Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “You say the tonic’s completely harmless?” She wasn’t convinced, yet let out a tense breath.

  “Aye, some believe in its rejuvenating qualities, but I was sworn to secrecy. Napoleon says chicken broth or fasting and hot baths are the only true cures. He’s usually spurned everything I prescribed for him.” O’Meara tried to shut his valise, clothes poking out the sides. Amélie stepped over and folded them neatly inside.

  “Do you make this tonic?” Marchand asked.

  “No, it’s made by an elderly woman in Jamestown. She’s known for her healing herbs and potions. Don’t worry, I checked her out thoroughly beforehand.”

  “Even so, this practice will be halted immediately,” Amélie said. “I’d like the name of this woman. I hope there’s no chance something...toxic was ever used.”

  O’Meara’s round face sagged. “You know me better than that. I’ve always had a profound respect for Napoleon, but I can’t speak for the other British on this island. I’d recommend being...careful.” He grasped Amélie’s shoulders, giving them a light shake, his crooked smile sad. “You must look after him for me. It’s not by choice I’m leaving. Lowe is a petty, little man, yet so contradictory. Did you know he’s freed the children who will be born of slaves beginning next December? Slavery is repugnant to him, but he treats Napoleon with inhumanity.”

  “I’m sorry you’re being sent away, Doctor. The emperor will miss you.” Amélie’s knotted muscles relaxed. “I promise to take excellent care of your patient.”

  “I trust you will, lass. I deeply regret having to go. I must take my leave of Napoleon before Lowe musters his troops to haul me off. I’m afraid Lowe attacked my pride and insulted me. I had no choice but to defy him.”

  “The governor seems to bring that out in us all,” Amélie said, sad that Lowe proved triumphant in having O’Meara desert Napoleon.

  “Aye, well, maybe it’s time for me to return to Europe.” O’Meara brushed a hand through his wooly brown hair and pointed down at a splintered drawer. “Lowe had his soldiers break into my desk and rifle through my papers. They stole gifts Napoleon had given me, which Lowe refuses to return.”

  Amélie sighed at the governor’s cruel raid on their lives as they said farewell to the doctor.

  “Doctor O’Meara seems to be telling the truth,” Marchand said as they walked back around the house. “His Majesty will still be furious to know they added something to the wine.”

  “I did have faith in him, but I’m positive something else was put there, and it’s not for the emperor’s health. Now the count has purposely ignored his orders.”

  * * * *

  Two hours later, Amélie observed with sorrow as Napoleon watched the doctor ride away, escorted by the governor’s soldiers.

  He shut the salon door, took her arm, and walked her back to his study. “Lowe would stoop to anything. Here he’s a little sovereign with absolute power, but I have my revenge. I told O’Meara to seek out my family. To gather all the letters the sovereigns addressed to me when I was in power and have them published to bring shame upon them. These emperors and kings once begged for my favors and to leave them on their thrones. Now they scheme to crush me.”

  “To send O’Meara away is so unfair. I’ll brew you a cup of my calming sage tea. Please sit.” She shivered at the anger on his face. Amélie understood his Corsican temperament intensified his desire for revenge. Napoleon’s upset might force her to wait before bringing up Montholon’s perfidious actions.

  “The Edinburgh Review published articles on Lowe’s foul behavior here, and I managed to obtain a copy. Lowe accused O’Meara of providing it to me. That meant the ax for him.” Napoleon followed her into the preparation area where she’d left her box of sage.

  Amélie scooped out the herb, then realized she was being the “good little wife,” the protector of her man’s serenity, something she’d railed against in the past. She stiffened her neck and had to strike a balance between two extremes.

  “Napoleon, you need to speak immediately to the Count de Montholon. Marchand and I discovered he’s been putting a tonic into your wine behind your back. This behavior can’t be tolerated. We caught Jules in the act after you ordered the count to keep him away.”

