My Surrender

by Connie Brockway

  “You’re right. Of course, you’re right,” Douglas said, releasing his hold on Dand and sinking back, squatting on his heels, his head bobbing up and down in manic agreement. “Of course. You can’t ask more of man than what he can stand, and Dand, he never thought all that much of our vows anyway. Did you, now?” He reached out and Dand was amazed to see a tear course down his dirty, thin face. “It’s all right, Dand. It’s all right.”

  With choked laughter that sent the nerve endings in his chest shrieking in protest, Dand swatted Douglas’s hand away. “Oh, no, you great bloody saint,” he said. “You’ll not be besting me this day.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t tell them a bloody thing.”

  24

  Comte St. Lyon’s castle, Scotland

  August 14, 1806

  “MISS NASH?” St. Lyon stood at the bottom of the stairs peering through the haze that crept in every evening and hung over the courtyard. Charlotte, seated with a book open but unread on her lap, reluctantly lifted her head.

  Yesterday, amidst a flurry of bashful stammers and downcast glances, she had told the comte that the cool evening air aided in reducing the headaches that always accompanied this delicate time of month. Gentleman that he thought himself, he’d since indulged her desire to be alone, though she often spotted him watching her through one of the windows that looked down over the courtyard. Her relief at being able to escape her role as his potential mistress, even for a few short evening hours, was profound.

  Ever since Dand and she…ever since then, she had managed to avoid any prolonged contact with the comte. Damn Dand and his possessive proclamations anyway. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

  She no longer knew what to believe. While her mind insisted on clear-sighted objectivity, her heart told her something decidedly different. She would have thought it easy to ignore that fallible organ’s whispered suggestion that not everything was as it seemed. A woman in her precarious position could not afford to disregard facts. Certainly a spy and a thief, which she was, could not risk her life on emotions born during a torrid physical encounter.

  But they hadn’t been born then. They had been born long before…

  Nonsense. She had a job to do, a mission vital to the lives of countless others.

  “Yes, Comte,” she called back. “I was enjoying the air. So soothing. Won’t you join me?”

  The comte ascended the steps and made his way across the graveled drive to the marble bench. Dusk sifted fine mauve shadows over the courtyard, making colors dimmer, softer and shapes indistinct and insubstantial. Little curls of mist scattered at his approach.

  “I shall never get used to how cold and wet your country is,” St. Lyon declared, stopping in front of her. “In the morning, at dusk, in the cities and in the country, this perennial damp. Fogs and mists and rains. Now France, especially the southern part, where my family once ruled, is a land of sun and brilliance.”

  “You must miss it.”

  “Yes,” St. Lyon said, taking a seat beside her. “But someday the wheel of power will turn again and those whom I have kept as friends will welcome my return. Until then there is beauty in this country which compensates for its climate.”

  He turned his gaze on her, leaving her no doubt as to his meaning. Charlotte dutifully simpered. A wolfish look appeared on his face. He leaned forward. “Are you…feeling any better?” he asked urgently.

  “Some.” She touched her stomach gingerly.

  He frowned and straightened.

  “The cool mist is most restorative.”

  “I am glad.” He didn’t sound glad; he sounded petulant. “I note that Monsieur Rousse is no longer troubling you with his presence.”

  “Thank heaven.” Where was Dand? Though she saw him at meals, he was always seated well away from her and as she had taken herself out of the social activities, she did not see him otherwise.

  “He still annoys you,” St. Lyon said with satisfaction.

  She nodded with every appearance of sullenness. “Excessively.”

  He hesitated a few seconds and then, in exaggeratedly casual tones, said, “Tell me, my dear, what do you really know about Monsieur Rousse?”

  She frowned. “I know he hasn’t a feather to fly with. He is French. And you tell me his family has some sort of exalted connection to the Bourbons, a claim which I find frankly suspect. Why do you ask?”

  St. Lyon watched her intently as she answered. What was this all about?

  “Oh, nothing. And tell me again, how was it that you met him?”

