by Ruth Owen
“Indeed,” Connor commented, looking far too calm for Juliana’s liking. “And exactly what will you tell them? That their guest of honor, one of England’s most worshiped and triumphant heroes, is really a beggar boy who got caught with his hand in the till? Do you think Morrow or his friends will thank you for the knowledge? Do you think the highly placed officials who have spent so much time and trouble to bring me here will thank you?”
Juliana swallowed. “ ’Tis the truth.”
Connor leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “No, my innocent, ’tis war, and truth is always one of the first casualties. The Admiralty wouldn’t care if I had robbed a dozen men and murdered a dozen others. I am their victor, their conquering champion, their highly publicized and carefully promoted hero of the hour. The few who remember me in Whitehall have already been cautioned to keep silent about my past. If they’d known you would be here tonight, you would have been told the same.”
“I would not have agreed,” she said firmly.
“You will agree. Not because it is right, but because no one wants to hear anything else. They don’t give a damn about who I was—they only care that I am winning battles in a war where others are winning too few. Right now England needs all of her heroes, Juliana. Even tin-plated ones like me.”
She wanted to tell him he was wrong. She wanted to scream it. But his winter gaze bored into her, freezing her speech, her breath, her thoughts. She looked in his eyes for a trace of warmth, for the bright humor that had once overflowed from his soul. She saw only ice and desolation. For the first time she looked at him without the memories of the past, seeing the harsh, unforgiving set of his jaw, the bitter line of his mouth, the red, livid scar that cut his cheek from his left eye to his throat. She wondered how he’d gotten that scar. She wondered if he’d killed the man who gave it to him. If he’d killed …
This man wore Connor’s face. He had Connor’s memories. Once he’d even borne Connor’s name. But the pitiless eyes that riveted hers were the eyes of a stranger. Suddenly she was aware of the strength in the hands that held her foot, how they could snap her ankle like a bit of kindling. She was alone in a deserted hallway with a powerful, dangerous man, out of the earshot of anyone who might help her, and incapable of running away. She was at the mercy of a man who had no mercy.
“My dear, there you are!”
Commodore Jolly bounded down the hallway with Meg, Morrow, Renquist, and a man carrying a physician’s satchel. Relief poured through Juliana, until she remembered her immodest pose. Hastily she pulled back her foot and was surprised to find the slipper back in place and her skirt discreetly arranged around her ankle. She glanced at Connor, but he was already on his feet with his hands clasped behind him.
Meg reached her first. “You poor darling. Are you all right?”
“I am fine,” Juliana assured her, and twirled her foot as proof. “Captain Re … that is, Captain Gabriel was most helpful.”
Was that a flicker of gratitude she saw in his face? She couldn’t be sure, for no sooner had the words left her mouth than her view of Connor was blotted out by the solicitous Lord Renquist. “My deawr, I was so dweadfully wowwied for you.”
“So was I,” Mr. Hamilton stated emphatically as he pushed in beside Lord Renquist.
“And I,” chorused another one of her suitors.
Suddenly the narrow hallway was stuffed with people. Juliana pressed back against the stairs, struggling to find the grace to deal with both the embarrassment of attention and with the less than gentle ministrations of the physician. She tried to catch a glimpse of Connor, but he had disappeared. A few minutes later she heard someone in the crowd mention that the captain had left Morrow House entirely. The man had gone without so much as a by-your-leave. Not that she expected one. Not that she wanted one.
Finally, with the commodore’s assistance, she was able to make her way through the bevy of ardent suitors and limp to the carriage. She settled against the brocade cushions, with the concerned Jolly sitting across from her and Meg’s arm clasped protectively around her shoulders, and watched as Morrow House faded into the shadows. The pain in her foot faded as well—by morning it would be quite fit to walk on.
In time, she told herself, this night would become no more than a curious memory in an otherwise sane and pleasant life, a life that did not include the disreputable Connor Reed. He would return to the sea, and she would return to her parties, picnics, and country weekends. Their worlds were as far apart as heaven and Hades. It was highly unlikely that she would ever see him again.
