Join New York Times bestselling author Brenda Joyce as she introduces readers to a passionate and romantic new series set in a dangerous time….

Dominic Paget, the earl of Bedford, will do anything to resume spying upon Britain’s enemies. Badly wounded, he is put in the care of a beautiful gentlewoman, Julianne Greystone, only to discover that her sympathies lie with his enemies. Yet he can’t help but seduce the woman who saved his life—hoping she never learns of his betrayal.

Julianne is captivated by the wounded stranger she believes is a revolutionary hero. Until she discovers the truth…her “hero” is the privileged earl of Bedford. Devastated and determined to forget him, Julianne travels to London. But when she finds herself in danger, it is Bedford who comes to the rescue. Now Julianne must navigate the intrigues of a perilous city, the wild yearnings of her own heart and the explosion of their passion….

Praise for the novels of

New York Times and USA TODAY

bestselling author BRENDA JOYCE

“In her inimitable style Joyce presents her unforgettable de Warrenes

in a mesmerizing new romance. Her marvelous storytelling, combined with

the high level of emotion, makes for a non-stop delight of a read.”

—RT Book Reviews on An Impossible Attraction

“Another first-rate Regency,

featuring multidimensional protagonists and

sweeping drama… Joyce’s tight plot and vivid cast combine

for a romance that’s just about perfect.”

—Publishers Weekly Starred Review on The Perfect Bride

“Truly a stirring story with wonderfully etched characters,

Joyce’s latest is Regency romance at its best.”

—Booklist on The Perfect Bride

“Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor and storytelling prowess

to bear on her witty, fully formed characters.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last

“Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional weight,

which keeps this hefty entry absorbing, and her

fast-paced story keeps the pages turning.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Stolen Bride

“Joyce excels at creating twists and turns

in her characters’ personal lives.”

—Publishers Weekly

Seduction

Brenda

Joyce

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Sue and Laurent Teichman, with love and thanks!

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

DEAR READER

PROLOGUE

July 1, 1793—near Brest, France

“IS HE ALIVE?”

The voice surprised him. It sounded far away. And even as he heard the Englishman, pain stabbed through his back and shoulders, like nails being driven into his body, as if he were being crucified. The pain was so horrific he could not speak, but he cursed silently. What had happened?

He was on fire now. Even worse, he wondered if he was suffocating. He could hardly breathe. A terrible weight seemed to be pushing him down. And he was in absolute darkness....

But his mind was beginning to function. The man who had just spoken was English, but that was impossible. Where was he? What the hell had happened?

And the images began, rolling through his mind’s eye with shocking speed, accompanied by horrific sounds—the bloodcurdling screams of the wounded and the dying amidst the racket of muskets and the boom of cannons, the river running red with the French blood of peasants, priests, nobles and soldiers....

He moaned. He could not quite recall how he had been wounded, and he was afraid he might be dying. What had happened to him?

Someone spoke, and the voice was familiar. “He is barely alive, Lucas. He has lost a great deal of blood and has been unconscious since midnight. My surgeon does not know if he will live.”

“What happened?” A second Englishman was speaking.

“We suffered a terrible defeat at Nantes, messieurs, a rout by the French under General Biron, but Dominic was not wounded in the battle. He was ambushed outside my apartments last night by an assassin.”

And then he realized that his lifelong friend, Michel Jacquelyn, was speaking. Someone had tried to murder him—because someone had known he was a spy.

“Christ,” the second Englishman said.

Dominic managed to open his eyes, a vast, prolonged effort of will. He lay on the beach on a pallet, under blankets—the surf beat the shore and the night above glinted with stars. Three men stood over him, in coats, breeches and boots. His vision was blurred, but he could distinguish them somewhat. Michel was short and dark, his clothes bloodstained, his hair pulled back in a queue. The Englishmen were tall and golden, their shoulder-length hair whipping in the wind. Everyone was heavily armed with pistols and daggers. Now, he heard the creaking of wood masts, the flap of canvas, the pounding of wind-whipped waves. And then he could no longer keep his eyes open. Exhausted, they closed.

He was going to faint, damn it....

“Were you followed?” Lucas asked sharply.

“Non, but le gendarmerie are everywhere, mes amis. We must make haste. The French blockade the coast—you will have to be careful to avoid their ships.”

The other Englishman spoke, and he sounded cheerful. “Have no fear. No one can outrun the navy—or the revenue men—like me. Captain Jack Greystone, monsieur, at your service on this highly interesting night. And I believe you already know my brother, Lucas.”

“I do. You must get him to London, messieurs,” Michel said. “Immédiatement.”

“He won’t make it to London,” Jack returned. “Not alive, anyway.”

“We’ll take him to Greystone,” Lucas said flatly. “It’s close—and safe. And if he’s fortunate, he will live to fight another day.”

“Bien. Keep him well—we at La Vendée need him back. God speed you all.”

CHAPTER ONE

July 2, 1793—Penzance, Cornwall

SHE WAS VERY LATE.

Julianne Greystone practically leapt from the curricle, having parked it before the milliner’s shop. The Society’s meeting was next door, in the public room of the White Hart Inn, but every space in front was taken up already. The inn always did a brisk business in the afternoon. She rechecked the curricle’s brake, patted the old mare in the traces and quickly tied her to the post.

She hated being late. It wasn’t her nature to dally. Julianne took life very seriously, unlike the other ladies she knew.