  “Oh, years ago when I was just a child. His family, at least the people he was traveling with, were in Bristol at the same time as my own. We had rented a house for the summer and his, I suppose it must have been his entourage, occupied one nearby. He was quite exotic and I was quite easily impressed.”

  “And you met him again in London?”

  “He found me,” she said with sulky dignity. “Unfortunately, for a while I only saw him with the eyes of the gullible and overly romantic child I once was.”

  “Did he ever mention why he was in London?”

  Every nerve in Charlotte jumped to full attention. These were more than a jealous would-be lover’s questions about his competition. She lifted her chin. “He said it was because of me.”

  “That was the only reason he gave?”

  Charlotte turned a cold gaze on St. Lyon, playing the role of overconfident beauty to the hilt. “You suggest he would need another?”

  The comte, whose appreciation of the female intellect had never been great, accepted her childish pique with good grace. No, that wasn’t exactly right, Charlotte realized, he accepted it with relief. What did he suspect about Dand? For clearly he suspected something. And why? Had he seen Dand on one of his hunts? Or had someone else?

  He laughed indulgently. “No, no, my dear,” he reassured her, taking her hand and patting it comfortingly. “You are more than enough reason for any man to make any number of arduous and dangerous journeys. I was just curious, was all. Now let me tell you something that will delight you.”

  Charlotte sniffed, allowing herself to be cajoled. “What?”

  “My man, Rawsett, arrived this afternoon. We shall hold my little auction the day after next and then everyone will be leaving. Except, of course, for you and I.” His gaze slipped lingeringly down her face and throat to her bosom. She half expected him to wet his lips with his tongue.

  “Good!” she said and then, “When shall I meet Mister Rawsett?”

  St. Lyon laughed. “You little wench. You really want to meet what Rawsett brings with him, the royal jewels.” He shook his head. “I am afraid that will not be possible. No, do not ask. You aren’t even supposed to know they’re here! Everything is most sub-rosa. Some of these men could lose their very lives if it was known what they were here for. Royalists are notorious zealots. They would see anyone who even attempted to purchase the royal jewels as a traitor.”

  Charlotte gave him credit. He had given some thought to coming up with an explanation of why she couldn’t play with the nonexistent gems.

  “They needn’t know,” she suggested slyly.

  “No, I dare not risk it,” he chuckled. “I was most indiscreet and I know you would not like me to get into any trouble on your account. Besides, I have other jewels at my disposal that will grace that lovely throat just as well.”

  Dinner that evening proved a tense affair. St. Lyon’s colleague, Lord Rawsett, sent his regrets with the excuse that the journey had exhausted him. The guests, having apparently been apprised of the fact that the auction was imminent, eyed each other distrustfully. When they did deign to speak with one another, they did so with ill-concealed impatience. To a man, it had become obvious that they were now doing little more than marking time.

  The only exceptions were the women, who, not being privy to the importance of what was about to occur, seemed put out that the party, which had been none too lively to begin with,
had further degenerated. Indeed, they had grown so bored with their tight-lipped and sullen companions that in desperation they finally turned to one another for conversation which, Charlotte was amused to see, was no different than any other group of ill-acquainted females, centering on the newest fashions and whether or not such and such a milliner was worth her fee. However, Charlotte—coming as she did from a genteel and well-heeled background and therefore having entered their profession not out of necessity but for other, unfathomable reasons—they viewed as outré and bizarre. They did not invite her to join their discussions. Nor did she have any desire to be included.

  She had her own concerns.

  Upon seeing her tonight, St. Lyon had apparently decided that little interlude in the courtyard was to be the precursor to a more intimate association—regardless of the time of month. As luck would have it, she was wearing the most extreme of the gowns Ginny had lent her. The delicate ivory tissue fit like a sheath of honeyed cream over her body, molding to the swells of her breasts and clinging to the dip of her waist and the slender muscles of her thighs, offering a visual repast for any gentleman willing to partake. St. Lyon partook with relish.