  “O’Meara mentioned something about you and Marchand’s inquiry, without my knowledge. Also the tonic, which enrages me. Montholon disobeyed a direct order? This will be his final disabuse of my authority,” Napoleon clinked together teacups on the preparation table. “The disharmony in this place never ends and everyone strives to become a part of it.”

  “I’m trying to help you, because I love you.” She looked at him over her shoulder, and didn’t add that he dismissed things he didn’t wish to see.

  “I laid awake half the night, turning these events over, and now there’s more. I need some peace.” Napoleon moved up behind her and ran his hands over her shoulders. “Oh, Amée, I’m not angry at you. Yes, at my own stubbornness. You see right through me, mon amour.”

  Amélie felt the warmth of his body so close to hers, his fingers unnerving on her flesh. A crackling sensation traveled up her spine to her neck, like the electricity that hangs in the air before a storm breaks. She turned and put her arms around him. The vulnerability in his eyes drew her further. He had been through so much and she, too, wished their troubles would disappear. “Speak to the count this afternoon. That’s all I ask.”

  Napoleon kissed her cheek. “I’d much rather speak with you, alone.” He caught her mouth with his and she let him kiss away their distress. He parted her lips and their tongues touched for the first time, fomenting that lush fullness inside her.

  She caressed the back of his neck, her mouth hungry on his. He pressed his body into her and fumbled with the hooks of her dress.

  Warmth simmered deep inside her and she molded herself against him. To her surprise, he lifted her up onto the table, clattering dishes. He kissed her chest, pushing down her bodice, shifting himself between her knees.

  “In the middle of the day, in here, how scandalous.” Her flesh tingled and she sighed with the forbidden pleasure. She glanced about, to see if anyone might come in, until Napoleon’s sweet kisses dissolved her senses.

  “We need to consummate our relationship, Amée.” Napoleon ran his lips across the top of her breasts. He reached along her thighs and tugged at her undergarments. His fingers slipped into her drawers, stroking her. “...Forget our burdens.”

  Amélie gasped at his intimate invasion, her breath sharp in her lungs. Smelling sage and the heady scent of desire, she unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Forget our burdens, vraiment.”

  Napoleon kissed her exposed nipple. “You’re right though, not here.” He lifted her down and pulled her toward his study, his eyes burning with fever, face flushed.

  Heat radiated like molten lava through her every limb. Her body demanded release. “I am more than ready.”

  In his bedroom, Napoleon took her in his arms again. “I want to prove my love to you, unselfishly if I can. I feel out of control, like a boy at his first time.” He traced his fingers down her neck, his hesitancy endearing.

  “Teach me...everything,” she whispered. Bashful without the experience, she’d learn to be his only source of pleasure.

  Napoleon caressed her skin as he removed each item of clothing. Amélie quivered in expectation. He laid her across the bed and slipped off her drawers and stockings. Once naked, she covered her breasts, vulnerable when he appraised her with his luminous eyes. He tenderly dislodged her hands, kissing each palm and the insides of her wrists.

  “You’re so desirable, like no one else.” Napoleon undressed and climbed in beside her. His caressing fingers and hot lingering kisses made her writhe and moan.

  She met his kisses, taking his breath deep inside her, her hands rubbing over his smooth skin. Her extended nipples brush
ed sensually against his chest. The musky scent of their flesh mingled.

  Stroking between her thighs, he probed his fingers deeper, forcing her to cry out. His lips savored her breasts and Amélie arched her back, her blood and nerves about to explode. Her body sheathed in moisture, she wanted him to open her up, like a bud.

  Again kissing her mouth, Napoleon entered her, gentle at first, then with more insistence. She whimpered in pain and then succumbed to a throbbing where even pain became pleasure.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ...Nature is in a state of tension so painful that the outbreak of the storm is desirable...—N.B.

  Amélie awoke in Napoleon’s arms, her back against his chest, hearing his gentle breathing. Late afternoon light filtered through the shutters. She felt soreness between her legs, and the stickiness of blood. She almost stretched like a cat, satisfied in the warmth, and purred along his body. Turning her head briefly, she watched him sleep. How much younger he looked since they had grown close—his healthier complexion, the weight loss. Now he belonged to her.

