Hostage to Love

by Maggi Andersen

  With a gurgle of delight Henrietta leapt into his arms. He swung her off her feet, his lips seeking hers and kissed her thoroughly. She thrilled at the touch of his mouth on hers and never wanted him to stop.

  “I was lost from the first moment I saw you on that balcony,” he said when they finally drew apart. “Heaven help me, it was all I could do not to climb up to you.”

  She laughed. “Of course, I’ll marry you, darling Christian.” How bittersweet it was. To have found love but not be sure, they would have a future together.

  “We must enjoy what we have right now,” she said.

  She leaned down and brushed a flower from his thigh. “You have ruined your clothes.”

  He caught her hand. “Not my best attire, I’m afraid.”

  “You would look handsome in any clothes.”

  “You will look delicious without them.” With skillful fingers, he traced a line down to the hollow at the base of her throat.

  She held her breath. Would he touch the rise of her breasts above her bodice? She desperately wanted him to. Her ordered life in England with all its rules seemed far away. They inhabited a very different world. The garish green gown came from the theatre, a world free of society’s strictures. What if she died before she and Christian could be together?

  She placed his broad palm against her bosom. “Make love to me.”

  He pulled his hand away as if stung. “I will make love to you, sweetheart. When it’s right. Not under these conditions.”

  “Why not now? Who knows what the future will bring?” She took hold of his lapel. Stared up into his concerned gray-blue eyes. “I don’t want to die without experiencing love.”

  He traced her bottom lip with a finger. Shook his head with regret. “It would be a brief affair, my love. Your father would slice me in two before the day was out.”

  “He doesn’t have to know.” Her sweeping arm took in their surroundings, the flowering fruit trees, the green fields dotted with ruby flowers, the clear, slate blue sky. She clutched his waistcoat. “Christian, what better place to share our love?”

  “Have a care, Henrietta! It’s not so easy for me to resist you.” He unraveled her fingers from his coat and backed away with a nervous laugh. “A better place would be the marriage bed, for a lady I greatly respect. Now please come inside with me. I have important work to do.”

  He wasn’t rakish at all. Henrietta shrugged. “You have no romance in your soul. I’m not sure I will marry you.”

  He caught her up again. Kissed her until she was limp. There was a smile in his eyes when he released her. “I don’t?”

  “Perhaps a little.” She raised her face for another kiss.

  They drew apart reluctantly and walked arm in arm to the house. With a loving glance they joined the others gathered in the parlor where François was holding court.

  Henrietta had almost forgotten the fierce indignation she experienced at what she saw as François’ betrayal. Were those men chouans? Or did François intend to betray them to the revolutionary army, or the sans culottes, the violent peasants who killed indiscriminately?

  François talked about what he envisaged was France’s future. He revealed no sorrow for the loss of his brother, or concern for Verity’s feelings. She didn’t like him and wished she knew what motivated him.

  Verity would help her.

  With that thought, any distrust for the actress fell away. By bringing Christian to them, and revealing the truth to her father, Verity had proved herself to be a trusted friend. The pistol that Henrietta had discovered aboard the marquess’ boat had distracted her from the significance of the empty laudanum bottle. It was possible Verity had drugged the marquess to save them both from his advances. One day she would ask her. But not now.

  She had trusted François when they first came here but no longer. If the fortune teller, was to be believed, then he must be the one. She dismissed Christian’s demand for her to leave it all to the men. Let them plan and execute their escape while she discovered more about François. She’d wait for a chance to search the library where he spent most of his time. A room no one was permitted to enter.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Henrietta wiped tears on her sleeve as she chopped onion. Beside her Verity pounded the dough. Were all French women good cooks? She had no desire to learn. Her father and Christian had closeted themselves in Philippe’s room, deep in discussion. If Verity disliked being excluded, she didn’t show it. She wiped her cheek with a floury hand and seemed to enjoy preparing the food.

  François was framed in the window, absorbed in weeding his cabbage patch. There might not be a better opportunity to investigate his library. Henrietta considered telling Verity what she planned to do, but dismissed it, afraid that she would try to stop her. He was her uncle after all, and she might be fond of him, although Henrietta doubted anyone could be.

  While Verity stirred soup over the fire, Henrietta suggested picking flowers for the table.

  “Flowers?” Verity laughed. “I believe you’re in love, Henrietta.”

  Henrietta gave a quick grin as she opened the back door. She made sure François was crouching among his vegetables then darted around the corner, snatching up a handful of lavender from the garden before entering through the front door. In the booklined room, the secretaire stood open and littered with papers. She slipped inside. With an eye on the door she picked up his diary and flicked through it, opening pages at random. Written in his spidery hand, it was difficult to read the French words. She soon became absorbed in his chronicling of the Revolution, from its beginning to now, where he saw failure at every turn. He believed the king would soon be executed and agreed it was the only way to protect France from falling under the ancien regime again.

  Frustrated, Henrietta struggled decipher his meaning It appeared that François was staunchly in favor of the new regime.