  He sat her at his right side and spent most of the meal ignoring the gentleman on his left, whispering in her ear, his gaze sliding with heated interest over her person, his fingertips brushing her arm or her legs far too often for it to be accidental. He even insisted on feeding her little morsels from his plate, extolling his chef’s talents as all the while his gaze lingered on the manner in which her mouth opened to receive the bits of fish and creamed mutton he offered her.

  She played her part. She simmered and bit her lip and laughed at his sallies and endured his touch. But even though it was St. Lyon’s gaze that stripped her naked, it was Dand’s gaze she felt. He had been seated far down the table on the side opposite her. He wasn’t eating. He had pushed his chair away from the table and slouched down in it, one arm flung along the back, his other hand idly twirling the stem of his wineglass.

  He refused to talk, too, playing the surly cast-aside lover to the hilt. Whatever comments his dinner companions made to him, he ignored. His attention, like his dark gaze, was fixed on St. Lyon. And her.

  She had to find some way to tell Dand about the questions St. Lyon had asked regarding him. She must put him on guard. But with the comte’s attention so firmly fixed, she could not think of how to pass word to him. Perhaps when the gentlemen retired for their after-dinner drink she might send Lizette to Dand’s room. The maid had proved useful. She did not ask uncomfortable questions but did as she was bid without hesitation.

  Her plan, alas, was short-lived. As soon as dinner ended, St. Lyon stood up and raised his glass. “Sirs, our time together grows short. What say we dispense with our nightly port?” His gaze flickered playfully toward Charlotte. “I, for one, have a far more pleasant pursuit to occupy my evening.”

  She tried to return his unctuous smile. The sound of Dand’s chair banging against the wall brought her head swinging round just in time to see his broad-shouldered figure striding from the room.

  “Ah. I see Monsieur Rousse is retiring now,” St. Lyon said mildly. “An excellent notion.”

  St. Lyon would be here at any moment. She didn’t have time to waste on girlish vapors. This might be the only chance she had to warn Dand of the comte’s suspicions.

  “Lizette, I need you to do something for me. Something very important,” she said, starting to scrawl a note. “As soon as I finish, I need you to take this—”

  A loud knock interrupted her.

  “Charlotte. It is me, St. Lyon. Let me in.” His peremptory tone brooked no delay.

  Damnation. Her gaze met Lizette’s anxious one. There was no time to finish her note. She nodded at her maid. Drying her damp palms on her skirt, she waited as Lizette unlatched the door. St. Lyon entered, barely glancing at the maid.

  “You can go now,” he told Lizette. “And you needn’t return this evening.”

  Bobbing a hurried curtsy and with one last worried glance at Charlotte, Lizette fled, closing the door behind her.

  Charlotte empathized. She turned her back on the comte and began to casually unclasp her pearl ear bobs. “I am not sure I appreciate your tone, Comte,” she said coolly. “Nor your appearance here, uninvited. We have no relationship which should lead you to believe you can make free with my room or make assumptions regarding how I choose to spend my time.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him coming toward her. He stopped directly behind her. In the mirror she saw him take from his pocket a heavy emerald pendant strung on a gold chain. “You know, it has always been your arrogance coupled with your immodesty that attracted me. So proud and so bold. But now is not the time to treat me so high-handedly.”

  “I might say the same.” She refused to give him the satisfaction of turning. Instead she watched as he slipped the pendant around her neck. She tilted her head, coolly examining the flash of the emeralds against her white skin, as if completely indifferent.

  His hand fell on her shoulder, the blunt fingers curling around the pendant, his knuckles pressing into the soft flesh of her bosom. A shiver of distaste raced through her. He bent his head and kissed her on the side of the throat. His mouth was hot and moist. She closed her eyes, preparing to endure.

  “Get away from her.”

  Her heart leapt at the sound of Dand’s voice. She swung around. Dand stood just inside the door, his stance wide, his hands curled lightly into fists at his side. Her gaze flew to St. Lyon.

