by Marie Laval
His mouth, in turn soft and demanding, took complete possession. A dark, hot, dangerous wave of desires and sensations she was powerless to fight swept her away. She whimpered softly as her body melted, tightened, and ached all at once against his. His breathing became faster, harsher. His hands trailed down to her hips, dug into her flesh, and ground her against his hard heat. Her legs hardly carrying her, she lifted her hands to his shoulders and clung to him for support. The world around vanished, time stopped. All she could hear was the pounding of her heart, the roaring of her blood, and the rustling of their clothing as they moved against each other.
A woman’s laughter and the crunching of footsteps on the gravel path nearby brought her back to reality. What was she doing in Saintclair’s arms? Had she had completely lost her mind?
She tore herself from his kiss, lowered her hands onto his chest, and pushed him away with all her strength. He breathed in sharply and let his hands fall to his sides, but his fists were clenched as if he was trying to control the urge to pull her against him again.
Without a word, and thankful for the darkness hiding her burning cheeks, she gathered her skirts and fled on the path towards the stairway.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Saintclair grabbed her arm and spun her round.
‘I’m going to confront Fouché and ask him about my husband. Please let me go!’
‘What husband?’ He looked down and frowned. ‘You mean that man who was there with you just then was…’
She nodded.
He cursed under his breath.
‘And what exactly are you planning to ask Fouché?’ he asked. ‘Do you really think he will acknowledge your husband—if it’s indeed him—is his spy and give you an address where you can find him?’
‘I don’t know what he’ll say, but I have to try something—anything—to find Christopher. Now let me go!’ Her voice rose to a high pitch. She tried to shake free but his hand was a grip of steel on her arm.
‘Think about it,’ Saintclair carried on, calmly. ‘If this man is your husband and works for Fouché, then he belongs to the underworld. He is a master at hiding, concealing his identity. Fouché will never admit to employing any agents, especially when he is no longer Minister of Police. And if you think for one minute he’ll take pity of you, you are sorely mistaken.’
He released her at last.
Her shoulders slumped, and she heaved a ragged sigh. He was right. Fouché was hardly likely to be swayed by her tears.
‘What shall I do, then? I have been waiting for him all these years. I always knew he wasn’t dead, but tonight, I actually talked to him, touched him…’
She looked up. ‘Please, Capitaine, help me.’
In the dimly lit cloister, his face looked carved in stone.
‘Help you do what?’ His voice was harsh.
‘Find him, of course. I would do anything to see him again. I want my Christopher back.’
A sardonic grin appeared on his mouth. ‘Are you sure? He did not appear to be in a flower picking or ballad singing mood tonight. He wanted to hurt you.’
‘It’s not his fault. He lost his memory, but I shall find him and make him remember me.’
Saintclair didn’t reply. Why did he stand there, impassive, when he was her only hope? Christopher was so close, yet still out of reach. The tears she had been holding broke loose again. She collapsed on her knees, buried her face in her hands. She could hardly breathe as deep raking sobs shook her body. Saintclair lifted her up and held her against him for what felt like a long time.
‘You are in no fit state to be seen like this,’ he said at last. ‘We will go to my rooms across the square.’
Chapter Nine
Hugo nodded at the sentinel guarding the entrance to the cuirassiers barracks and led Marie-Ange across a courtyard and along the stable blocks before climbing up to the first floor of the officers’ wing. He wasn’t expecting to be stopped. Nobody cared these days if officers brought women in.
The barracks were almost as busy as the Palais Saint Pierre across the square, albeit the men looked coarser, the women more dishevelled, and the conversation was much cruder. The place was like a tavern. It made his blood boil to see what had become of the strict and well disciplined regiment under its new leadership.
He unlocked his door.
‘Wait here, I will get some light,’ he said as he walked in and closed the door behind them. She leant against the wooden pane while he lit an oil lamp and placed it on the table. He then took her hand, pulled a chair out, and helped her sit down. She immediately started crying again.
‘I don’t know what to do. I just feel so helpless.’ She was crying so hard she could hardly talk.
He frowned. The woman needed to calm down. She was making herself ill. He opened a cupboard, pulled out a bottle of cognac.
‘Drink this.’ He gave her a glass full of liquor.
Her hand shook as she lifted the glass to her lips but she managed to drink a few sips.
‘Drink it all,’ he insisted. She emptied the glass. He filled it again and she drained the brandy once more.
‘Better?’
She nodded and lifted her gaze to him. Her eyes were a little heavier now, but at least they were dry.
‘Thank you, Capitaine. You are the only person I can turn to.’ Her voice broke into a sob.
He sighed with impatience.
‘Ah non! You’re not going to start crying again! Here, let me make you more comfortable.’
He pulled her to her feet and did what he had been dreaming of for days. Slowly, almost tenderly, he took the pins out of her hair. It cascaded down onto her shoulders and into the middle of her back. He slid his fingers in the thick mass of curls. His throat was tight, his breathing fast, his body ached with the need to touch and kiss her.
She stiffened and raised her face towards his.
‘Capitaine, I don’t think…’ she protested weakly, closing her eyes as she swayed against him.