  A slip of paper fell from inside the diary cover. She pounced on the letter from the Comité de Surveillance. It was a request for François to write a manifesto. Henrietta’s fingers trembled, the paper shaking in her hand. She sensed someone behind her and turned.

  “Disgraceful girl!” Francois thundered from the doorway. “Have you no manners? How dare you go through my papers?”

  Behind him, her father and Christian paused on the stairs.

  “I found this.” Henrietta thrust the letter at him. “You are in cahoots with the Jacobins!”

  Françoise took the paper from her. “I never claimed to be a monarchist. In fact, I have never attempted to hide my beliefs from any of you.” He turned as Anthony and Christian entered the room with Verity, wide-eyed, behind them. “This is the thanks I get. I’ve taken you in, housed and fed you, while trying to find those who can help you.”

  He thrust the letter at her father. “You may read it. I have nothing to hide.”

  Silence fell in the room as her father glanced at it. “It’s not my right to question your beliefs, François.” He handed it back. “You have been an excellent host, placing your life in danger for us, and we are grateful for it.”

  Mollified, François nodded.

  Her father took Henrietta by the arm. “We will talk later, but now will enjoy the meal Verity has cooked and our kind host has provided for us.”

  Shocked that her father trusted François’ motives without question, Henrietta allowed herself to be led to the dining table. It seemed she’d forgotten her manners. She refused to meet Christian’s searching gaze over the table. Conversation fell away as they ate their onion soup and the delicious cheese and mushroom tart and peach pie that followed.

  Time dragged with each metallic clunk of the hall clock. Henrietta wanted to flee. She could hardly swallow a morsel. When at last the men left the room, she murmured to Verity that she would help her later and rushed out into the twilight. She shivered as a chilly breeze off the river curled around her. It did serve to cool her flushed cheeks. She was unused to feeling so alone. She’d been supported and love
d all her life. Now no one took her side, not even her father. She rubbed her arms, mortified. Wasn’t it right to question everything?

  * * *

  When Anthony murmured a suggestion in Verity’s ear, she smiled, and they stole away from the house in the dark. Hidden behindBehind the copse of beech trees, he drew her close. She listened to his heart beat, calm and strong.

  “Have you forgiven me, Anthony?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. Let’s not mention it again, sweetheart.”

  “You trust me?”

  “With my life. You’ve saved it once, have you not?” He laid his cheek against her hair. “But should we trust your uncle?”

  “He and father were never close. They disagreed on many things. He wasn’t surprised when I told him of Papa’s death, or particularly sorry.”

  She shivered.

  “Are you cold?”

  “I’m confused and unnerved. I brought you here to what I thought was safety, and now I don’t know what to think. Henrietta was right to question him. Someone should. But François would have given us up to the authorities if that’s what he intended, wouldn’t he?”

  “Unless he’s waiting for someone. Who could that be?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m afraid.”

  Anthony tipped her face up to his. In the dark, she failed to read his expression. At the touch of his lips and his clever hands on her body, she lost herself in the sensations he aroused. While Anthony made love to her, her fears for tomorrow lessened. She would deal with the loneliness when he was gone from her life. He must pick up the threads of his life back in England while she must try to make a life for herself here.

  She could never return to London. The Marquess of Ramsbotham wouldn’t hesitate to smear her name. Few would take her side against him. Once, society got wind of it, she would be labeled a courtesan. And she refused to embarrass Anthony, or upset Henrietta, in her first Season. She would not!

  * * *

  Christian went in search of Henrietta. He found her leaning against a gnarled old oak, staring up at the blanket of stars. “That’s Venus.” He pointed to the star, a brilliant glow in the sparkling arc of sky above them.

  “It’s the brightest.” Henrietta kept her distance, obviously still upset by what had happened. “Do you condemn me for searching François papers?”

  “No. And neither does anyone else. But we had to be seen to take his side.”

  She sighed. “Can’t we leave this place? I hate it here.”

  “Soon, sweetheart.” He placed an arm around her shoulders. He longed to make everything right for her. A young woman should never be burdened like this. He breathed in her delicate perfume as her slender form leaned against him. He longed to make love to her.

  “We are waiting for François to do as he promised and help us. And every day we delay gives Philippe a better chance.”

  She sighed. “François is taking an enormous risk in sheltering us. Why? Verity is his niece, but she’s French. And what about that letter?”

  He stroked her arm. “Your father and I are acting on it.”

  “How?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “So, you understand why I did it?”

  “We do, Henrietta.”

  She turned to face him. “I don’t think Papa does.”

  “He’s proud of you. He loves you dearly.” He hated to see her hurt and confused; she was such a brave young woman. “You’re like that star, Venus.” He nodded toward the sky, watching her face dappled by moonlight. Her full mouth looked bruised and vulnerable. “You shine brighter than anyone around you.”

  “Do I?” She fingered the cleft in his chin.

  He caught her hand and kissed it. “You are loved,” he murmured.

  “Oh, Christian. I love you.” Her voice was just a sigh. His hands slid around her slender diaphragm, her heart beating fast beneath his fingers while he fought to keep a cool head. Her firm, unfettered breasts pressed against him, sending a frisson of lust darting through his veins. He wanted to ease her down onto the grass and make endless love to her.

