by Marie Laval
‘I don’t need Capitaine Saintclair, Aunt Hermine,’ Marie-Ange protested. ‘I have already taken far too much of his time and release him from any obligation he mistakenly believes he has towards me.’ She tilted her chin up to look at him and added, ‘You are free to return to your dear Caroline, Capitaine.’
Saintclair put his cup down. ‘We will go to Beauregard tomorrow morning at first light.’
‘I just said I didn’t want you.’ The mulled wine was making her cheeks too hot, it was hard to pull breath into her lungs. Or was it the way he looked down at her, in total silence?
‘And I just said I was going with you,’ he said at last.
‘Very well, it is settled then.’ Hermine sighed, satisfied, oblivious to the sudden tension in the room. ‘I think we could all do with a good rest now. Where are you staying tonight, Capitaine?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. I will find a tavern in Beaujeu.’
‘Please be my guest. This is the least I can do now you’ve accepted my request to help my great-niece. I will ask Pierre to prepare a room for you. Come along, Marie-Ange,’ she said, sliding her hand under the young woman’s arm to lead her out. She obviously wanted to make sure she stayed well away from the officer. They walked up to the first floor where Hermine showed Marie-Ange into a bedroom.
‘Sleep well,’ the old lady said. ‘You will need all your strength for tomorrow.’
Marie-Ange closed the door behind her and leant against the wooden pane, all her senses alert. She was waiting for Saintclair to come up. When she heard voices in the corridor, she half-opened the door and peered outside to see which room he was going into. When the house was quiet, she tiptoed out of her room and knocked softly onto his door.
‘Capitaine.’
Saintclair appeared in the doorway. He had taken his overcoat and blue jacket off. A small bandage around his left shoulder was visible under his white shirt.
‘Is there anything the matter?’ He didn’t open the door fully.
‘Let me come in. I need to speak to you.’
He frowned. ‘I’m tired. Can this not wait until the morning?’
Why was the man so reluctant to let her in? Marie-Ange tapped her foot on the floor, impatient. ‘No, it cannot wait! There is something important I must tell you. It’s about Christopher’s mission in Lyon. Hurry or someone will hear us.’
Sainclair opened his door at last, and she slipped in. Pierre had lit a fire in the fireplace and brought up a tray with a pitcher of wine and a cup and some food. Now she was on her own with Saintclair, she was nervous and shaky. Maybe a glass of wine would soothe her nerves.
‘Could you pour a glass out for me?’ she asked.
‘Haven’t you had enough already?’ he asked, crossing his arms on his chest and leaning against the bedpost.
‘What do you care how much wine I drink?’ she retorted, annoyed.
He still didn’t move.
‘Very well, I will pour it myself.’ She walked to the table. ‘I don’t see why Caroline Dupin should be the only woman allowed to have vices,’ she muttered under her breath.
She filled the cup and raised it to her lips, but the sharpness of the wine tickled her throat and made her cough. Without a word, Saintclair pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her before leaning back against the wooden bed post. She wiped her face, cursing herself and feeling like crying for making such a display of herself.
‘Didn’t you say you had something important to tell me?’ he asked at last.
She nodded, folded the stained handkerchief, and handed it back to him.
‘The King is coming to Lyon next week to review the troops. One of Caroline’s gentlemen friends is in charge of the security and said there were rumours of an attempt on his life. He implied that Fouché would be the one most likely to mastermind such a coup.’ She paused. ‘I think Chris…Nallay’s mission in Lyon is to kill the King.’
‘I already know about the rumoured attempt on the King’s person,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ she said, slightly put out that he wasn’t more impressed by her news. ‘Why would anyone want to kill the King?’
‘To make way for Napoleon, or replace the King with someone more amenable to certain policies or politicians? Or even to discredit forever Napoleon and his followers, who knows?’ He shrugged.
‘My Christopher would never have been capable of killing the King, or anyone, in cold blood.’
Saintclair laughed bitterly. ‘Well, he was capable of stabbing me in the back. He is certainly no longer the sensitive soul you once married.’