Those women enjoyed fashion and shopping, teas and social calls, dances and dinner parties, but they did not live in the same circumstances as she did. Julianne could not recall a time in her life when there had been days of leisure and frivolity; her father had abandoned the family before her third birthday, not that their straits hadn’t already been dire. Father had been a younger son, without means, as well as a wastrel. She had grown up doing the kind of chores around the manor that her peers reserved for their servants. Cooking, washing dishes, carrying in firewood, ironing her brothers’ shirts, feeding their two horses, mucking stalls.... There was always a chore awaiting her. There was always something left to do. There was simply not enough time in any given day, and she found tardiness inexcusable.

Of course, it was an hour’s drive from her home on Sennen Cove to the city. Her older sister, Amelia, had taken the coach that day. Every Wednesday, come hell or high water, Amelia took Momma calling on their neighbors—never mind that Momma did not recognize anyone anymore. Momma wasn’t well. She rarely had her wits about her, and sometimes failed to recognize her own daughters, but she loved to visit. No one was as adept at frivolity and gaiety as Momma. Momma often thought herself a debutante, surrounded by her merry girlfriends and chivalrous suitors. Julianne thought she knew what it had been like for her mother to grow up in a home filled with every luxury, where she was waited upon hand and foot, in a time before the Americans had sought their independence, a time of only occasional war—a time without fear, rancor and revolution. It had been a time of absolute splendor and indifferent and lavish ostentation, a time of blatant self-indulgence, a time when no one bothered to consider the misery of the common man next door.

Poor Momma. She had begun to fade away from them shortly after Father had left them for the gambling halls and loose women of London, Antwerp and Paris. But Julianne wasn’t sure that a broken heart had caused Momma to lose her mind. She sometimes thought it far more simple and mundane: Momma simply could not manage in the dark, threatening circumstances of the modern world.

But their physician said it was important to keep her out and about. Everyone in the family agreed. So Julianne had been left with the curricle and their twenty-year-old mare. An hour’s drive had become two.

She had never been more impatient. She lived for the monthly meetings in Penzance. She and her friend, Tom Treyton, who was as radical as she, had founded the society last year, after King Louis XVI had been deposed, and France had been declared a republic. They had both supported the French revolution from the moment it had become clear that great changes were afoot in that country, all in favor of easing the plight of the peasantry and middle class, but neither one had ever dreamed that the ancien régime would eventually fall.

Every week there was another twist and turn in France’s crusade for freedom for the common man. Just last month, the Jacobin leaders in the National Assembly had staged a coup, arresting many of their opposition. A new constitution had resulted, giving every single man the vote! It was almost too good to be true. Recently the Committee of Public Safety had been established, and she was eager to learn what reforms it might soon bring about. And then there were the wars on the Continent. The new French Republic meant to bring liberty to all of Europe. France had declared war on the Hapsburg Empire in April of ’92. But not everyone shared Julianne’s and Tom’s radical views and enthusiasm for France’s new regime. Last February, Britain had joined Austria and Prussia and entered the war against France.

“Miss Greystone.”

Julianne had been about to wave over the livery boy from across the street and ask him to water her mare. At the sound of the strident voice, she tensed and slowly turned.

Richard Colmes scowled at her. “You cannot park here.”

She knew exactly why he meant to confront her. Julianne brushed a tendril of strawberry-blond hair away from her face. Very politely, she said, “It is a public street, Mr. Colmes. Oh, and good afternoon. How is Mrs. Colmes?”

The milliner was a short, pudgy man with gray whiskers. His wig was not powdered, but it was fine, indeed, and otherwise, his presence was impeccable, from his pale stockings and patent leather shoes to his embroidered coat. “I will not condone your society, Miss Greystone.”

She wanted to bristle but she smiled sweetly instead. “It is hardly my society,” she began.

“You founded it. You radicals are plotting the downfall of this great country!” he exclaimed. “You are all Jacobins, and you meet to exchange your terrible plots right next door. You should be ashamed of yourself, Miss Greystone!”

There was no point in smiling now. “This is a free country, sir, and we are all entitled to our views. And we can certainly meet next door, if John Fowey allows us to do so.” Fowey was the innkeeper.

“Fowey is every bit as mad as you!” he cried. “We are at war, Miss Greystone, and you and your kind support the enemy. If they cross the Channel, you will no doubt welcome the French army with open arms!”

She held her head high. “You are simplifying a very complex issue, sir. I support the rights of every man—even the vagabonds who come to this town begging for a decent meal. Yes, I happen to support the revolution in France—but so do a great many of our countrymen! I am keeping company with Thomas Paine, Charles Fox, Lords Byron and Shelley, to name just a few of the distinguished minds who recognize that the changes in France are for the universal good of mankind. I am a radical, sir, but—”

He cut her off. “You are a traitor, Miss Greystone, and if you do not move your curricle, I will do so for you.” He turned and stalked into his shop, slamming the door behind him. The glass pane rattled, the bells jingled.

She trembled, feeling sick inside her stomach. She had been about to tell the milliner just how much she loved her country. One could be a patriot and still support the new constitutional republic in France. One could be a patriot and still advocate for political reform and social change, both abroad and here at home.

“Come, Milly,” she said to the mare. She led the horse and carriage across the street to the livery, hating the recent dispute. With every passing week, it was becoming harder and harder to associate with her neighbors—people she had known her entire life. Once, she had been welcomed into any shop or salon with open arms and warm smiles. It wasn’t that way anymore.

The revolution in France and the subsequent wars on the Continent had divided the country.

And now she would have to pay for the privilege of leaving her mare at the livery, when they did not have change to spare. The wars had inflated the price of food stuffs, not to mention the cost of most other sundries. Greystone did have a thriving tin mine and an equally productive iron quarry, but Lucas invested most of the estate’s profits, with an eye to the entire family’s future. He was frugal, but they were all frugal—except for Jack, who was reckless in every possible way, which was probably why he was such an adept smuggler. Lucas was in London, or so she thought, although it was somewhat suspicious—he seemed to be in town all the time! And as for Jack, knowing her brother, he was probably at sea, running from a customs cutter.

