“Dominique.” The deep voice intruded on her nightmare, softly at first, then louder and louder. “Miss Dawson.” Strong fingers gripped her arm. “Wake up.”
Dominique bolted upright. Her ragged breath came in spurts that matched the rapid beating of her heart. Nothing but darkness surrounded her. No sound but her own breathing. She pressed her hands against the moist sheets on her bed.
“Dominique.” Someone touched her arm, and she sprang from the bed, peering into the shadows. Milky light filtered through the window, outlining the large figure of a man standing on the other side of her bed. He skirted around the oak bedpost.
“ ’Tis me, Miss Dawson, the admiral.”
She shrank back from him and rubbed her eyes, forcing back the haunting images of her past. The admiral? What in the name of all that was holy was he doing in her chamber? Terror heightened the wild beating of her heart.
He halted before the foot of the bed. His face was lost in the shadows. “Forgive me. I did not intend to frighten you, but you were screaming the name Marcel.”
“Screaming?” she whispered and tried to shake the fog from her mind.
The admiral took another step, and the dark shadow of his arm rose toward her. A memory, one now fresh in her mind, stormed through her—a memory of another man in a dark alley of Paris coming at her in the night. She screamed and jumped back. “Stay away!”
He froze. His heavy sigh filled the room as he retreated and stumbled into the desk by her bed. He moved to the coal grate and knelt. Dominique eyed the door. Could she run? Ridiculous— the admiral wouldn’t hurt her, would he? Then why was she so frightened? snatching her robe from the back of a chair, she flung it over her shoulders and pulled it tight about her. Did he know what she was doing here? she drew a deep breath. Do I truly know?
Candlelight flickered over his handsome face from the other side of the room. His bare feet thudded on the wooden floor as he made his way back to her—slow, measured footsteps as if he were afraid to wake her. And when she gazed into his chocolate brown eyes, she found only concern within them.
He set the candle down on the high-back dresser, where it cast a circle of flickering light around them, highlighting his broad chest that peeked from behind an unbuttoned shirt he must have donned in haste. A pair of trousers hung loosely on his hips. “Are you all right, Dominique?”
“Yes,” was all she could muster amidst the conflicting emotions raging within her, especially at the sound of her Christian name upon his lips.
“You were screaming.” He ran a hand through his loose mahogany-colored hair that reached just below his shoulders.
“I was?”
“Quite loudly, I might say.” His lips curved in an enchanting smile.
Dominique hugged herself and lowered her gaze. “Forgive me for waking you.” She didn’t know what else to say. His close presence in her bedchamber at night, coupled with his evident care for her, played havoc with her already reeling emotions.
“I was not asleep.” He touched her elbow, and the smell of brandy and spice washed over her like a heady perfume.
“You are trembling.” His dark gaze latched onto hers.
Dominique swallowed and eased down into the chair he led her to, thankful for the support beneath her. Her head was beginning to spin, and the last thing she wanted was to swoon into the admiral’s arms again—especially against his bare, muscled chest.
He squatted beside her chair. His eyes softened as they met hers. Gone was the harsh commanding sheen, the cold protective barrier that always shielded his gaze. Was it the alcohol that lowered his defenses? Dominique tightened her robe about her chest and felt her breath catch in her throat under his intense perusal.
He raised his hand, all the while keeping his gaze upon her, and gently brushed a finger over her cheek, sweeping away a loose curl. She closed her eyes beneath his tender touch, ashamed that she did not move away, ashamed that she allowed him to be so familiar, but somehow unable to pull herself from him.
“What frightened you so?” His deep, sultry voice slid over her like warm butter.
Dominique snapped her eyes open and shifted in her chair. She tried to awaken from the spell he cast upon her, no doubt conjured by his strong, protective presence and the tender emotional state left to her from her nightmare. She gazed over the chamber, anywhere but into those caring brown eyes. His sword lay on the foot of her bed. He had charged in here to protect her, no doubt believing some villain named Marcel was accosting her. His chivalry only added to the warm tingle that now radiated through her.