She bowed her head. ‘That’s because he isn’t Christopher anymore…And I am sorry you got hurt.’
‘It wasn’t your fault. I was careless. I should have been prepared,’ he said with a softer voice. ‘We are caught in a frightening web of intrigues. Your husband’s involvement with Fouché…’
‘Stop calling him my husband. I told you before. Christopher Norton is dead. The man who calls himself Nallay is a stranger to me.’
She lifted her head towards him and smiled tentatively. ‘But you are right. I am frightened.’
Hugo narrowed his eyes. The way he was looking at her now reminded her of the night of the ball. Her skin tingled all over, her cheeks burned, her breathing became fast, too fast.
‘You mean you wouldn’t take Norton back even if he begged you to?’ he asked after a while.
She shook her head slowly. ‘I could never share my life with him, ever again.’
He let out a long sigh and stepped forward.
‘Now I must tell you about the Cross of Life and Arginy. I have seen terrible dangers in my dreams,’ she said, flustered from his nearness.
‘I don’t much care about dreams.’ His voice was hoarse.
He stood in front of her, so close she could feel the heat from his body. The intensity in his eyes, the tautness of his jaw warned her to keep still.
‘In fact, I never dream,’ he carried on. ‘Dreams are a waste of time. I only care about what’s real, about what I can touch, and kiss.’ He slid his finger under her chin to tilt her head up, then bent down and kissed her lips.
She pulled back.
‘How can you?’ she protested.
‘How can I…what?’ he asked, this time setting his hands on her waist and pulling her close.
She stood as still as a statue, but inside she was trembling. The burning desire his touch awakened inside her, and the need to let her feelings for him flood in, terrified her.
‘You are involved with another woman.’
‘Is that so? And who might she be?’ He lifted his hands to cup her face and stroked her cheeks, her throat, the back of her neck.
‘Caroline, of course. You two are lovers, and have been for years.’ She struggled to keep her voice steady as his fingers slid down her throat and into the opening of her shirt. She had to step away. Now.
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ His fingers caressed the hollow at the base of her throat.
‘Well, she told me about it, many…times and in…great detail,’ she stammered. ‘And tonight you were upset to…learn she had been seeing another man in her boudoir.’
Saintclair laughed. His eyes shone, warm, intense.
‘Upset? The only thing I was upset about was that the stupid woman put you in any danger. Caroline and I are history and have been for a long time. She was never more than an agreeable pastime.’
She closed her eyes a brief moment, overwhelmed by a wave of relief.
He unbuttoned the top of her shirt. ‘I have wanted you since I first laid eyes on you. I think you want me, too. So why don’t we just enjoy the moment?’
‘I’m not like you,’ she said, placing her hand on his to stop him. ‘I couldn’t just do…this, and then forget all about it. I have feelings.’
What she really meant was she loved him. She loved him and she wanted to be his, but she knew what he thought about love and women.
; ‘I have feelings too,’ he replied lightly.
She let go of his hand. His fingers stroked her throat again.
‘As I said, I want you. All of you.’
‘That isn’t the kind of feelings I mean.’ She was too hot, breathless, blood pulsed in her veins. Her body shivered, ached, and throbbed under his touch.
He put a finger of her lips. ‘Is there any other kind? Now stop talking, you’re driving me crazy.’
She knew then she was lost. Unhurriedly, he kissed her mouth as he finished unbuttoning the shirt. She let out a small gasp as he opened it to reveal her chemise, buried his face in her neck, and kissed her softly. The stubble on his cheeks scraped her skin, his warm breath tickled, and his mouth sent shivers of delight that made her body tighten and melt at the same time.
He pulled her against his chest and whispered, ‘All that matters is here and now.’
His warmth, his caresses were so tantalising she gave in with a shaky sigh. Her body moulded itself more tightly against his. She threw her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers in his soft, dark hair.
Her hand went down to his wounded shoulder.
‘Does it still hurt?’
He shrugged. ‘Sometimes. You’ll have to take my mind off it.’