She dismissed her worries about the unexpected expense, as there was no avoiding payment, and put aside the recent and unpleasant conversation with the milliner, although she might share it with her sister later.

Hurrying forward, she wiped dust from her freckled nose, then slapped it off her muslin skirts. It hadn’t rained all week, and the roads were impossibly dry. Her gown was now beige instead of ivory.

As she approached the sign posted beside the inn’s front door, excitement rose up, swift and hard. She had painted it herself.

Society of Friends of the People, it read. Newcomers Welcome. No Fees Required.”

She was very proud of that last line. She had fought her dear friend Tom Treyton tooth and nail to waive all fees for memberships. Wasn’t that what Thomas Hardy was doing for the corresponding societies? Shouldn’t every man and woman be allowed to participate in an assembly meant to promote the cause of equality, liberty and the rights of man? No one should be denied their rights or the ability to participate in a cause that would liberate them because he or she couldn’t afford the monthly dues!

Julianne entered the dark, cool public room of the inn and immediately saw Tom. He was about her height, with curly brown-blond hair and pleasant features. His father was a well-to-do squire, and he had been sent to Oxford for a university education. Julianne had thought he would reside in London upon graduation; instead, he had come home to set up a barrister’s practice in town. Most of his clients were smugglers caught by the preventive men. Unfortunately, he had not been able to successfully defend his past two clients; both men been sentenced to two years’ hard labor. Of course, they had been guilty as charged and everyone had known it.

Tom stood in the center of the public room, while everyone else was seated at tables and benches. Julianne instantly noticed that attendance was down yet again—even more than the last time. There were only two dozen men in the room, all of them miners, fishermen and smugglers. Since Britain had entered the Coalition against France in the war, there had been a resurgence of patriotism in the area. Men who had supported the revolution were now finding God and country. She supposed such a change of allegiance was inevitable.

Tom had seen her. His face lit up and he hurried over. “You are so late! I was afraid that something had happened, and that you would not make our assembly.”

“I had to take Milly, and it was slow going.” She lowered her voice. “Mr. Colmes would not let me park outside his shop.”

Tom’s blue eyes blazed. “Reactionary bastard.”

She touched his arm. “He is frightened, Tom. Everyone is. And he doesn’t understand what is happening in France.”

“He is afraid we’ll take his shop and his home and hand it over to the people. And maybe he should be afraid,” Tom said.

They had disagreed on the method and means of reform for the past year, since they had first formed the society. “We can hardly march around dispossessing citizens of good standing like Richard Colmes,” she rebuked softly.

He sighed. “I am being too radical, of course, but I wouldn’t mind dispossessing the earl of Penrose and the baron of St. Just.”

She knew he meant it. She smiled.

“Can we debate another time?”

“I know you agree that the rich have too much, and simply because they inherited their means or were given the lands and titles,” he said.

“I do agree, but you also know I do not condone a massive theft from the aristocracy. I want to know what debate I just walked in on. What has happened? What is the latest news?”

“You should join the reformers, Julianne. You are not really as radical as you like to think,” he groused. “There has been a rout. The La Vendée royalists were defeated at Nantes.”

“This is wonderful news,” Julianne said, almost disbelieving. “The last we heard, those royalists had defeated us and had taken the area along the river in Saumur.”

The gains made by the French revolutionaries within France were by no means secure, and there was internal opposition throughout the country. A very strong royalist rebellion had begun last spring in La Vendée.

“I know. It is a great reversal of fortune.” He smiled and took her arm. “Hopefully the damned rebels in Toulon, Lyon, Marseilles and Bordeaux will soon fall. And those in Brittany, as well.”

They shared a look. The extent of internal opposition to the revolution was frightening. “I should write to our friends in Paris immediately,” Julianne decided. One of the goals of all corresponding societies was to keep in close contact with the Jacobin clubs in France, showing their full support for the cause of revolution. “Maybe there is something more we can do here in Britain, other than to meet and discuss the latest events.”

“You could go to London and insert yourself in the proper Tory circles,” Tom said, staring. “Your brother is a Tory. He pretends to be a simple Cornish miner, but Lucas is the great-grandson of a baron. He has many connections.”

She felt an odd trepidation. “Lucas is really just a patriot,” she began.

“He is a conservative and a Tory.” Tom was firm. “He knows men with power, men with information, men close to Pitt and Windham. I am sure of it.”

She folded her arms, feeling defensive. “He has the right to his opinions, even if they oppose our views.”

“I didn’t say he didn’t. I merely said he is well connected. Better than you know.”

“Are you suggesting I go to London and spy on my brother and his peers?” She was aghast.

“I did not say that, but it is hardly an idea without merit.” He smiled. “You could go to London next month, since you cannot attend the convention in Edinburgh.”

Thomas Hardy had organized a convention of corresponding societies, and just about every society in the country was sending delegates to Edinburgh. Tom would represent their society. But with Britain having entered the war against France on the Continent, the stakes had changed. Radicals and radical clubs were no longer looked upon with patronizing amusement. There was talk of governmental repression. Everyone knew that the prime minister was intolerant of all radicals, as were many of the ministers around him, and so was King George.

It was time to send a message to the entire British government, and especially Prime Minister Pitt: they would not be repressed or opposed by the government, not now and not ever. They would continue to propagate and espouse the rights of man, and support the revolution in France. They would continue to oppose war with the new French Republic, as well.

Another smaller convention had been organized to take place in London, under Whitehall’s very nose. Julianne hoped she could find the means to attend, but a trip to London was costly. However, what was Tom really suggesting? “I am not spying on my brother, Tom. I hope you were in jest.”

