied the table. “I suppose my men brought me to Brest. I wish I could remember. They might have been looking for a surgeon—we are always short on surgeons. Perhaps we got separated and cut off from our troops. Perhaps they were deserters.” He now looked up at her. “There are a number of possible scenarios. They may have even decided to leave me behind and let me die when they reached Brest.”