“You could not have remained alone at Carrick Park.”
“I do not comprehend why not,” she protested. “It seemed a satisfactory arrangement.”
His lips twisted. “For you perhaps, but I can assure you that your husband would soon have been joining you in Devonshire. Or demanding that you return to London.”
She stiffened at the mention of Gabriel. She had done her best not to think of her husband since those first hours after her kidnapping when she had ridiculously held on to a hope that he would come charging to her rescue. As if he would bother himself to chase after his unwanted wife even if he had known she was taken hostage. She was such a fool.
“Nonsense.” Her voice held a bitter edge she could not entirely disguise. “He was quite happy to be rid of me.”
Jacques regarded her as if she were impossibly naïve. “No, he wished to punish your father for having dared to threaten him,” he said. “Once he is assured that he has established his dominance over you, and, more important, Silas Dobson, he will be anxious to claim his wife.”
A treacherous memory of how Gabriel had already claimed her in the rumpled sheets of her bed briefly seared through her mind. Then, with a gasp, she hastily thrust aside the unwelcome image. What the devil was the matter with her?
“You know nothing of the situation.” She took an awkward step away from her companion, thankful he could not read her thoughts. “Gabriel is eager to forget we were ever wed.”
His eyes narrowed. “Even if such a ridiculous notion were true, he cannot forget you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are the Countess of Ashcombe, not some commoner’s wife.”
“I am aware of my title,” she said tartly. Her wedding might have been a bleak affair, but she had no doubt that it had been perfectly legal. Had Gabriel not returned for the wedding night just to ensure…
No.
Not again.
“Then you should also be aware that, whatever Lord Ashcombe’s personal opinion of you as his wife, his pride will not allow you to be a source of mockery among his peers.” Jacques thankfully distracted her dangerous thoughts. “When he judges it to be the appropriate moment, he will use his considerable power to launch you into society.”
Talia shuddered at the mere suggestion. She would as soon be left to rot in a French prison as be launched back into society.
“He cannot force them to accept me.”
“Of course he can.” Jacques’s hand shifted to brush a stray curl from her cheek. “They will not dare to do anything but bow at your pretty feet.”
Her humorless laugh floated eerily through the gallery. “Absurd.”
He shrugged aside her disbelief. “Not that taking your place among society is your most important function as the new Countess of Ashcombe.”
“I suppose you intend to tell me what it is?”
He stepped close enough to surround her in his male heat, his hands framing her face.
“I should not have to, no matter how innocent you might be.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Mons…”
“Jacques,” he huskily insisted.
“Jacques,” she impatiently muttered. “Just say what is upon your mind.”
“Very well.” His lips curved in a mocking smile. “The first and foremost duty of the Countess of Ashcombe is to produce the essential heir, ma petite.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, more disturbed by the brutal pang of need that clenched her stomach than by Jacques’s audacity.
She wasn’t stupid. In the days leading up to the wedding, there had lurked the knowledge that Gabriel would need an heir, but she had endured too many disappointments to willingly invite more. How could she have allowed herself to hope for a child when her husband might very well have decided he could not bear to bring himself to share her bed?
Even after their wedding night, she had refused to consider the possibility when it became evident she was not yet pregnant. Gabriel was obviously satisfied with his mistresses in town, leaving her alone in the country. The desperate desire to hold a baby in her arms might very well drive her mad if she allowed it to settle in her heart.
“I…”
Mistaking her unease for embarrassment, Jacques stroked his thumb over her heated cheek.
“You truly are an innocent.”
“Not so innocent as you imagine,” she said dryly.
“I find it charming.” A dangerous emotion flared through his dark eyes. “I find you charming.”
A stab of panic had Talia jerking away from his lingering touch. “I will not discuss this with you.”
Jacques folded his arms over his chest, watching her nervous retreat with a narrowed gaze.
“What will you not discuss?” he asked. “The realization that your husband is not some mythical creature who you can pretend lives in some distant land and that eventually you will have to do your duty as his wife?”
“My relationship with Lord Ashcombe is none of your concern.”
“I am merely attempting to reveal that your idyll would not have lasted beyond a few weeks,” he persisted. “You should thank me for rescuing you from an existence that would never have made you happy.”
“Rescuing me? I was kidnapped,” she sharply reminded him. “And you know nothing of how to make me happy.”
A smile of pure male confidence curled his lips. “I know you intimately, ma petite.”
Heat flared beneath her cheeks at his suggestive words. “Nonsense.”
“I know you prefer to devote your days to helping others and that you would be miserable being forced back to the stifling ballrooms of London.” His dark gaze skimmed over the exposed skin of her bosom. “I also suspect you are not eager to become a broodmare for a husband who has shown you nothing but contempt.”
She abruptly whirled away, unwilling to reveal the awful truth that she would give anything to have a baby. A tiny child to whom she could offer all her love that had been rejected by others.
“Please, do not,” she choked out.