“I was,” he assured her quickly. When she stared uncertainly, he added, “I was going to write our friends in Paris, but why don’t you do that?” Tom touched her chin. His eyes had softened. “You are such a better wordsmith than I am.”

She smiled at him, truly hoping that he hadn’t asked her to spy on Lucas, who was not a Tory and not at all involved in the war. “Yes, I am,” she said, hoping for levity.

“Let’s sit. We still have a good hour of discussion ahead,” he said, guiding her to a bench.

For the next hour, they discussed the recent events in France, motions in the House of Commons and Lords, and the latest political gossip in London. By the time the meeting had broken up, it was almost five o’clock in the evening. Tom walked her outside. “I know it’s early, but can you have supper with me?”

She hesitated. They’d shared supper last month after a society meeting. But when he’d been about to help her into her carriage, he’d restrained her, and then he had looked at her as if he wished to kiss her.

She hadn’t known what to do. He had kissed her once before, and it had been pleasant, but not earth-shattering. She loved him dearly, but she wasn’t interested in kissing him. Yet she was fairly certain that Tom was in love with her, and they had so much in common that she wanted to fall in love with him. He was such a good man and a dear friend.

She’d known him since childhood, but they had not become truly acquainted until two years ago, when they’d both discovered one another attending the Falmouth meeting. That had been the real beginning of their friendship. It was becoming clear to her that her feelings were more sisterly and platonic than romantic.

Still, dining with Tom was very enjoyable—they always had stimulating discussions. She was about to accept his invitation, when she faltered at the sight of a man riding his chestnut gelding up the street.

“Is that Lucas?” Tom asked, as surprised as she was.

“It most certainly is,” she said, beginning to smile. Lucas was seven years her senior, making him all of twenty-eight. He was a tall, muscular man with classically chiseled features, piercing gray eyes and golden hair. Women tried to catch his attention incessantly, but unlike Jack, who was a self-proclaimed rogue, Lucas was a gentleman. Rather aloof, he was a man of great discipline and greater duty, bent on maintaining the family and the estate.

Lucas had been more of a father figure for her than a brother, and she respected, admired and loved him dearly.

He halted his lathered mount in front of her and her delight in seeing him vanished. Lucas was grim. She suddenly thought of the bold sign just behind her back, welcoming newcomers to their meeting, and she hoped he wouldn’t see it.

Clad in a brown coat, a burgundy waistcoat, a lawn shirt and pale breeches, his black boots brown with dust, Luke leapt from his red gelding. He wasn’t wearing a wig and his hair was casually pulled back. “Hello, Tom.” He shook hands, unsmiling. “I see you continue to peddle sedition.”

Tom’s smile vanished. “That isn’t fair, Lucas.”

“War is never fair.” He turned a cold gray gaze on Julianne.

He had disapproved of her politics for several years now, and he had made himself very clear when France had declared war on them. She smiled, hesitantly.

“You are home. We weren’t expecting you.”

“Obviously. I have galloped the entire distance from Greystone, Julianne.” There was warning in his tone. Lucas had a fierce temper, when aroused. She saw he was very angry now.

She stiffened. “I take it you are looking for me?” What was this about? “Is there an emergency?” Her heart felt as if it had stopped. “Is it Momma? Or has Jack been caught?!”

“Momma is fine. So is Jack. I wish a private word and it cannot wait.”

Tom’s face fell. “Will you dine with me another time, Julianne?”

“Of course,” Julianne assured him. Tom bowed at Lucas, who did not move. When Tom was gone, she faced her brother, absolutely perplexed. “Are you angry with me?”

“I could not believe it when Billy told me you had gone into town to attend a meeting. I instantly knew what he meant,” he said, referring to the boy who came daily to help with the horses. “We have already discussed this, several times—and recently, since the King’s May Proclamation!”

She crossed her arms. “Yes, we have discussed our difference of opinions. And you know that you have no right to force your Tory views upon me.”

He colored, aware that she meant to insult him. “I hardly wish to change how you think,” he exclaimed. “But I intend to protect you from yourself. My God! The May Proclamation explicitly prohibits seditious meetings, Julianne. It was one thing to engage in such activity prior to the proclamation, but you cannot continue to do so now.”

In a way, he was right, she thought, and it had been childish to call him a Tory. “Why must you assume that our meeting was seditious?”

“Because I know you!” he exploded. “Crusading for the rights of every common man is a wonderful cause, Julianne, but we are at war, and you are supporting the government we are at war with. That is sedition—and it could even be construed as treason.” His gray eyes flashed. “Thank God we are in St. Just, where no one really gives a damn about our affairs, outside the customs agents!”

She trembled, thinking of that horrid dispute with the milliner. “We meet to discuss the events of the war and the events in France, and to espouse the views of Thomas Paine. That is all.” But she was well aware that, if the government ever wanted to bother with their small club, they would all be accused of sedition. Of course, Whitehall did not even know of their existence.

“You write to that damned club in Paris—and don’t deny it. Amelia told me.”

Julianne could not believe her sister had betrayed her trust.

“I took her into my confidence!”

“She wants to protect you from yourself, as well! You must stop attending these meetings. You must also stop all correspondence with that damned Jacobin club in France. This war is a very serious and dangerous business, Julianne. Men are dying every day—and not just on the battlefields of Flanders and the Rhine. They are dying in the streets of Paris and in the vineyards of the countryside!” His gaze on fire, he controlled his tone. “I have heard talk in London. Sedition will not be tolerated for much longer, not while our men are dying on the Continent, not while our friends are fleeing France in droves.”

“They are your friends, not mine.” And the moment she spoke, she couldn’t believe what she had said.