  With an odd smile, he slowly turned to face his adversary. “Ah, Monsieur Rousse, timely as ever.”

  Dand ignored him. His eyes were fixed on Charlotte. “Really, how could you think I would let another man take my place?” he asked, his tone amused and desolate. “I told you, you are mine. I meant it.”

  Amazing, terrible, so wrong in this place and at this time, yet her heart awoke with undeniable joy and swelled, filling her.

  “A fool for love,” St. Lyon said and brought his hands up, applauding lightly. “And, God knows, there is no greater fool than that. Gaspard! Armand! Jacques!”

  The bedroom door burst open and three huge men rushed into the room, grabbing hold of Dand’s arms. He whipped around and heeled back, jamming his elbow hard into one of his attacker’s chests and doubling him up. He snapped his head back, the contact of his skull against the face of the man behind him making a sickening crack! as blood spurted from the Frenchman’s nose.

  The man swore but somehow managed to seize Dand’s arms, locking them behind him and twisting savagely as the third man shifted to the front of Dand and pummeled his midsection with a series of savage blows, dropping him to his knees.

  It was over in a matter of seconds. The man Dand had felled staggered to his feet and with a curse, smashed his fist hard across Dand’s face. He crumpled senseless in his assailants’ grip.

  “Comte!” Charlotte stumbled to her feet. “What is the meaning of this?”

  St. Lyon, a look of horrid satisfaction on his face, glanced over at her. “Your lover, my dear, is a thief. Or rather, a would-be thief.”

  “I don’t understand.” She could not tear her gaze from Dand hanging limp in the rough clasp of St. Lyon’s lackeys. He was breathing hard, his head moving as though he attempted to clear his thoughts.

  “Rawsett identified him. I told you he was a well-informed man. This is not Andre Rousse. He is a thief, sent here to steal my prize. Quite a catch, though. He should be a font of interesting information. Expensive information.”

  “What are you going to do with him?” Charlotte demanded.

  St. Lyon smiled. “Nothing that needs concern you, my dear. And for that you may be eternally grateful. But thank you for your aid in helping me secure him.”

  Dand raised his head. A trickle of blood fell from his broken lip. “If you think I’m a thief, St. Lyon, why didn’t you just take me at dinner?”

  “My guests are fr
etful and anxious enough as it is. And you, my cohort advised me, are most formidable. I should hate to have had you injure one of my little pigeons or scatter the rest of the flock in some spectacular sort of brawl. So I simply set you up, mon ami.

  “Regardless what your mission here, it would take a blind man not to see how Miss Nash interfered with your concentration. My God, man.” St. Lyon shook his head. “Have you no pride? You fairly make me blush the way you watch her. Only a man in love looks at a woman so.

  “So, I decided to use this vulnerability to my advantage. I rather pawed Miss Nash throughout dinner, then came here to her room with my retainers following close, but not too close, behind. You reacted exactly as I expected you would.”

  Dear God, she had been the author of Dand’s capture. Because he could not do what she and he had decided so many weeks ago must be done. He could not let her become St. Lyon’s mistress, and now he stood in grave danger.

  Fool! she castigated herself savagely. Selfish, lovesick idiot! She had actually felt joy when he had appeared. As though he was some sort of knight and she was a princess. She had wanted him to rescue her, to claim her for his own. And now he could well die for it and it would all be because of her.

  St. Lyon turned to her. “Again, my thanks, my dear. Unfortunately, I think that I will be occupied for the rest of the evening. But then, I hope you do not think I am such a brute I would actually force myself on you? It was but an act for your friend’s benefit.”

  She had to do something. But what? It would do Dand no good if St. Lyon suspected she loved him or even cared for him.

  She walked over to where Dand stood on wobbly legs, his arms twisted at a painful angle behind him, and stopped directly before him.

  “Friend?” she sneered. “He is no friend of mine.” She turned as if in sudden realization. “Why, that is why you were asking me questions about him this afternoon!”