  She smiled. No one loved him as well as she. Both his wives, the first indifferent, the second shallow, had been unworthy of him. Neither equaled Amélie’s genuine passion, her caring devotion. She loved the man, not the rising young general, nor the great conqueror of Europe. Though his enemies had stripped him of his empire and banished him to the bottom of the world, he was still a proud, imposing, and fascinating human being.

  Amélie felt Napoleon’s lips on her neck and rolled over to face him. She grinned, half amazed to be in his bed, modestly covering her nakedness with the blanket.

  “I never slept so sound and had the most tender dreams.” He brushed her hair from her cheek. “You knew this was the way it was supposed to be, and I kept resisting. You’re much wiser than I.”

  “I knew how I felt about you,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his face.

  “How wonderful to wake with you here.” Napoleon dipped his head and kissed her lips, then drew back. “Don’t ever conceal your charms from me.” He tugged down the blanket, revealing her breasts. Kissing down her chest, he languidly savored each nipple until she tingled with pleasure. “Your skin is so sweet, the softness, the taste of you. Clean.”

  Amélie abandoned her shyness and urged him on with another kiss. She caressed his reddish-brown hair, as silky as she’d once imagined when she watched him from afar. Her hands trailed down his body—she’d explore every inch of him. She kissed his chest as her fingers felt the deep scar on the inside of his left thigh, where a bayonet had gouged him at the battle of Toulon.

  She devoured his kisses, his touches, as if she’d discovered a glorious new ritual. She starved for him, and he behaved just as needful. He directed her hand, and she stroked him, enjoying the desire on his face. Their lips and breath steamed together, Napoleon pushed inside her, moving slowly. She allowed her body to take over, rising and falling with his, the heat infusing her. She arched her back and moaned with pleasure.

  Afterwards, Amélie lay in his arms, unable to suppress a smile that went beyond contentment. Her sister-in-law once said you only “sleep” with your husband to please him. How untrue a statement. A woman could enjoy this intimate aspect of life as well as a man. Not to mention she now had the sensual details she needed for her writing.

  * * * *

  Fresh from a hot, soaking bath, Napoleon told Marchand to bring Montholon to his study. He wished he could indulge in pleasure with Amée for weeks until Sully’s return—how luscious to lose himself in her supple body, and to experience these sweet sensations from his youth—but business must prevail. Clad in his best uniform, trying to erase the slaked smile from his face, he took a chair before the study fireplace.

  “Your Majesty, you asked to see me,” Montholon said in the effusive tone he reserved for him. “I hope our relationship is not harmed by my earlier perceived misconduct.”

  “Perceived?” Napoleon couldn’t help but chuckle—a good way to smooth down his aggravation. “O’Meara related something very interesting to me before he left.”

  “Let me express my deep sorrow at his untimely departure.” Montholon bowed.

  “You always told me you thought my doctor to be intrusive.” Napoleon spoke in a forced languid voice. “It is a great loss to me, but O’Meara informed me that you’ve been putting an herb tonic in my wine. Your manservant, Jules, admitted as much.”

  “Before you scold me about Jules, as you have every right, let me say I did not know he was at the cabinet yesterday. I have chastised him.” Montholon stood at attention, looking like a tin soldier in his blue uniform and tarnished gold epaulets. “The tonic was perfectly safe, Sire, but if I’ve displeased you, I’m certain I can explain.”

  “You did this without my permission, tampering with my personal wine. You know how I feel about medicine, and still you initiated this. Your behavior angers me.” Napoleon strained for an indolent tone, leaving the man before him to guess where this led.

  “O’Meara brought me the herbs. I saw no harm in looking out for your well-being, Sire. You take herbs when the kit…Mademoiselle Perrault prescribes them.” Montholon cleared his throat. “About Mademoiselle, if I may be so bold, don’t you fear the malicious slander relayed to Europe? The English papers already talk of your amourette. Dare you continue to pay attention to a girl of her low station?”