  “Let’s go back inside,” he said his voice tight.

  She took his hand and smiled, love and trust in her eyes, and he knew he had made the right decision.

  Anthony and Verity reached the cottage door at the same time, disheveled and flushed.

  “I’ll go and talk to Philippe,” Christian said with a twinge of envy.

  * * *

  Henrietta drew Verity aside before they followed the men inside. “Are you angry with me for searching François papers?”

  “No, but I cannot back you in this, Henrietta. François is my uncle. When you return to England, he is the only family I have left.”

  Henrietta stared at her. “I thought you would come with us.”

  “I intend to remain in France.”

  Her voice was so soft it seemed to fade on the breeze. Henrietta wondered what it cost her to say it. Verity did not want to stay here, of that she was certain. She doubted her father would leave Verity to face this dangerous regime. Henrietta wished to defend her father, and persuade Verity to come. Instead, she surprised herself by holding her tongue as she followed Verity into the house. Perhaps she was learning discretion. And her father didn’t need her help, he was perfectly capable of getting his own way.

  Someone shook Henrietta’s shoulder. She emerged groggily from a deep sleep. Moonlight shone through the window, sketching the room in silver. Her father leaned over her, his words bringing her awake with a jolt. “We leave tonight.”

  “Where—”

  His hand covered her mouth in warning. He placed some clothes beside her. “Put these on. Dress quickly and come out to the front garden. As quietly as you can.”

  Henrietta leapt up. The other bed was empty. “Where is Verity?” she whispered, but her father had gone.

  She put the clothes on in the dark, then crept down the hall, reassured by François’ snores as she passed his room. The parlor was empty.

  Outside the cottage, the men stood waiting. Philippe sat on the step, his head lowered, his hands resting on his knees.

  “Where is Verity?” Henrietta whispered again. “She is coming? You do intend to bring her with us?”

  “I can’t find her.” Her father stared into the dark. “She disappeared after giving me the clothes. I’ll go look for her. Wait here.”

  “Where are we going?” Henrietta asked Christian. She cast an uneasy glance at Philippe. “And by what means?”

  “François’ sailing boat,” Christian said. “We’ll sail it to Le Havre.”

  “Won’t we be stopped?”

  “The National Guard mans a fort downriver. Once we get past it, we should be safe.”

  She did not believe him. They would not be safe until they reached England. And England seemed a long, long, way away.

  Her father returned. “I can’t find her anywhere.”

  “She told me she wouldn’t come with us,” Henrietta said.

  He cursed under his breath, words Henrietta had never heard him say.

  “We can’t wait if we are to pass that fort before news of our escape reaches them,” Christian said.

  “You’re right,” her father said. “Let’s go.”

  Christian helped Philippe to his feet. Henrietta followed them out of the garden gate onto the lane that led to the river. Was Verity hiding? If only she’d tried to persuade her to come with them. She wasn’t safe here with her uncle.

  The moon sailed out from behind a cloud and showered them in silvery light.

  Henrietta stared. The men wore the bonnet rouge, the red woolen caps of the sans-culottes and had scarlet sashes around their waists. She looked down at the peasant skirt and blouse she had pulled on in the dark; put a hand to the cap covering her hair. A good disguise, but would it fool anyone?

  François’ small sailing boat was moored near the bank. They waded out to it and helped Philippe into the tiny cabin.

  �
�I’m going back to get Verity.” Anthony jumped overboard. “Give me twenty minutes. If I don’t return, leave without me.”

  “Papa, no!” Horrified, Henrietta whispered into the dark. He didn’t answer. She watched his shadowy form as he left the water and disappeared. She turned to Christian.

  “We can’t go without him. I won’t.”

  “Of course not. We’ll wait,” Christian said.

  She couldn’t bear it. What if he couldn’t find Verity? What if something happened to him? Henrietta stifled a sob and hurried over to him. He enveloped her in his arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Anthony ran back to the cottage. He opened the gate and stole inside. A flash of color in the moonlight. Verity! She darted from the trees and ran across the grass toward the cottage.

  He sprinted and got to her before she reached it, caught her by the waist almost wrenching her off her feet. She struggled and tried to pull away from him.

  Candlelight lit up the second story window.

  “No time for this,” Anthony whispered. He picked Verity up. As she kicked and struggled, he hoisted her over his shoulder and ran with her down the garden path, then turned into the lane. “Brute! Release me!” she pummeled his back with her fists. “I want to stay in France.”

  He patted her derriere. “No, you don’t.”

  “Mon dieu! Let me go, Anthony.”

  “You can’t remain here. It’s not safe.”

  “Actresses are recognized as citizens in France, what am I in your country? A celebrity courtesan.”

  “You will be my wife.”

  She took a gulp of air. “You are mad! I cannot marry you.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  She wriggled so hard Anthony put her down. The cottage door opened, and François’ appeared, holding up a tin lantern. Perhaps he was rising early to light the fire. He would not yet be aware they had gone.

  “Are you there?”

  “Who is he calling?” Anthony asked. “It can’t be us.”