Jacques bent his head to whisper in her ear, his gentle hands resting on her shoulders.
“Your talents would be respected here, ma petite. There is much need and few hands to offer assistance.”
She shook her head. “I am no traitor.”
“Come.” Tightening his grip, Jacques steered her across the floor of the gallery to the arched windows that overlooked the inner courtyard. A reluctant smile curved her lips at the sight of a dozen children ranging in age from five to fifteen darting among the ruins of the statues and fountains, chasing a stray dog. “Do you see them, Talia?” Jacques demanded, his voice low and compelling. “They are not English or French, they are children. And all they know is that war has destroyed their homes and their families. Just think of the difference you could make in their lives.”
Talia could not deny a tug of regret.
Her days in Devonshire had proved she possessed a talent for helping those in need, whether it was making certain a sickly tenant received meals from her kitchen or organizing the village to build a new school for the local children.
How much could she accomplish for those poor orphans?
She heaved a sigh. “You do not fight fair.”
“I fight to win.”
She thrust away his unexpectedly tempting offer and turned to meet his watchful gaze.
“Am I to be held here forever?”
He deliberately lifted his brow, glancing toward the beautiful Rubens’s paintings displayed in gilt frames and the dangling chandeliers made from priceless Venetian glass.
“You disapprove of your lodgings?”
She thinned her lips, battling against his considerable charm.
“I simply wish to know what you intend for my future.”
He reached to straighten the lace at her bosom. “Be at ease, Talia. Once the information I acquired has been used to defeat Wellesley, I will personally escort you back to Devonshire.” He paused. “A
lthough I have hopes that I will have convinced you to remain with me by that time.”
She was far from comforted by his promise. “How can you speak so casually of what you have done? Do you not realize that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of British soldiers might die because of your treachery?”
“And hundreds, perhaps thousands, of French soldiers will be saved,” he readily countered. “It is war, ma petite.”
“A war started by your crazed emperor who will not be satisfied until he has conquered the world.” Her scowl shifted toward the marble bust of Napoleon that had been placed on a teak-wood pedestal. “How can you give your loyalty to such a man?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I COULD ASK the same of you,” Jacques countered, his jaw clenched. “How can you give your loyalty to a mad king and his imbecile son who devotes more attention to the gloss on his boots than to his people starving in the gutters?”
She lowered her eyes, unable to deny his condemnation. Not that she was prepared to admit the truth. Not to the man who was willing to betray those who had come to trust him, including herself.
“We shall never agree.”
“You think not?” He waited until she lifted her head to meet his somber gaze. “We are not so different, you know.”
She stilled. “What do you mean?”
He paused, as if not entirely certain he wished to explain himself. Then, with a tiny shrug, he turned his gaze toward the children still darting about the courtyard.
“My father was an artist who caught the attention of King Louis,” he revealed in a soft, rigidly controlled voice. “He was commissioned to complete several sculptures for the Tuileries gardens.”
She studied his profile, sensing his long-buried pain. “He must be very talented.”
“He was.”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “He has passed?”
“When I was just a boy.” A wistful smile curled his lips. “Thankfully, I managed to salvage a few of his pieces.”
Her annoyance with Jacques was forgotten as she stepped forward and laid a comforting hand on his arm. She had been devastated by the loss of her mother at a young age. No child should have to endure such pain.
“I would love to see them.”
“Then you shall.” He turned to meet her sympathetic expression. “He would have approved of you.”
She shifted uneasily beneath his intent gaze. “What happened?”
He paused, clearly unaccustomed to sharing his past. Then he heaved a deep sigh.
“My mother had been an actress before wedding my father and she was…” His expression softened. “Exquisite.”
“That I can well believe.” His own beauty was potent.
He gave a dip of his head. “Merci, ma petite. Unfortunately, beauty can often be a curse for women.”
“A curse?”
She blinked at his odd claim. Was beauty not an essential quality for a woman? God knew that she had suffered the consequences of daring to be less than lovely.
“My father was invited by the king to visit for several weeks at Versailles,” Jacques explained. “He was, of course, delighted. An artist must depend upon the patronage of those with wealth. He hoped to acquire additional commissions.”
“Did you travel with him?”
“No, I remained at our home in Paris with my tutor, but my mother joined him at the palace.” His jaw clenched. “Within a few days she had caught the eye of the Comte de Rubell.”
Talia bit her bottom lip, a sick sensation forming in the pit of her stomach.
“Oh.”
“Being a member of nobility the Comte naturally assumed that my mother should be honored to warm his bed. He could not accept her rebuffs.”
It was, unfortunately, a too familiar story.
Women without the protection of wealth or powerful connections would always be at the mercy of unscrupulous men.
Of course, even wealth did not necessarily protect a woman from being compelled to obey the demands of an overbearing male, she grimly acknowledged.
“Did he…force her?”
Pure hatred flared through Jacques’s eyes. “That was his intention when my father arrived and stuck the bastard with his sword.”