She clutched the carriage’s door handle, determined to take pleasure in the thought of never seeing Connor again. Just as she was determined to ignore the ache dial had suddenly twisted her heart.
He’d walked for hours. With his shoulders hunched against the night damp, he’d wandered through the dark streets like a ship without a compass, not caring where he was bound. He walked past shop windows without a look, traveled over the Thames bridges without seeing the eddying river beneath, passed the glorious facades of Mayfair and the rickety hovels of the East End with the same lack of interest. Somewhere after midnight it began to drizzle, but he hardly noticed that, either. It wasn’t until dawn’s first light that he turned his steps toward the London docks and his ship.
She should not have been at Morrow’s. Weeks ago he’d learned that Lord Albany was in the Caribbean. He’d expected Juliana to be with him. Or away in the country. He’d expected her to be anywhere but at a party of fops and dandies, in the company of a simpering lord, wearing a dress that might have looked fine on some, but left far too little of her figure to the imagination—
“Hell,” he growled as he slicked back his rain-damp hair. Four years ago she’d turned her back on him, just as everyone else had. He had to remember that. Even if her skin still smelled like summer. Even if the memories they’d shared had made him smile for the first time in only God knew how long. Even if the edge of fear he’d seen in her eyes had made him feel ashamed of the man he’d become, the man he’d had to become in order to survive.
Protecting Juliana wasn’t his business anymore. Protecting his own skin was. He was walking a tightrope as it was, and the last thing he needed was to start worrying about a woman he hadn’t thought of in four years. Well, perhaps not in four years, but at least a year. Well, over a month. “Bloody hell.”
He reached the Upper Pool, the stretch of the Thames below Tower Bridge where ships had docked since Roman times. He walked across the wide docks to where his ship dipped and rolled gracefully against the pier—the sleek, shadowy lady that had become the only place he could even begin to call home. He walked up the gently swaying gangway and waved to the solitary lookout, then climbed down the narrow plank ladder that led to the captain’s quarters. Wearily, he pushed open the door to the dark cabin and headed for the wall berth, pausing only to kick off his wet boots before he fell onto the covers fully clothed. At least he could grab a couple of hours of sleep before he met with his partner. And if he was lucky it would be a dreamless sleep, where he wouldn’t have to think about sunset hair, or sea green eyes, or that long-ago time when his future had stretched out before him like a boundless, sun-swept ocean—
Connor’s thoughts froze as he heard the tiny scrape of a boot against the wooden floor-planks. Christ! He bolted to his feet and leapt for the door, but it was already too late. Before he’d taken a step, his legs were swept out from under him. He toppled backward, hitting the floor with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. He landed a hard kick against some part of his assailant’s anatomy, and was rewarded by a raw curse. Connor started to launch another lack, but his attacker dropped down beside him and pressed a knife against his throat.
“One move, mon ami, and you are a dead man.”
Connor swallowed—a difficult thing to do with cold steel biting into his flesh. “So … you intend to kill me?”
“Absolument,” his attacker promised. “Such an imbécile does not deserve
to live. He does not search his quarters. He does not check to see if his door has been tampered with. He does not even fight a candle! Even for an English he is a fool.”
“Perhaps,” Connor said slowly. “Then again, perhaps I’m not so much a fool as you think.”
“Ha!” His assailant’s mustache bristled with irritation. “Brave words, English, but I am the one who holds the knife. Give me one reason why I should not slit your throat right no—”
The Frenchman’s words died as he felt the nose of a pistol pressed into his gut. “Merde.” He rolled back on his haunches and glared fiercely at Connor as he stuck his knife back in its sheath. “This time you are lucky, English.”
Connor sat up and rubbed the bruise on his backside where he’d hit the floor, feeling far from lucky. “Honestly, Raoul, couldn’t you have just reminded me to check my cabin in the future instead of attacking me?”
