Brenda Joyce - Seduction

Amelia turned; Julianne seized her.

“I have to notify the authorities!” her sister exclaimed.

“You can do no such thing!” Julianne stepped in front of her, barring her way. “He is seriously ill, Amelia, and he is a hero!”

“Only you would think such a thing!” Amelia cried. Then, lowering her voice, she continued. “I don’t believe it is legal to have him here. I must tell Lucas.”

“No, please! He is doing no harm—he is ill! For my sake, let us help him recuperate, and then he can go on his way,” Julianne pleaded.

Amelia stared at her, aghast and very grim. She finally said, “Someone will find out.”

“I am going to see Tom immediately. He will help us keep him here, in secret.”

Displeasure was written all over Amelia’s face. “I thought Tom was courting you.”

Julianne smiled—the change in topic meant she had won. “Tom and I are always discussing politics, Amelia. We share the same views. But that is hardly a courtship.”

“He is smitten. He might not approve of your guest.” She glanced into the bedchamber—and paled.

Charles was watching them both, his expression oddly alert, even wary.

The moment he saw her looking at him, he smiled and began to sit up. The covers fell to his waist, revealing his muscular chest.

Julianne did not move. Had he just looked at her as if she was an adversary he did not trust?

Amelia hurried into the room, her face set. Julianne followed her into the bedchamber. Her tension escalated.

Had he overheard their argument?

If he had, he gave no sign. Instead, Charles exchanged an intimate, sidelong look with her. Her insides seemed to vanish—it was as if they shared a sinful secret.

But didn’t they?

Images flashed through her mind of him standing up, stark naked, after falling; of his so casually wrapping the sheet around his waist, clearly not caring about his modesty; and of his slow, suggestive smile before he kissed her, when he had been delirious.

Her heart was rioting now.

She glanced at Amelia closely, but Amelia gave no sign that she was interested in his broad, sculpted chest. He was pulling the covers up modestly. As Amelia went to the table to retrieve the dinner tray, Charles looked at her again, a warm light in his eyes.

“Your sister, I presume?” he asked.

Amelia faced him, holding his supper tray, before Julianne could speak. Her French was excellent; she also spoke Spanish and some German and Portuguese. “Good evening, Monsieur Maurice. I hope you are feeling better. I am Amelia Greystone.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Greystone. I cannot thank you and your sister enough for your hospitality and your kindness in nursing me during my recovery from my wounds.”

Amelia brought Charles his tray. “You are welcome. I see that you are as articulate as my sister has claimed. Do you speak English?”

Charles accepted the tray. In heavily accented English, he said, “Yes, I do.” Then he looked at Julianne again. His smile faded. “Should my ears have been…burning?”

She knew she blushed. “You speak very well, monsieur. I mentioned it to my sister. That is all.” His English, although accented, was also very impressive, she thought.

He seemed pleased. Turning to Amelia, who stood beside his bed, he said, “And what else has she said about me?”

Amelia’s smile was brief and strained. “Perhaps you should ask her. Excuse me.” She turned to Julianne. “Momma needs her supper. I will see you later, Julianne.” She left.

“She doesn’t like me,” he said, some laughter in his tone, speaking in French again.

Julianne jerked and saw that he had lain his hand over his bare pectoral muscle. “Amelia has a very serious, sensible character, monsieur.”

“Vraiment? I hadn’t noticed.”

She felt some of her tension ease. “You are in fine spirits.”

“How could I not be? I have slept several hours, and I am with a beautiful woman—my very own angel of mercy.” His gaze held hers.

She felt her heart turn over, hard. She reminded herself that all Frenchmen were flirts. To cover up her agitation, she said, “You have slept for more than an entire day, monsieur. And clearly, you are feeling better.”

His eyes widened. “What is today’s date, mademoiselle?”

“It is July 10,” she said. “Is that important?”

“I have lost all sense of time. How long have I been here?”

She could not tell what he was thinking. “You have been here for eight days, monsieur.”

His eyes widened.

“Does that fact disturb you?” She approached. Her sister had left his tray on a bedside table.

His smile came again. “I am simply surprised.”

She pulled a chair over to his bedside. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

She sat in the chair beside him. “Do you need help?”

“Are you not tired of nursing me?”

Careful to keep her eyes on his face, she said, “Of course not.”

He seemed pleased by her answer. She realized they were staring at one another—continuously—helplessly. Somehow, Julianne looked away. Her cheeks seemed to burn. So did her throat and chest.

She helped him settle the tray on his lap and sat back as he began to eat. A silence fell. He was ravenous. She stared openly, beginning to think that he found her as intriguing as she found him. All Frenchmen flirted…but what if he had the same feelings for her as she had for him?

Her heart leapt erratically. She became aware of the shadows in the room, the flames in the small hearth, the dark, moonlit night outside—and the fact that it was just the two of them together, alone in his bedchamber, at night.

When he was done, he lay back against his pillows, as if the effort of eating had cost him, but his gaze was serious and searching. Julianne removed the tray to the table, wondering what his intent regard meant.

It was very late, and it was improper for her to remain with him. But he had just awoken. Should she leave? If she stayed, would he kiss her again? He probably didn’t even recall that kiss!

He said softly, “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

She colored, about to deny it. Then she changed her mind. “I am unaccustomed to spending so much time in a stranger’s company.”

“Yes, I imagine so. It is obviously late, but I have just awoken. I would like your company, mademoiselle, just for a bit.”

“Of course.” She trembled, pleased.

“Would it be possible to borrow your brother’s clothes now?” His smile came and went, indolently.

That would certainly make her feel better, she thought. She went to retrieve the clothes, handed them to him and left the room. In the hall, she covered her warm cheeks with her hands. What was wrong with her? It was as if she was a young girl, when she was a grown woman! He had been delirious when he had kissed her. He seemed lonely now. That was all. And she had a dozen questions for him—even if she kept thinking of the pressure of his lips on hers.

Behind her, the door opened, revealing Charles, now clad in Lucas’s breeches and a simple lawn shirt. He didn’t speak, which increased her tension, and he waited for her to precede him into the chamber. He moved her chair back to the table, but held it out for her. The silence felt even more awkward now than before.

He was a gentleman, she thought, taking the seat. He would never take advantage of her and attempt another kiss.

He sat in the second chair. “I am starved for news, mademoiselle. What happens in France?”

She recalled his delirium and wanted to ask him about the battle he had spoken of. But she feared that might distress him. Very carefully, she said, “There has been good news and bad news, monsieur.”