Brenda Joyce - Seduction

“Do tell.” He leaned toward her.

She hesitated. “Since defeating the French in Flanders, Britain and her Allies continue to send troops to the front lines along the French–Belgian border, strengthening their position. Mainz remains under siege, and there are royalist rebellions in Toulon, Lyons and Marseilles.”

He stared, his expression as hard as stone. “And the good news?”

She searched his gaze, but could not find a flicker of emotion now. “The royalists were crushed near Nantes. We do not know yet if their rebellion has been ended, once and for all, but it seems possible.”

His expression never changed; it was almost as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Monsieur?” Impulsively, she blurted, “When will you tell me the truth?”

“The truth, mademoiselle?”

She found herself incapable of drawing a breath. “You were delirious.”

“I see.”

“I know who you are.”

“Was it a secret?”

She felt as if they were in the midst of some terrible game. “Monsieur, you wept in my arms in your delirium, that you lost so many men—soldiers—your soldiers. I know that you are an officer in the French army!”

His stare never wavered.

She reached for his hand and gripped it. He did not move a muscle. “I have wept for you, Charles. Your losses are my losses. We are on the same side!”

And finally, he looked down at her hand. She could not see into his eyes. “Then I am relieved,” he said softly. “To be amongst friends.”

CHAPTER THREE

HAD HE THOUGHT that he was amongst enemies? “I have cared for you for an entire week,” Julianne said, removing her hand from his.

His green gaze was on her face now. “I feel certain you would care for any dying man, no matter his country or politics.”

“Of course I would.”

“I am a Frenchman—you are an Englishwoman. What should I have thought, upon awakening?”

She began to realize the predicament he might have thought himself to be in. “We are on the very same side, monsieur. Yes, our countries are at war. Yes, I am English and you are French. But I am proud to support the revolution in your country. I was thrilled to realize that you are an officer in the French army!”

“You are a radical, then.”

“Yes.” Their gazes remained locked. His eyes were not as hard as before, but still, she felt oddly uncomfortable, as if she had been pushed off balance, as if she were in an important—no, crucial—interview. “Here in Penzance, we have a Society for the Friends of Man. I am one of the founders.”

He now sat back in his chair, seeming impressed. “You are an unusual woman.”

She couldn’t smile. “I will not be held back by my gender, monsieur.”

“I can see that. So you are a true Jacobin sympathizer.”

She hesitated. Was she being interviewed? Did she even blame him? “Did you think that you were in a household filled with enemies?”

His smile did not seem to reach his eyes. “Of course I did.”

She hadn’t had a clue as to his distress; he had been a master at hiding his thoughts and feelings. “You are amongst friends. I am your friend. In my eyes, you are a great hero of the revolution.”

His brows lifted. And now she knew he had relaxed. “How much more fortunate could I be? To wind up in your care?” Suddenly, he reached for her hand. “Am I being too direct, Julianne?”

She went still. He had never called her by her name before; he hadn’t even called her Miss Greystone. It had always been “mademoiselle.” Yet she did not protest. “No.”

And he knew that she had just allowed him an intimacy—and perhaps opened the door for even further intimacy.

He did not release her hand. It was late and dark and they were alone. “I hope you are not afraid of me,” he said softly.

She slowly looked up from their clasped hands. “Why would I be afraid of you, monsieur?”

He met her gaze. “Hero or not, I am a stranger…and we are alone.”

She didn’t know what to say. His stare was unwavering, intense. “I enjoy our conversation, monsieur,” she finally said softly. “We have so much in common.”

“Yes, we do.” He was pleased. Then, “I am glad you think of me as you do, Julianne.”

“What else could I possibly think?” She managed a fragile smile. “You are fighting for equality in France and the freedom of all men, everywhere. You have put your life in jeopardy for a great, universal cause. You almost died for the sake of freedom.”

He finally let go of her hand. “You are a romantic.”

“It is the truth.”

He studied her. “Tell me what you are thinking.”

He spoke in a murmur, but he had that tone of command again. She knew she flushed. She managed to look down at the table between them. “Some thoughts are meant to be privy.”

“Yes, some are. I am thinking that I am fortunate to have been brought into your care. And not because you are a Jacobin.”

She jerked to look up at him.

“When I first woke up, I remembered dreaming of a beautiful woman with titian hair, tending me, caring for me. And then I saw you and realized it was not a dream.”

He had just walked through that open door....

“Am I being too forward? I am accustomed to speaking directly, Julianne. In war, one learns that time is precious and no moment should go to waste.”

“No. You are not being too forward. ” She trembled. He was feeling the same pull toward her that she felt toward him. Amelia would be shocked if she knew what was unfolding; her brothers would be furious.

“And does your sister think of me as you do?”

She was so off balance that, for one absurd moment, she thought he was asking her if Amelia also found him attractive.

“I do not have the impression that she thinks of me as a war hero,” he said.

It was hard to think about Amelia just then. But he was waiting for her to respond. She inhaled. The change of topic had been so abrupt. “No, she does not,” Julianne breathed.

“She is not as radical as you are?” he supplied.

She took a breath, finding her composure. “She isn’t radical at all, monsieur.” She could not tell what he was thinking or feeling. She did not want to worry him. “But she is not political, and she would never turn you over to the authorities, I promise you that.”

For another moment, he stared, considering her words. Then he rubbed his neck, as if it ached. Before she could ask him if he was all right, he said, “And have you been able to aid our Jacobin allies in France? Is it easy to send word to them?”

“It isn’t easy, but there are couriers these days. One must merely pay handsomely to get a message across the Channel.” Did he wish to send word to France? She tensed. Wouldn’t he want Nadine to know he was alive?

“What’s wrong?”

The French woman had to be a lover—he could not possibly be married, not when he’d flirted with her as he had. But she hated ruining the evening by asking about her. She was afraid she would learn that he still loved her. She smiled quickly. “I was just thinking that I wish I could be of more help to our allies in Paris. Thus far, we have merely exchanged a few letters and ideas.”

He smiled at her. “And what is your brother, Lucas, like? I will have to eventually find a way to repay him for my use of his clothes.”

She looked closely at him, sensing he wished to ask far more. “Lucas will not mind you wearing his clothes. He is a generous man.”

“Would he turn me over to the authorities?”

He was worried, and rightly so, she thought. She hesitated. Hadn’t she feared that Lucas would do just that? Charles was most definitely interviewing her.

“No,” she finally said. “He would not.” She would not allow it.