“Good for him,” Talia said with staunch approval.
His lips twisted. “It was not a fairy tale with my father as the hero, ma petite. Although his attack caused no more than a flesh wound, he was taken to the Bastille and condemned to death.”
She sucked in a harsh breath, horrified by the story.
“Jacques, I am so sorry.”
“As am I.” He took a moment, raw emotion tightening his features before he struggled to regain command of his composure. “My father was a hardworking, decent man of honor who was killed as if he were no more than a stray dog.”
“You loved him,” she said softly.
“Oui.” He managed a stiff smile. “And he adored me.”
“Then you are fortunate, even if you only had him a short time.” She felt a familiar tug at her heart. “The memory of my mother was often my only comfort after a particularly difficult evening among society.”
He shrugged off her words of comfort. “Remarkably I do not feel fortunate.”
She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “What happened to your mother?”
“She returned to Paris only long enough to pack our belongings and to flee to England. Her cousin in London was willing to take us in.”
“So that is why you speak English with such fluency.”
“My mother married the youngest son of a baron who was willing to pay my tuition to Eton to keep me from being constantly underfoot.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but Talia sensed that the rejection from his stepfather had only served to deepen his disgust for the aristocracy. “I was a well-polished Englishman until I came of age and was able to return to France.”
“And yet you feel no loyalty at all to England?” she asked, unable to accept that he had made no friends during his years in school.
“I have no loyalty to a country that will allow the oppression of its people by a handful of bloated nobles who remain above the law.”
“But…”
“Enough of this dreary talk of politics,” he abruptly interrupted, pressing a slender finger to her lips. “I have come to request your companionship for dinner.”
Talia rolled her eyes in wry resignation as Jacques retreated behind the practiced charm he used as a shield against the world.
“I should refuse,” she muttered, ruefully aware she was unable to conjure the outrage she should be feeling at being held hostage by a French spy.
With a dramatic motion, Jacques pressed a hand to his heart. “You would not be so cruel.”
“You are my enemy.”
“Never.” Without warning he leaned down to brush his lips over her cheek, then taking her hand he placed it on his arm and firmly led her down the gallery. “Come, ma petite. Allow me to prove just how…friendly I can be.”
One week later
DUSK HAD FALLEN over the French countryside as Gabriel halted near the abandoned conservatory and studied the palace spread before him.
His gaze barely noted the imposing building that loomed over the countryside with rigid grandeur. He concentrated instead on the handful of soldiers lazily patrolling the grounds before shifting to the formal gardens where he could see the shadowy form of a lone woman walking through broken statues.
“Talia,” he breathed, sinking to his knees as a violent sense of relief slammed through him.
The man at his side shifted forward, moving with surprising grace considering his large bulk.
“Are you certain?” Hugo demanded.
Gabriel turned to send his friend a sour glance.
It hadn’t been his choice to have Hugo travel with him to France.
In fact, he had done everything but horsewhip the aggravating man to keep him from following him.
Unfortunately, Hugo was nothing if not tenac
ious and, ignoring Gabriel’s commands, insults and threats of violence, he had stubbornly arrived at Carrick Park mere hours after Gabriel and then had refused to leave his side.
In the end, Gabriel had been too anxious to begin his search for Talia to battle with his friend. While Hugo made himself useful by carefully interviewing the servants to discover if they could offer any useful information, Gabriel had scoured the countryside.
Thank God the local tenants were devoted to the young Countess of Ashcombe. The moment the alarm had been raised at her failure to return for supper, they had spread throughout the neighborhood to find their beloved Talia. Within hours they had found two strangers who were staying at a local posting inn, each of them carrying far too much money for innocent travelers.
They had held the pair captive at the local gaol, where the magistrate had struggled to prevent the more bloodthirsty citizens from taking matters into their own hands.
Gabriel had found himself struggling to suppress his own bloodlust as he had questioned the insolent creatures, and it was Hugo who had prevented him from choking the life from the bastards when they had grudgingly revealed the truth of Jack Gerard and the fact he had taken Talia to his lair in France.
As it was, he’d managed to crack the ribs of one of the traitorous cowards and knocked the teeth from the other before Hugo had managed to pull him off.
By the next morning Gabriel had been on his private yacht, headed toward the coast of France with Hugo grimly at his side.
“It has been some time, but I am capable of recognizing my wife, Hugo,” he assured his companion.
Hugo narrowed his golden eyes. “She does not appear to be a prisoner.”
Gabriel swallowed a curse. This was precisely the reason that he had attempted to keep his friend from joining him on this quest, despite the knowledge he could have no more skilled or loyal companion.
“Looks can often be deceiving,” he muttered.
“In that we are in perfect agreement.” Hugo tensed as a soldier strolled along the flagstone path, passing close enough to the conservatory that they could catch the scent of his cigar. Hugo grabbed Gabriel’s arm and tugged him toward the back of the building, his expression hard.
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