She nestled against him while he encircled her waist and held her tight. He kissed her again, a little harder, and waves of pleasure carried her away once more to the marvellous place where only he had the power to take her. She saw the same longing in his eyes, caressed the outline of his face, her fingers lingering on the scar that marked one side of his face. He took her hand and brought it to his lips.
She closed her eyes. The only sounds were their breathing and the crackling of the logs in the fire place. It was as if they were alone in the world.
She threw her head back to offer her throat to his lips. Her heart beat wildly, out of control, as he pulled her chemise down, dropped it to her feet. He undid the ties of her breeches before rolling them down her hips in a slow, deliberate movement as sensual as a caress.
‘I want you naked in my arms.’
He took the last of her clothes off and held her against him, hot and shivery, tight and yielding, wanting him, needing him. She moaned when his fingers stroke the tender skin on the inside of her thighs. She parted her legs a little wider so he could touch and caress her and put an end to the ache and the need she felt deep inside. It was just the beginning. Shaking in his arms, she threw her head back. Her breasts jutted out and this time it was he who moaned as he bent down to kiss, lick, tease, trace slow circles around her erect nipples with his lips and his tongue, and then blow on the delicate, wet skin, only to start all over again.
Her breath became laboured. She arched her hips against him, wanting, needing to get closer still. He cupped her bottom and pressed her hard against him, lifting her so she could wrap her legs around his hips. He was still dressed and the feel of his shirt against her bare breasts, and his breeches rubbing against the hot, tender skin inside her legs sent long, feverish shivers all over her body.
‘Hugo,’ she gasped. There wasn’t a clear thought left in her mind. There were only feelings and sensations and overwhelming desire.
‘Hmm…I like it when you say my name.’
He let her down, and she grabbed hold of his shoulders. His hands brushed past her hips and her stomach. She was aching for him to touch her again. As if he had understood her most intimate desires, he caressed and explored, gentle and insistent in turn, arousing sensations so wild, so tormenting she cried out loud. Her legs buckled underneath her, and he caught her in his arms.
‘I must have you now or I’ll go mad,’ he said with some urgency as he lifted her up against him. He was about to carry her onto the bed when he pulled away.
‘What’s that noise?’ He froze, and his eyes focused on the window.
Outside in the night, horses neighed, men shouted and banged loudly on the castle door.
He turned to Marie-Ange. ‘Put your clothes back on. Quick! Something’s happening.’ He fastened his belt and checked his sword and his pistol and put his jacket and overcoat on.
Someone rapped on the door.
‘Capitaine, there are men outside asking for you.’ Pierre called.
Saintclair frowned, but he waited for Marie-Ange to put her shirt and breeches on before opening the door to let the old servant in.
‘Monsieur,’ Pierre was breathless. His eyes opened wide with shock when he saw Marie-Ange was there partly clothed. ‘They say they are bailiffs sent by Monsieur Malleval to take you to the debtors’ jail in Beaujeu. If you come with me now, I’ll show you the old way out of the castle, but please hurry!’
Saintclair nodded. ‘Give me a minute.’ He looked at Marie-Ange. ‘You’re coming too.’ It was not a question but a command.
Chapter Eighteen
They followed Pierre down the service staircase and along the dark and draughty corridors of the deserted servants’ quarters. Pierre’s candle flickered and threw huge shadows onto the walls.
‘In its heyday, Marzac had dozens of servants,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but there are only five of us now. This way, please.’
They were in a small parlour now. Pierre asked Saintclair to hold the candle. He lifted the corner of a large tapestry that covered the better part of the wall and disappeared behind it. There were sounds of a door being unlocked.
‘Hurry.’
Saintclair and Marie-Ange ducked under the tapestry and found themselves in another room.
‘Where does this lead?’ Saintclair looked around, holding the candle high.
‘Down to the cellars and the vineyards,’ the old man answered as he ushered them down a bare stone wall passage. ‘Not many people know about it.’