How could she betray this man—this strong, courageous, honorable man? Twice she had found herself alone in a bedchamber with him, completely at his mercy. Yet he had never made an inappropriate move toward her, had always behaved the gentleman. She raised her gaze to his, unable to avoid searching his unguarded eyes. Heartache and betrayal cried out in agony deep from within him, but kindness and love also took residence there. He had a good heart.
And she would destroy it.
She would betray him and not only ruin his career, but leave his heart shattered once again.
Yet what choice did she have? Right at this very moment she was supposed to be meeting the Frenchman—would be meeting the Frenchman if her plans hadn’t changed.
And she fully intended to meet him again. Betray her country and betray this man.
To save Marcel.
“Who is Marcel?” Chase asked.
Dominique lowered her gaze. “My brother.”
Chase rubbed the back of his neck as relief swept through him. Her brother. Of course. When he’d first heard her screaming, he’d thought the worst. Grabbing his sword, he had burst into her room to fend off the attacker. The fury that had enflamed him at the thought of someone hurting Miss Dawson both surprised and frightened him. But once he realized she was only dreaming, the second-worst thing occurred to him—that this Marcel was a lover, that his sister had been right.
Why did he feel so relieved to be wrong? What difference would it make to him? He allowed his gaze to wander over her. The white lace of her nightdress curled around the edges of her silk robe. The glow from the candle, as if seeking something worthy of its light, shimmered over her in caressing waves. Her chestnut hair trickled down her shoulders onto her lap, and Chase swallowed a longing to run his fingers through the silky strands. ’Twas the brandy again, no doubt. He must curb his drinking when Miss Dawson was around.
“If I may ask, where is your brother?” He silently cursed himself for not inquiring before—for not ensuring that the son of his friend, Admiral stuart, was also under good care.
She lifted her swimming eyes to his. “He is in France.”
No place for the son of a british admiral. “How old is he now?”
“Eighteen.”
Chase shifted his weight onto his other foot and leaned an elbow on his knee. “May I ask how he provides for himself?”
“A distant cousin took us in after…” Dominique pressed the back of her hand to her nose.
“I see.” Chase yearned to take her hand in his, to offer what comfort he could, but he only looked away, allowing her a moment. “Then why does he need saving?”
“I beg your pardon?” She swiped a tear threatening to escape from her eye.
“You were screaming that you would save him.”
His statement seemed to blast through her resolve, opening a floodgate of tears that now streamed down her cheeks.
Against all propriety, he took her trembling hand in his. “Forgive me. I have upset you again.”
She allowed his tender grip at first then suddenly jerked her hand away. Wiping her face, she averted her gaze. “My apologies, Admiral. I am not sure what has me so overwrought. Perhaps I am simply tired.” She gazed at him, her amber eyes brimming with emotion—fear, sorrow, but something else that caused Chase’s heart to flip. “As I have said, Admiral, ’twas a bad dream, nothing more.”
Chase rose and took a ste
p back. What was he doing lurking about a woman’s bedchamber at night—especially this woman’s? He should have left as soon as he discovered she was only having a dream, but the picture of her writhing upon the bed in agony had wrapped a cord around him and held him in place. He drew a deep breath, hoping to quell the peculiar yearning within, and decided to address the problem at hand. “We should send for your brother immediately. He should not be in France.”
Dominique blinked. “But he has no land, no title, no trade. What would he do here?”
“I would hire him. A footman, perhaps?”
She opened her mouth, no doubt to protest, but he held up a hand. “I know ’tis beneath him, but it would get him out of our enemy’s territory before they muddle what is left of his reason with their warped philosophies. Perhaps I could get him a commission on board one of my ships.”
Miss Dawson’s chest rose and fell as rapidly as a fire bellows, and he couldn’t tell whether she was grateful or whether he had frightened her again. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed up at him. “You are too kind, Admiral. I don’t…I do not understand. You barely know me. You do not even know my brother.”