‘I have wanted to do this ever since I first saw you,’ he said.
‘I feel a little strange.’ Her voice was slurred, her body warm and soft.
‘It’s the brandy.’ He bent down and kissed her lips until they opened under the gentle pressure.
Damn, she tasted good, a mixture of brandy and tears and her own sweet taste. His kiss deepened, became forceful. She gasped and melted against him, as if he was taking her breath, her strength away.
She made no move to resist him as his mouth trailed along her neck to her bare shoulder, and then slowly back up again. With one hand, he undid the buttons of his jacket which he discarded impatiently on the floor. He rolled Marie-Ange’s white gloves down along her forearms and took them off with a sharp pull. He looked at her. Her slightly bewildered gaze met his.
‘Tell me now if you want me to stop.’
She opened her mouth to speak but didn’t say a word.
So he pulled her close and kissed her again. Tentatively, she put her arms around his shoulders, slid her hands behind his neck, and tangled her fingers in his hair. His heart about to burst, his body throbbing with need, he proceeded to unfasten the hooks at the back of her dress before pulling down the delicate muslin gown from her shoulders. His fingers stroked the swelling of her breasts above her corset, ventured lower. She shuddered and threw her head back, offering more of her to his caresses. He groaned as he pulled her chemise lower and touched the tight, pink tips of her breasts. He traced light patterns with his thumbs, teasing and caressing until she let out a moan he stifled with a long, hard kiss.
She heaved out a shaky breath.
‘Christopher.’
It was like a direct hit to the chest. He pulled away, staggered back, and held her at arms’ length.
Her eyes opened, dreamy, unfocused. Her lips were still parted, rosy and swollen from his kisses.
‘I will be dammed if you call another man’s name while you’re in my arms,’ he said in a low, growling voice.
He glanced up at the woman standing, silent, in the middle of the room. Her eyes were lowered to the ground, her cheeks and throat flushed, her blond hair tousled. With her arms folded across her chest, she looked lost and vulnerable. His anger subsided at once.
‘My apologies,’ he muttered. ‘I shouldn’t have taken advantage of your distress. It won’t happen again.’
He poured himself another drink.
She neither answered nor looked at him but put her dress in order with trembling hands. Desire, anger, regret stabbed at his chest—and then a flash of desire again as she pulled her dress to cover the swell of her breasts. His hand gripped his glass so tight his knuckles went white. He took a deep, ragged, breath. Sensations burned through him like a firebrand—the feel of her against him, the silk of her skin under his fingertips, her feverish abandon as he trailed kisses along her throat to the tip of her breasts. And all along, it was her husband she pined for. He could almost laugh. Almost.
He clenched his jaw and gestured for the woman to sit at the table opposite him.
‘Tell me about Corunna.’
Her face flushed, she sat opposite him, folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes, perhaps to collect her thoughts.
‘The HMS Amazon moored in the bay of Corunna between January sixteenth and eighteenth of 1809. Christopher was supervising the repatriation of the sick and the wounded soldiers ordered by General Moore, and confirmed by General Hope after Moore was shot. The Amazon was hit by French fire at nightfall on the eighteenth. It sank rapidly and rescue attempts were hindered by the French artillery which continued firing throughout the night. Not a single member of the crew was found alive.’
‘Yes. That’s pretty much what I heard too,’ Hugo said, thoughtful. He poured a glass of cognac which he handed to her. She left it untouched in front of her.
‘I have been thinking a lot about what might have happened these past few days,’ she said. ‘What if Christopher was able to grab a piece of wood, a barrel, anything, and the current carried him away from the rest of the fleet further down the coast? He might have been wounded or in shock, his uniform torn, with nothing to identify him as British.’
Hugo crossed his arms on his chest. ‘Go on.’
‘Later he might have been sent to a French field hospital, seriously wounded and unable to remember who he was. And when he recovered, he could have been transferred to a French regiment and finished the war on the French side. He spoke perfect French, I told you before.’
‘And you are positive that the man you saw, tonight and in Paris, is your husband?’
Marie-Ange nodded. ‘I know it’s him. But he doesn’t,’ she replied quietly.
The conviction in her voice was unmistakable. ‘Yes, I suppose it’s possible,’ he said. ‘Stranger things have happened. You said he now went under the name of…?’
‘Nallay,’ she replied. ‘Joseph Nallay’
His mind was made up. One way or another he would get hold of this Nallay. If nothing else, he’d give the man a good beating for manhandling Marie-Ange in the Palais Saint-Pierre’s gardens and would get rid of one of Fouché’s spies at the same time. And if the man turned out to be her husband, well, things would get complicated.
‘You do realise that you may not like what we find,’ he said, glancing up at her.
She nodded. ‘I must know, Capitaine,’ was all she answered.
‘Well then…’
He stood up, retrieved his jacket from the floor, and put it back on. ‘Come on, I’ll escort you back to the ball and start looking for Nallay. I have a few contacts here in Lyon I can put on the man’s trail.’ He buttoned his jacket.
Marie-Ange stood and asked timidly, ‘Please, Capitaine? I cannot manage these.’ She pointed to her dress.