  “Never mention her in that way! Do I care anymore what Europe thinks of me? I am above their petty slurs.” Napoleon hid his disgust that Montholon hadn’t learned any respect for Amée after their last confrontation, and he now blamed O’Meara for the wine. His relaxed mood wore thin. “Low station? What does that mean, my good man? My father was a humble lawyer on a small island. I started out as only a soldier. You, on the other hand, were born to the aristocracy. Does that make you any more prominent than I?” He raised a brow at Montholon, allowing a hint of menace to slip in. “Events have proved otherwise, haven’t they?”

  “You misinterpret, I only wanted—“

  “You want to malign a beautiful, intelligent young lady, who cares for me above all others.” Napoleon gripped his chair arms. He would rid himself of this man who refused to respect his wishes. “The only person without fail who is straightforward with me. You will cease all your household meddling immediately.”

  “Of course I will, as your obedient servant. I have so missed our friendly discussions together here.” The count’s condescending manner brittle, he stepped toward the door. “A soothing glass of wine will calm our tempers. Shall we have some of your Constantia? I’m certain I can find a bottle that has not been touched.“

  Napoleon hesitated, amazed at the man’s audacity, disgusted by his confirmed treachery. Was Montholon desperate enough to risk sipping a poisonous beverage to accomplish his underhanded aims? “I don’t feel like any wine. You may have a glass, however. Help yourself.”

  “That’s fine, if you don’t care to join me.” The count sounded disappointed. He stiffened back to attention. The light slipping through the shutters formed stripes on his shiny boots. “I only wish to make your cruel exile more comfortable.”

  “Is that why you came with me?” Napoleon’s anger simmered He wanted to be certain he had the correct adversary, but now it didn’t matter. The count betrayed him with the tonic. “You behave like a man who can’t be trusted in too many things.”

  “You’ve given me the privilege of accompanying you. I thought that meant I’d have a say, as far as decorum, on what goes on in our court.” Montholon appeared to struggle with his courtier’s mask, his mouth pinched. “I do need to know one thing. Marchand confiscated the keys to the wine cabinet. If Jules misbehaved, this is still an insult to my personal staff. Am I to have these back, as—”

  “Out of the question, you can’t be trusted to ensure the sanctity of my wine.” Napoleon sat up straighter
in the chair to deliver his coup de grace. “Albine has expressed an urgent desire to return to Europe with your children. I agreed it was a sensible idea.”

  “When did you speak with her?” Montholon’s eyes widened for an instant. “She has been unhappy, Sire. I think it’s more from your apathy towards her than any compulsion to return to Europe. En vérité, we have felt neglected. You and Albine were so dear to one another.”

  “It’s preferable you go home with her.” Napoleon ignored that inference. “A family needs to remain intact. Albine’s doctor at the camp says she needs to take waters for her health. Now you should make preparations—”

  “Mais non, Your Majesty. Pardon my rude interruption. I wish to remain here to serve you. That’s completely out of the question.” The count tugged at his high collar. “If Albine desires to go, I will consent to her leaving without me.”

  “I am dictating that you leave with her.” Napoleon clenched a fist on his thigh. “I will, of course, give you a settlement, as was promised in the beginning.”

  “Sire, I know I have displeased you, but I’ll never be so foolish again. I feel it’s my honorable duty to stay.” The count’s voice anxious, his posture almost sagged. “You’re well aware that Governor Lowe won’t let us leave without reason. Albine and I both signed the paper swearing to stay with you as long as you remained on the island.”

  “The governor will not stop you if your wife’s health is at stake. Depart Saint Helena with your family. Make certain that manservant of yours, Jules, accompanies you.” Given the discomforts of the island, his courtier should be relieved to go. Amée appeared to be right. The unmitigated gall of this aristo. Napoleon sank back into his chair, his shoulder muscles tightening. “Speak with Albine and I’ll have Bertrand make the appropriate arrangements for your departure. Not another word! You will leave with your wife and children. You’re dismissed.”