He flushed. “You would never turn away any human being in need, not even a French aristocrat.”

He was right. She drew herself even straighter. “I am sorry, Lucas, but you cannot order me about the way Jack does his sailors.”

“Oh, yes, I can. You are my sister. You are twenty-one years old. You are under my roof and in my care. I am the head of this family. You will do as I say—for once in your excessively independent life.”

She was uncertain. Should she continue on and simply—openly—defy him? What could he possibly do? He would never disown her and force her from Greystone.

“Are you thinking of defying me?” He was in disbelief. “After all I have done for you—all that I have promised to do for you?”

She flushed. Any other guardian would have forced her into wedlock by now. Lucas was hardly a romantic, but he seemed to want her to find a suitor she could be genuinely fond of. He had once told her that he couldn’t imagine her shackled to some conventional old squire, who thought political discourse insane babble. Instead, he wanted her matched with someone who would appreciate her outspoken opinions and unusual character, not disparage her for them.

“I can hardly change my principles,” she finally said. “Even if you are a wonderful brother—the most wonderful brother imaginable!”

“Do not try to flatter me now! I am not asking you to change your principles. I am asking you to be discreet, to act with caution and common sense. I am asking you to desist from these radical associations, while we are at war.”

She had a moral obligation to obey her older brother, yet she did not know if she was capable of doing as he had just asked. “You are putting me in a terrible position,” she said.

“Good,” he snapped. Then, “This is not why I have galloped my poor gelding across the entire parish to find you. We have a guest at Greystone.”

All thoughts of radical meetings vanished. Under normal circumstances, she would be alarmed at the news of an unexpected guest. They hadn’t been expecting Lucas, much less a guest. They had a single bottle of wine in the house. The guest room was unmade. The parlor had not been dusted. Neither had the front hall. Their cupboards were not full enough to support a dinner party. But Luke’s expression was so dire now that she did not think she need worry about cleaning the house or filling the pantry. “Lucas?”

“Jack brought him home a few hours ago.” He was grim. He turned to take up his horse’s reins. His back to her, he said, “I don’t know who he is. I am guessing that he must be a smuggler. In any case, I need you at home. Jack is already gone to get a surgeon. We must try to make the poor fellow comfortable, because he is at death’s door.”

GREYSTONE LOOMED AHEAD. It was a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old manor house, cast in pale stone, with high sloping slate roofs. Set atop rugged, near-white, treeless cliffs, against barren, colorless moors, surrounded only by a gray, bleak sky, it seemed stark and desolate.

Sennen Cove was below. Its wild tales of the adventures, mishaps and victories of smugglers, customs agents and revenue men were partly myth and partly history. For generations, the Greystone family had actively smuggled with the best of them. As deliberately, the family had looked the other way as the cove was laden with illegal cases of whiskey, tobacco and teas by their friends and neighbors, feigning ignorance of any illegal activity. There were evenings when the customs agent stationed at Penzance would dine in the manor with his wife and daughters, drinking some of the best French wine to be had, sharing the latest gossip with their hosts, as if the best of friends; on other evenings, beacon fires blazed, warning the smugglers below that the authorities were on the way. Jack’s ship would be at anchor, and the cove would explode with action as casks and cases were rushed into hiding in caves in the cliffs and Jack and his men fled the scene, the armed British authorities rushing down from the cliffs on foot, firing upon anyone who had been left behind.

Julianne had witnessed it all from the time she was a small child. No one in the parish thought smuggling a crime—it was a way of life.

Her legs ached terribly. So did her back. She rarely rode astride anymore, much less sidesaddle—her only option in her muslin dress. Keeping her balance at a brisk pace on the hired hack had been no easy task. Lucas had cast many concerned glances her way, and he had offered to pause for a moment so she could rest several times. Afraid that Amelia would linger with their neighbors and that the dying stranger was in the manor alone, she had refused.

The first thing she saw as she and Lucas trotted up the manor’s crushed-shell drive was the pair of carriage horses turned out behind the stone stables, which were set back from the house. Amelia was already home.

They hurriedly dismounted. Lucas took her reins. “I’ll take care of the horses.” He smiled at her. “You will be sore tomorrow.”

They were no longer arguing. “I am sore now.”

He led the pair of geldings away.

Julianne lifted her pale skirts and rushed up the manor’s two front steps. The house was a simple rectangle, longer than it was tall or wide, with three floors. The topmost floor contained attics and, once upon a time, living quarters for the servants they no longer had. The front hall remained in its original form. It was a large room, once used for dining and entertaining. The floors were dark gray stone, the walls a lighter version of the same stone. Two ancestral portraits and a pair of ancient swords decorated the walls; at one end of the hall there was a massive fireplace and two stately burgundy chairs. The ceilings were timbered.

Julianne rushed through the hall, past a small, quaint parlor with mostly modern furnishings; a small, dark library; and the dining room. She started up the narrow stairs.

Amelia was coming down. She held wet rags and a pitcher. Both women faltered as they saw one another. “Is he all right?” Julianne cried immediately.

Amelia was as petite as Julianne was tall. Her dark blond hair was pulled severely back, and her expression was characteristically serious, but her face lit up with relief now. “Thank the lord you are home! You know that Jack dropped off a dying man?” She was disbelieving.

“That is just like Jack!” Julianne snapped. Of course, by now, Jack was gone. “Lucas told me. He is outside with the horses. What can I do?”

Amelia turned abruptly and led the way up the stairs, her small body tight with tension. She marched quickly down the hall, which was dark, the wall sconces unlit, family portraits dating back two hundred years lining the corridor. Lucas had taken over the master suite long ago and Jack had his own bedchamber, but she and Amelia shared a room. Neither one cared, as the room was used only for sleeping. But the single guest chamber that remained had been left mostly untouched. Guests were rare at Greystone.