He gave an impatient grunt before standing behind her to fasten the tiny hooks, all the time striving to resist the urge to draw her into his arms again. When he finished, he couldn’t resist stroking the silky, creamy skin across her shoulders. She shivered violently under his touch, hissed a sharp breath, and pulled away as if she’d been burnt. She probably didn’t trust him not to touch her again because she walked to the other side of the room to twist her hair in a plait and put her white gloves back on.
At last she said she was ready and they made their way out.
‘Do you think you can find Rochefort, Capitaine? I don’t want to return to the ball,’ she said as they crossed the square towards the Palais Saint Pierre. Hugo looked for Malleval’s carriage among the barouches, cabriolets, and berlins lining the square.
At last he spied the man’s bulky figure. ‘Rochefort is over there. He’ll take you home.’
The big man was smoking a clay pipe and talking with other drivers.
‘Madame Norton is tired,’ Hugo told him, opening the carriage door and helping her inside.
‘Very well,’ Rochefort grunted, tapped his pipe against the sole of his boot, put it back into his coat pocket, and jumped up onto the driver’s box.
Hugo leant inside to speak quietly with Marie-Ange. ‘I will let Malleval know you weren’t feeling well. I’ll be in touch when I have news.’ He closed the door and stepped aside.
As soon as the carriage pulled away, he strode off towards the Saint Paul district. With its seedy taverns frequented by men from all walks of life, from army personnel, municipal officers and professionals in search of illicit thrills, to larceners, pickpockets and hardened criminals, it was the place to fish for information about Joseph Nallay.
Chapter Ten
Marie-Ange reclined on the seat and attempted to marshal her whirling thoughts and emotions and bring the night’s events into some semblance of order. Christopher was alive, but he was amnesic and so changed it was hard to reconcile the man who handled her so roughly this evening with the gentle husband who treasured her. Her throat tightened with pity and sadness. Heavens knew what life he had led, what terrible sufferings he had endured since Corunna. She pressed her hand against her heart and took a deep breath. Well, she would find him and do everything in her power to help him remember his past.
And then what? Would they go back to Wellcombe as man and wife? The prospect of resuming her married life which would have filled her with joy a few weeks ago now made her uneasy. The man she had encountered tonight was cold and cruel, with an almost inhuman harshness in his eyes. What if he didn’t change once he got back to Norton Place? Or worse, what if he never regained his memory? She shook her head. She was being silly. Of course, he would remember, and then everything would be fine.
There was however the burning issue of Capitaine Saintclair. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. She couldn’t deny any longer that she was attracted to him. Shame heated her cheeks as she recalled how quickly she had forgotten her husband tonight in the arms of the French officer. How she yearned for him to touch and kiss her and make her body alive. She let out a sob, clenched her fist, and brought it to her mouth.
Christopher’s face had floated in her mind like a reproach when Saintclair was kissing her earlier, yet she hadn’t even torn herself away from the French officer’s embrace! She was weak and pathetic. She had to get a grip on herself and fight the attraction. Saintclair might have set her senses on fire but he did not have her heart. Her heart would always belong to Christopher.
The island looked dark and foreboding in the middle of the river, but there were still lights inside Malleval’s mansion. The young maid who had helped her get ready before opened the front door.
‘A visitor is waiting for you in the study, Madame,’ she announced
‘Who
is that?’
‘Monsieur Karloff.’
Fear tightened Marie-Ange’s chest. Karloff! The physician employed by Edmond Malleval to induce her grandmother to talk about the Cross of Life and Saint Germain. The man who had denied Malleval a Christian burial and who eagerly waited for her arrival from England…
Entirely clad in black in the manner of a priest, Karloff sat in an armchair near the fire, holding a book with long, bony hands. He appeared so absorbed in his reading he didn’t raise his head when she walked in and all she could see of his face was his sharp, beaky nose and the grey hair he wore loose and so long it brushed the pages of the book.
‘Monsieur?’ She approached cautiously, remembering Sophie’s warnings and her grandmother’s reservations.
He looked up. She hardly took in his features—the lean face, hollow cheeks and thin lips—so intense were the dark brown eyes fixed upon her.
‘Madame Norton, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I am Gustave Karloff, an old friend of Monsieur Malleval.’ He stood up and bowed in front of her before gesturing to one of the armchairs positioned near the fireplace. ‘Will you sit down?’
She couldn’t think of an excuse to refuse, so she took a seat in the armchair opposite his.
‘There is no point wasting time in formalities.’ He smiled. ‘I believe Uxeloup has already told you we are interested in an object which used to be in your family’s possession. The Cross of Life.’
‘He did indeed.’ So there it was again. The mysterious Cross of Life and its links to her family.
Karloff suddenly frowned. He bent forward and pointed to her throat, a covetous gleam in his eyes.
‘Tudieu! Your locket! It looks remarkably similar to the one Saint Germain is wearing in his portrait at Beauregard. Could I take a look at it, please?’
Marie-Ange’s response was instinctive. Her hand flew to her throat, her fingers closed protectively over the pendant, and she shook her head.