Raoul St. Juste, vicomte d’Aubigny-sur-mer rose to his feet with all the grace of his aristocratic ancestors, then gave a shrug with all their indifference. “Ah, but where is the sport in that? Besides, now you shall think twice when entering seemingly deserted quarters, even if they are your own. N’est-ce pas?”
Connor grimaced. He hated it when Raoul was right, and in the three years he’d known him, the Frenchman had rarely been wrong. St. Juste was only a few years older than Connor’s twenty-five, but he had been at this game for almost half his life, and it showed. He was a clever strategist, a courageous soldier, a poet, a cook, and a thief, as the situation demanded. There was no one Connor would rather trust his back to in a fight. But St. Juste was also one of the most egotistical men he’d ever met, and there were times Connor would have dearly loved to plant his fist squarely in the middle of his partner’s smug face.
Now was one of those times. But before he had the chance to even consider acting on his impulse, the door to his cabin was thrust open, and a dark-haired boy of about eight barreled in. “Captain!”
Connor crossed the cabin and set his hand reassuringly on the child’s shoulder. “What are you doing up at this hour, Jamie? All hands should be in bed.”
The child answered in a gruff voice, as if unused to speaking. “Heard noises. Thought maybe watch had let someone by … maybe a thief or the like.” He lifted his chin and looked at Connor with a courage that would have been hard to find in a man three times his age. “Nothin’s gonna happen to you while I’m here. That’s a promise.”
“I am pleased to see that someone on this ship has his wits about him,” Raoul commented, giving Connor a pointed look. “Now off with you, boy. The captain and I have business to discuss.”
Jamie made no move to leave until Connor gave him a nod. “ ’Tis all right. Besides, someone’s got to keep an eye on Barnacle to make sure he doesn’t wreak havoc on the breakfast.” He stood looking down at the boy, every inch the stern captain, until his mouth edged up in the barest smile. “That will be all, mister. See to your post.”
Jamie grinned from ear to ear at the formal dismissal, then gave a sharp salute and scooted out of the room without another word.
“That boy worships you,” St. Juste said as he walked over to the map table and lit the lantern standing on it. “But it is a precarious life for one who is so young.”
“ ’Tis better than living like a rat on that godforsaken wharf in Cairo. If we’d left him there he’d have died of hunger—or worse.”
“Yes, but we are not in Egypt now. You should look for a home for the boy. Pourquois pas with the mademoiselle Rose?”
“Jamie is no farm boy. He’d run away before the week was out.”
“Well, perhaps you are right in that. But there are many good people in this country.”
“And more bad ones,” Connor countered as he stalked to his desk and rested his hip on the corner.
The Frenchman stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “So you have said. Many times.”
For some reason Raoul’s tone irritated Connor. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss Jamie. Out with it. Did you get the papers?”
“But of course.” In the flickering light, St. Juste removed his greatcoat, revealing the gaudy footman’s uniform he still wore underneath. He pulled out a worn leather wallet, which he placed on the desk beside Connor. “The Majorca papers. Records of British ships and troop movements throughout the entire region. The officers and gentlemen of Whitehall will look like foolish old women when they find out their plans have been stolen. You did well with your diversion, my friend. And I did well too, n’est-ce pas? To counterfeit a lowly servant despite my noble bearing. The Admiral will be pleased.”
“I don’t give a damn if he’s pleased or not, as long as it suits our ends,” Connor growled as he studied the papers. The “diversion” of the Archangel’s appearance had allowed Raoul to meet secretly with the Admiral’s Whitehall source and receive the stolen papers. But it had cost Connor dear—in ways he could not begin to explain to his friend. Wearily, he ran a hand over his face. “Christ, I wish we were back at sea.”
“With cannons firing on us and ships trying to ram us.” Raoul took the chair across from his friend. “Ah yes, I wish for that too.”
“ ’Tis at least a clean fight, not this secret playacting for a man we barely know, and who never shows us his face.”