Glancing grimly at Julianne, she paused before the open door of the guest bedroom. “Doctor Eakins just left.”

The guest room looked out over the rocky beaches of the cove and the Atlantic Ocean. The sun was setting, filling the small chamber with light. The room contained a small bed, a table and two chairs, a bureau and an armoire. Julianne faltered, her gaze going to the man on the bed.

Her heart lurched oddly.

The dying man was shirtless, a sheet loosely draped to his hips. She didn’t mean to stare, but stretched out as he was, little was left to the imagination—the man was very big and very dark, a mass of sculpted muscle. She stared for one moment longer, hardly accustomed to the sight of a bare-chested man, much less one with such a powerful physique.

“He was on his abdomen a moment ago. He must have turned over when I left,” Amelia said sharply. “He was shot at close range in the back. Doctor Eakins said he has lost a great deal of blood. He is in pain.”

Julianne now saw that his breeches were bloodstained and dirty. She wondered if the bloodstains had come from his wound—or someone else’s. She didn’t want to look at his lean hips or his powerful thighs, so she quickly looked at his face.

Her heart slammed. Their guest was a very handsome man with swarthy skin, pitch-black hair, high cheekbones and a straight, patrician nose. Thick dark lashes were fanned out on his face.

She averted her eyes. Her heart seemed to be racing wildly, which was absurd.

Amelia thrust the wet cloth and pitcher into her arms and rushed forward. Julianne somehow looked up, aware of how hot her cheeks were. “Is he breathing?” she heard herself ask.

“I don’t know.” Amelia touched his forehead. “To make matters even worse, he has an infection, as the wound was not properly cared for. Doctor Eakins was not optimistic.” She turned. “I am going to send Billy down for seawater.”

“He should bring a full pail,” Julianne said. “I’ll sit with him.”

“When Lucas comes in, we will turn him back over.” Amelia hurried from the bedchamber.

Julianne hesitated, staring at the stranger, then pinched herself. The poor man was dying; he needed her help.

She set pitcher and cloth down on the table and approached. Very carefully, she sat beside him, her heart racing all over again. His chest wasn’t moving. She lowered her cheek to his mouth, and it was a moment before she felt a small puff of his breath. Thank God he was alive.

“Pour la victoire.”

She straightened as if shot. Her gaze slammed to his face. His eyes remained closed, but he had just spoken—in French—with the accent of a Frenchman! She was certain he had just said, “For victory.”

It was a common cry amongst the French revolutionaries, but he resembled a nobleman, with his patrician features. She glanced at his hands—nobles had hands as soft as a babe’s. His knuckles were cut open and crusted with blood, his palms calloused.

She bit her lip. Being this close made her uncomfortably aware of him. Perhaps it was of his near nudity, or his sheer masculinity. She inhaled, hoping to relieve some tension. “Monsieur? Êtes-vous français?”

He did not move as Lucas said, “Is he awake?”

Julianne half-turned as her brother entered the room. “No. But he spoke in his sleep. He spoke in French, Lucas.”

“He isn’t asleep. He is unconscious. Amelia said he is with fever now.”

Julianne hesitated, then dared to lay her palm on his brow. “He is very hot, Lucas.”

“Can you tend him, Julianne?”

She looked at her brother, wondering if his tone had been odd. “Of course I can. We’ll keep him wrapped in wet sheets. Are you sure Jack didn’t say anything about who he is? Is he French?”

“Jack doesn’t know who he is.” Lucas was firm. “I want to stay but I have to get back to London tomorrow.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m examining a new contract for our iron ore. But I’m not sure I like leaving you and Amelia alone with him.” His glance was on their guest again.

She stared, and finally Lucas stared back. When he chose to be impassive, it was impossible to know what he was thinking. “Surely you don’t think he might be dangerous?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

Julianne nodded, turning back to her charge. There was something odd about that exchange, she thought. She suddenly wondered if her brother knew who their guest was—but didn’t want to say so. She turned to glance after him, but he was gone.

There was no earthly reason for him to withhold any information from her. If he knew who this man was, he would surely tell her. She was obviously wrong.

She stared at the dark stranger, hating not being able to help him. She pushed a hank of thick, dark hair out of his face. As she did, he thrashed so suddenly that his arm struck her thigh. She leapt up in alarm as he cried, “Ou est-elle? Qui est responsible? Qu’est il arrivé?”

Where is she? Who has done this? she silently translated. He thrashed again, even more forcefully, and Julianne was afraid he would hurt himself. He moaned loudly, in obvious pain.

She sat back down on the bed, by his hip. She stroked his hot shoulder. “Monsieur, je m’appele Julianne. Il faut que vous reposiez maintenant.”

He was breathing hard now, she saw, but he wasn’t moving and he felt warmer than before. Yet that had to be her imagination. And then he started to speak.

For one moment, she thought he was trying to speak to her. But he spoke so rapidly and furiously, so desperately, that she realized he was delirious.

“Please,” she said softly, deciding to speak only in French. “You have a fever. Please, try to sleep.”

“Non! Nous ne pouvons pas nous retirer!” It was hard to understand him, but she strained to make sense of the rapid-fire, jumbled words. We cannot go back now, he had said. There was no doubt in her mind that he was French. No Englishman could have such a perfect accent. No Englishman would speak in a second language while in a delirium.

Julianne crouched by his side, trying to understand him. But he was thrashing violently, enough so that he rolled onto his back, all the while shouting. He cursed. They could not go back. They could not retreat! Was he speaking about a battle? He shouted. So many had died, but they had to hold this line! No, no, he screamed. Do not retreat! Hold the line! For liberty!