He flattened his lips. She was right. He had only known her but a month, but truth be told, he felt as though he had known her all his life. “Your father saved my life once.” He raised his brows. “I owe him.”
“Is that why you offer to help Marcel—as payment on a debt?” She snapped her gaze to his, harshness replacing the sorrow. “That is why you hired me?”
“At first, yes.” He looked away, not wanting to face the sudden anger in her eyes, much preferring the tenderness of only a moment ago. “But I find you to be very good for William.” And for me. He shook the thought from his head as rapidly as it had come, not ready to admit the effect she had on him, not ready to taint the memory of his wife with these unwelcome and befuddling feelings.
“We are descendents of French nobility, sir, and as well you know, also of british Admiralty.” She tossed her quivering chin in the air. “We will not be subject to your charity.”
Chase stared at her wide-eyed and couldn’t help but chuckle. She had shocked him once again. One minute she behaved as a frightened, timid sparrow; the next, strength welled up in her that reminded him of a lioness protecting her young.
She stood. “I’m sorry to disturb your evening, Admiral, and though I am grateful for your concern, you should not be in my chamber.”
But despite the harsh tone of her voice, he knew fear still held her captive. He sensed a distress that went beyond simple concern for her brother, and he longed more than anything to come to her rescue—to becalm her fears and remove all her difficulties.
She began to sway. He reached for her arm. “Why won’t you let me help you?”
“There’s nothing to be done, I’m afraid.” Her tears returned, glistening in the candlelight, and he felt a shudder course through her.
He took a step toward her and pulled her into his arms. To his surprise, she melted against his chest, her soft curves folding into him as if they were made for each other. Sobs wracked her body. He ran his fingers through her hair, allowing her to release her sorrow. He didn’t know how to comfort her, didn’t know how to help her, but one thing he did know: His sister was wrong. This frightened woman was innocent of any wrongdoing.
Her sobs quieted, and he cupped her chin and lifted her face. Glittering eyes met his as their breath intermingled. No deceit, no malice, nothing but a chaste yearning for love and comfort beamed from within them.
Without giving it a thought, he lowered his lips to hers. Soft and warm, they met his in a moist caress. Heat flamed inside his belly. He drew her against him as their kiss grew hungrier.
She pushed off his chest and jerked away from him. Raising a hand to her lips, she glared at him.
Chase clenched his jaw. Why had he done that? shame spread an icy film across his passions. He had not kissed a woman since Melody—had not wanted to kiss a woman since Melody. Yet as he looked at Dominique, at her quivering lips, at the innocent spark of fervor in her eyes, and as the feel of her surrender still pulsated through him, he would gladly have done so again.
“I have never kissed a man before,” She declared, breaking the silence.
“Indeed?” He smiled. “You are quite good at it.” He planted his hands on his waist and looked down. What was wrong with him? How had this woman bewitched him? The bulwark he had so carefully erected around his heart began to crumble, allowing his enemies entrance: love, care, concern. But they never came alone. Terror and torment bit at their heels: terror at losing the one he loved and the torment of already having done so.
“I would ask you to leave, Admiral.” She wrapped her arms around her chest.
He stepped toward her. “Forgive me, Domin—Miss Dawson. I have no excuse for my behavior.” He sighed. “I fear I have only frightened you further, which was the last thing I wished to do.”
“A condition you can rectify by your absence, sir,” she retorted in a shaky voice.
“Not until I know you have calmed.” He reached toward her, his only hope to reassure her of his noble intentions, not wanting to leave her with the impression she had anything to fear from him.
In a flash of white lace and silk, she leapt for the bed, grabbed his sword, and thrust it out before her. The tip of the blade wobbled inches from his chest. Her face scrunched in determination in the candlelight, but her eyes darted furiously between his. “For the last time, I beg you to leave.”