They reached a basement filled with oak barrels and wine making apparatus. Pierre pushed open a wooden door and they walked out into the night and across a cobble-stone courtyard. At the far end was a small building that looked abandoned. Pierre opened the door and led them in.
‘This was the lodge for the vineyard. It’s empty now, nobody’s been making any wine at Marzac for years.’ He stuck the candle on a tall candelabrum on the table and gestured towards a couple of rickety chairs and a straw bed tucked into the corner of the room.
‘You can wait in here until dawn. I’ll send one of the lads with your horse when it’s safe.’
Saintclair nodded to the old man. ‘What will you tell the bailiffs?’
‘That they’ve just missed you. I’ll say I heard you two planning to ride back to Lyon.’ Pierre smiled.
Marie-Ange put her hand on his arm. ‘Thank you, Pierre, for all you help. I know you tried to help my mother when Edmond Malleval took her away from the Priory. And you alerted Baldassare dei Conti, my father, a few weeks ago.’
‘These Mallevals, father and son, they were always wicked,’ the old man said, shaking his head. ‘Good night for now.’
Once alone, Marie-Ange and Saintclair stood awkwardly in front of each other. Hugo pointed to the bed. ‘You’d better get some sleep.’
She sat on the couch. It was rough and stiff with dirt and grime. Straw sprouted from the ripped cover. There was no way she would be able to sleep now, not only was the bed uncomfortable, but too many conflicting emotions raged through her. Fear, love, desire.
She watched Hugo carry out a brief inspection of the lodge and check windows and doors. Her lips were still swollen with his kisses. Her body resonated with the memory of his caresses. She hadn’t tried to stop him earlier even if he had made it quite clear he didn’t have any feelings for her. Or at least not the kind of feelings she wished for. However, even knowing he didn’t love her made no difference to her yearning for him. He, on the other hand, looked calm, almost detached, as if the feverish passion they had just shared was all but a distant memory. They were very different. She would do well to remember it, or she would get hurt.
‘Tell me what happened in Paris,’ she asked.
>
He sat down on a chair. It creaked under his weight. ‘I spoke to my colonel straight after leaving you at Caroline’s—which I’ll admit now wasn’t such a great idea after all.’ He smiled. ‘He instructed me to ride to Paris immediately and request an interview with Talleyrand.’
‘Did you meet him?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, in his office at the Hôtel Vendôme.’
He told her that the elderly, but still powerful Talleyrand hadn’t looked in the slightest fazed by his news. There were indeed reports of intense activity from Fouché’s camp to prepare the ground for Napoleon’s return. Fouché himself was under surveillance. However he still controlled a secret army of loyal agents on whom there was very little information and whose movements were almost impossible to trace.
‘Men like…Nallay,’ Saintclair finished, ‘with no past, no identity, and no country.’
Marie-Ange sighed heavily, wondering once again what could have happened to Christopher after Corunna to turn him into a spy, a ruthless killer.
‘Talleyrand said sending Napoleon to Elba had been a mistake. It was not far enough. Having the emperor so close to France was like Mont Vesuvius towering above Naples, a constant and lethal threat.’
‘What will you do if—when—Napoleon comes back?’
Saintclair sighed. ‘I served him with undying loyalty for fifteen years. Yet towards the end, even I had my doubts. There were too many deaths, too much carnage and ruin…No, I don’t want him back, not if it means that the country is engulfed in war again. But…’ He looked at Marie-Ange. ‘I may not have a choice.’
They remained silent for a while.
‘What I really want is to be free.’ His voice was so low she had to strain to hear him. ‘Free from the army, from rigid social conventions, class, and status.’
He leant towards her and searched her face. ‘Is there such a place, do you think, where a man can live his life without having to answer to anyone, where he can make his own fortune, be master of his own destiny even if he wasn’t born rich and titled?’
It was the first time he had opened his mind, his soul, to her. She took a few moments to answer. ‘I don’t know…I once read that the greatest obstacles to freedom are the ones we place upon ourselves. You say you long for freedom, but you also yearn for military honours and recognition by your superiors, otherwise you would have left the army long ago to join your father’s business.’