“That is because you still have a sense of honor.” The Frenchman sighed, as if Connor had contracted a fatal disease. “I am fortunate that the trait was removed from my makeup during the Revolution, along with our lands. In any case, I have news that shall lift your spirits. We have had double luck tonight, my friend. When I was still posing as a servant, this was handed to me to deliver to you.”
St. Juste pulled out a cream-colored letter, which he pushed across the table. Connor stared at the note, feeling an inexplicable sense of foreboding. “What is it?”
“Since you ask, and since I have already taken the liberty of reading it, I shall tell you that it is an invitation to dine this evening at the house of one of the gentlemen from the ball … an officer who happens to be highly placed in the Admiralty.”
“The Admiralty!” Connor grabbed up the note, his weariness vanishing. Luck was right—they’d thought it would take him weeks to break into the confidence of the truly powerful of the country—not just the circles traveled by foppish aristocracy like Morrow. Yet here it was, just a day after Connor’s arrival, and he already had his foot in Whitehall’s door. He leaped off the desk and paced the room. “What do you know about this Commodore Jolly?”
“Zut, I have been aware of this only a few hours,” Raoul complained. “I shall find out all we need by evening. There is one thing I do know already—he has a very pretty ward. Une jeune femme, très jolie with hair like brown silk. Not striking, perhaps, but behind her spectacles her eyes are like—”
“Raoul, I’m not interested in the girl, just the officer.”
St. Juste shook his head. “English, sometimes I think you are a race of very foolish people. In any case, the man has another charge who might be of more use to us. I heard from one of Morrow’s serving maids that the girl’s father owns many ships. While he is away, the daughter stays with the commodore. She is a great favorite of the gentry, quite rich, and pretty enough, for a tall woman. You might have noticed her. She has hair like—how you say—coucher du soleil?”
“Sunset,” Connor supplied dully. He stopped pacing, and leaned against the wall, then threw back his head in a harsh laugh. “Of all the invitations to all the dinners in all the houses in London, why did it have to be hers?”
“You know this femme rousse? But this is wonderful!” Raoul rose from his chair and walked to the cupboard, where he pulled out a bottle of fine French brandy and two glasses. “With her help I am sure you can win the trust of this Commodore Jolly, and perhaps others in the Admiralty as well. We shall be done with our task before the month is out. Come—let us drink a toast to your lady.”
“She is not my lady,” Connor growled. �
��And I guarantee she is the last person who would help me win anyone’s trust. Not that it matters. I will not see her, tonight or any night. I’m turning down the invitation.”
Raoul sloshed the brandy he was pouring onto the desk. “Are you mad? We thought we’d have to wait weeks, perhaps months, for an invitation from an officer of Whitehall. You cannot turn it down.”
“Watch me.” Turning his back Connor shrugged off his coat and began untying his cravat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need some sleep.”
“You need a lack in the head,” Raoul fired back.
“Probably. But I’m still turning down the invitation. I won’t use her, Raoul. She was … important to me once.”
Raoul set down the bottle and studied his friend. Then he walked across the cabin and picked up his coat and hat. “The invitation said that dinner was to be at eight, so I shall be here at six with my report on the commodore.”
Connor glared at the Frenchman. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m not going.”
“I believe that you will,” Raoul replied as he fingered the brim of his hat. “I never asked you of the life you led before we met. But I do know the burden we both carry, the debt we both owe.” He settled the hat on his head, and turned for the door. “You will go tonight, English, because it is the only choice your sense of honor will allow you to make.”
Connor stood for a long time, wrapped in silence, his only movement the gentle rise and fall of the deck beneath his feet. But inside him a battle raged that was every bit as fierce as the one he’d waged near Sicily. He’d resolved never to see Juliana again—he refused to involve her in his dangerous deceptions. Yet every time he made the decision, a picture flashed through his mind of a day two years before, when he’d lain wounded on the deck of a ship, choking on smoke so thick that he could barely breathe, hearing the crash of the cannonballs splintering the hull and the screams of dying men. And overhead, barely visible through the fire and smoke, fluttered a torn and useless white flag of truce.