Chase grinned and retreated, forcing down a sudden burst of indignation. “I surrender, Miss Dawson.” He chuckled with arms extended. “I am your humble prisoner.” He gave her a mock bow. Perhaps he should just leave as she requested, yet his pride would not allow a woman to get the best of him. How dare she hold a sword to him in his own house? Especially when he’d come to her chamber to save her.
Fear skittered across her eyes, melting his fury. She was truly afraid of him—or of something, and he found he could not allow that. He did not want her to think that he meant her any harm.
The sword oscillated before his chest as the muscles in her arms were no doubt straining beneath its weight.
In a quick move, he shoved the blade aside with his forearm, slicing his shirt and the skin beneath. While she fumbled to recover, he grabbed the hilt from her hands with ease.
He held it, point down, by his side. Her rapid breathing filled the room as she stared at him aghast.
“I must say, I have never quite had that reaction after a kiss.” He gave her a devilish look then tightened his lips.
“What do you intend to do?” she asked as if just realizing she had held a sword to her employer and was now alone with an angry man.
“I intend to leave, as was always my plan.” He grimaced and snapped the hair from his face. “I am not the sort of man to force himself on a woman.”
“And yet you did.”
“I believe your response indicated otherwise.” He gave her a half smile, pleased when he saw her face reddening.
“I was distraught….” She shifted her stance and gazed over the room. “I had a nightmare.”
“Sleepwalking again, Miss Dawson? Or perhaps this time sleep kissing?”
“How dare you?” She squared her shoulders.
“Rest assured, Miss Dawson, I will dare not attempt it again.” He bowed and sauntered from the room, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER 16
The rasp of heavy fabric and the glare of sunlight startled Dominique from a fitful sleep. She sprang up in bed, momentarily dazed as memories from the night before shoved their way into her consciousness. A spark of terror brought her fully awake as a voice rang from her right.
“Sorry to wake you, miss.” Larena finished tying the curtains aside, then turned and smiled. “But you planned to take William to the park before his tutor arrived.”
“I did?” Dominique stared aghast at the red-haired woman. “Yes, of course
.” She rubbed her eyes against visions she hoped came only from a nightmare. One glance over the room, and her heart squeezed. The admiral had been in her chamber last night. She pictured him standing by the foot of her bed, his shirt open, his hair in wild disarray around his shoulders, a handsome smirk on his face.
And she’d kissed him—passionately.
Panic sliced through her. Sacre bleu. she’d drawn his sword on him.
“What troubles you, miss? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Far worse, I’m afraid,” Dominique gasped.
“Is something amiss?” Larena approached the bed as Dominique tossed her legs over the side. “Did something happen last night?” The chambermaid’s round face pinched. “I thought I heard voices, but then again, this house is full of voices at night, so I paid them no mind.”
“The admiral,” was all Dominique managed to say as a clump of shame and horror rose to constrict her throat.
“Yes, what about him?”
“I had a dream, a nightmare.” Dominique shuddered as the harrowing vision of Marcel with a knife to his throat replayed itself in her mind. “And the admiral came.”
“To your chamber? Oh dear.” Larena moved to sit on the bed then hesitated.
“Please.” Dominique patted the quilt beside her. “Yes. I must have screamed, and he thought I was being attacked.”
Larena sat down, and a tiny smirk danced across her lips. “Oh, to be sure.” She gave her a sideways glance.
“You couldn’t possibly think he had other intentions?” Dominique wrung her hands together in her lap, remembering the way he’d pulled her into his arms, remembering the way she had surrendered so readily. Heat flushed over her.
Larena patted her hand. “I know the admiral to be a decent man.” She nodded reassuringly but then offered Dominique a sinister wink. “But a fair warning to you: He is a man nonetheless.”
“He kissed me,” Dominique blurted, unsure why she disclosed so much to Larena. She supposed she needed a friend, a woman who could tell her that these new, overwhelming sensations within her were silly and trivial, a part of the frivolous dalliance betwixt the sexes.
Falcon and the Sparrow Page 18