Julianne clasped his hot shoulder, tears blurring her eyes. He was most definitely reliving a terrible battle that he and his men were losing. My God—could he be a French army officer?

“Pour la liberté!” he cried. “Go on, go on!”

She stroked his shoulder, trying to offer him comfort.

The river was filled with blood… Too many had died… The priest had died… They had to retreat. The day was lost!

He wept.

She did not know what to do. She had never seen a grown man cry. “You are delirious, monsieur,” she tried. “But you are safe now, here, with me.”

He lay panting, his cheeks wet with tears, his chest shining with perspiration.

“I am so sorry for what you have suffered,” she told him. “We are not on the battlefield. We are in my home, in Britain. You will be safe here, even if you are a Jacobin. I will hide you and protect you—I promise you that!”

He suddenly seemed to relax. Julianne wondered if he was sleeping.

She inhaled, shaken to the core of her being. He was a French army officer, she was certain. He might even be a nobleman—some of the French nobility had supported the revolution and now supported the Republic. He had suffered a terrible defeat in which many of his men had died and it was haunting him. She ached for him. But how on earth had Jack found him? Jack did not support the revolution, yet he wasn’t exactly a British patriot, either. He had told her once that the war suited him immensely—smuggling was even more profitable now than it had been before the revolution.

The man was so hot to the touch. She stroked his brow, suddenly angry—where was Amelia? Where was the ocean water? “You are burning up, monsieur,” Julianne told him, continuing in his native tongue. “You must be still and get better.”

They had to get his fever down. She re-wet the cloth, and this time, stroked it over his neck and shoulders. Then she laid the cloth there, picking up and wetting another one.

“At least you are resting now,” she said softly, then realized she had lapsed into English. She repeated what she had said in French, sliding the cloth across his chest. Her pulse accelerated.

She had just laid the wet cloth on his chest again, where she meant to leave it, when he seized her wrist violently. She cried out, shocked, and her gaze flew to his face.

His green eyes were blazing with fury.

Frightened, she gasped, “Êtes vous reveillé?” Are you awake?

He did not release her, but his grasp gentled. So did his eyes. “Nadine?” he whispered hoarsely.

Who was Nadine? Of course, she knew—the woman was his lady love or his wife. It was hard to speak. She wet her lips. “Monsieur, you have been wounded in battle. I am Julianne. I am here to help you.”

His stare was feverish, not lucid. And then suddenly he reached for her shoulder, still holding her wrist.

He winced, breathing hard, but his gaze did not waver. An odd light flickered there and she became breathless.

He slowly smiled. “Nadine.” And his strong, powerful hand slid across her shoulder, to the back of her neck. Before she could protest or ask him what he was doing, he began to pull her face down toward his.

In shock, she realized he meant to kiss her!

His smile was infinitely seductive, confident and promising. And then his lips were plying hers.

Julianne gasped, but she did not try to move away from him. Instead, she went still, allowing him the shocking liberty, her heart lurching, her body tightening. Desire fisted, hard.

It was a desire she had never before felt.

Then she realized that he had stopped kissing her. She was breathing hard against his motionless mouth. She was acutely aware of the fire raging in her own body. It took her a moment to realize that he was unconscious again.

Julianne sat up straight, in shock. Her mind scrambled and raced. He had kissed her! He was with fever; he was delirious. He hadn’t known what he was doing!

Did it even matter?

He had kissed her and she had responded as she hadn’t dreamed possible.

And he was a French army officer—a revolutionary hero.

She looked at him. “Whoever you are, you are not going to die—I won’t allow it,” she said.

He was so still that he could have been a corpse.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE WERE DOZENS of men in the mob, screaming in rage, fists shaking in the air, and he knew he must run… As he did, the cobblestones beneath his feet changed, turning red. He did not understand—and then he realized he was running in a river of blood!

He cried out, as the stately Parisian buildings vanished. Now, the river of blood was filled with screaming, dying men. Panic and fear consumed him.

And he knew he must wake up.

He felt cotton beneath his hands, not dirt, not blood. He fought the bloody river and saw Nadine smiling at him, her eyes shining, the moon full and bright behind her. He had kissed her—except, that wasn’t right, because Nadine was dead....

Nadine was dead, and he was lying in a bed— Where was he?

Terribly drained, Dominic realized that he had been dreaming. His memories remained jumbled, and dread and fear filled him, but he fought the rising panic. He had to think clearly. It was a matter of life and death.

It wasn’t safe for him to remain in France now.

Someone knew who he really was.

And he recalled being ambushed outside Michel’s apartments. He tensed with more fear and alarm, fighting both emotions. And all of his memories of the past year and a half returned forcefully then. He had gone to France to find his mother and fiancée and bring them home to England. He had never found Nadine, but he had found his mother, hiding above a bakery in Paris, her townhome destroyed. After seeing her safely aboard a Britain-bound ship at Le Havre, he had returned to Paris, hoping to find Nadine.

He had never meant to stay in France, gathering information for his country. Although his mother, Catherine Fortescue, was a Frenchwoman, his father was the earl of Bedford and he was an Englishman to the core. Dominic Paget had been born on the family estate at Bedford. An only child, he had been educated at Eton and Oxford. With William Paget’s passing, he had inherited both the title and the earldom. Although he took up his seat in the Lords several times a year—he felt a duty to the country as a whole, for he must also look after Bedford’s interests—politics had never interested him. In fact, several years ago he had turned down a position in Pitt’s ministry. His responsibilities were clear—and they were to the earldom.

He hadn’t discovered what had happened to Nadine. She had last been seen in the riot that had destroyed his mother’s home. Catherine feared that she had been trampled to death by the mob. When he had returned to Britain, he had been concerned enough about the revolution in France to meet with several of his peers, including Edmund Burke, a man with great political connections. The information Dominic had gleaned while he was in France was so unsettling that Burke had introduced him to Prime Minister Pitt. But it was Sebastian Warlock who had persuaded him to return to France—this time with one single ambition: espionage.

It was impossible to determine who had learned the truth about Jean-Jacques Carre—the identity he had assumed. It could have been any one of dozens of Parisians, or even a mole planted amongst Michel’s command. But someone had discovered that Carre was no print-shop owner and no Jacobin. Someone had learned that he was really an Englishman and an agent.

His tension escalated wildly now. He was frighteningly weak—and thus vulnerable. Pain stabbed through his back with every breath he took.

Was he with friends—or foes?

Was he still in France?

Afraid and fully alert, he noted that he was not shackled. Very carefully, he opened his eyes, just enough so he could peek out through his lashes.

He did not change the pattern of his breathing. He did not move a single muscle, other than his eyelids. He sensed he was not alone. He wanted whoever was with him—whoever was guarding him—to think he was asleep.

The vague outlines of a small bedroom came into his line of vision. He saw an armoire, a window. A moment later, he smelled the tang in the air, and tasted its salt.

He was near the coast, but what coast?

He fought fiercely to retrieve every possible memory. Had he dreamed of a long journey in the back of a wagon, mostly by night? Had he dreamed of the rocking of a ship, the creaking of masts, the whisper of canvas—and being in the throes of a terrible agony? What happened to him after he had been shot? Hazy images tried to form, and suddenly he thought he remembered a woman with titian hair, hovering over him, bathing him, caring for him.

And then a woman moved into his line of vision, bending over him. He glimpsed titian hair, her pale visage, an ivory dress.

She murmured, “Monsieur?”

Dominic recognized the sound of her voice. So she had cared for him; it had not been a dream.

He could not assume that she was a friend and an ally. Could he defend himself if necessary? Escape? He was so exhausted, so weak! Who was she and why had she nursed him through his illness? Was she a friend of Michel’s? How had he come into her care? He debated waiting her out—sooner or later, she would leave him, and then he could decide what predicament he was in. His first order of business would be to search the room, then the house. He had to discern his location. And he needed a weapon with which to defend himself.

On the other hand, she could not be alone. She had to have comrades. When she left, someone else might be sent to guard him, and it might even be a man.

He opened his eyes fully and looked into the startled gray gaze of the woman.

She was seated in a chair, pulled up to his bedside, a writing tablet on her lap, a quill in her hand. She started and whispered, “Monsieur, vous êtes reveillé?”

He had no intention of answering her, not yet. Instead, he took a quick inventory of his surroundings. He saw that he lay in a narrow bed in a room he did not recognize. The chamber was a modest one, simply furnished, and it was hard to discern if he was in a bourgeois’s or a nobleman’s home. If the latter, they were impoverished.

One window let in the daylight—it was early afternoon. The sunlight was gray and weak, not at all like the bright summer sunshine in the Loire Valley.

How had he gotten to this bedchamber? Had he been taken in a wagon and then a ship—or had that been a dream? Damn it, he did not recall anything after being shot in the alley in Nantes! The only thing he was now certain of was that he was on the coast—but where? He could be in Le Havre or Brest, he thought, but he was uncertain. He could be in Dover, or Plymouth. Even if he was in England, he had to protect his identity. No one could ever guess that he was a British agent.

But she had spoken to him in French.

She spoke again. He became absolutely still, focusing on her, as the woman repeated what she had said before. “Sir, are you awake?”

Her color was high, a question in her eyes. Although she was speaking French, she had a slight accent. He felt certain she was English. And that should relieve him—except, he did not like the fact that she was speaking in French. Was she partly French, as he was? Or did she assume him to be a Frenchman, for whatever reason? Had she met him when he was undercover? Did she know the truth or any part of it? Where did her sympathies lie? If only he could remember more!

And why the hell was he stark naked beneath the thin sheets?

She suddenly got up. He watched her warily as she walked across the room, noticing that her figure was very pleasing, not that he really cared. She might be an ally—or she might be the enemy. And he would do whatever necessary to survive. Seducing her was not out of the question.

He now saw that she was putting the tablet and the parchment on the table, placing the quill into an inkwell there. She took up a cloth, dipping it in a basin of water. He did not relax. The hazy images became more focused, of this woman bending over him and bathing him with the cloth…of her face, close to his, as he prepared to kiss her....

He had kissed her. He was certain of it.

His interest sharpened. What had happened between them? Surely this was to his advantage.

She returned, her face pale except for two bright splotches of pink on her cheeks. She sat, wringing out the cloth, as he watched her closely, waiting to see what she would do next. His body stirred.

In France, living on the verge of death every day, he had lost all the morality he had been raised with. There had been so many French women in his bed, some pretty, some not, very few whose names he had even known, much less recalled. Life was short—too short. He had realized that morality was a useless endeavor in a time of war and revolution.

The images he had awoken to were always there, in the back of his mind, haunting him. That enraged mob, the bloody street and then the bloody river in Saumur. The family he had seen guillotined, the priest who had died in his arms. His morality had died long ago, perhaps with Nadine. Sex was entertainment, an escape, because death was the only certainty in his life.

Tomorrow, someone could assassinate him.

Tomorrow, an enraged mob could drag him from this house and stone him to death, or he could be led in chains, past cheering crowds to the guillotine.

She smiled slightly and then she laid the cool cloth on his forehead.

He flinched, surprising them both. Then he seized her wrist. “Qui êtes vous?” Who are you? She had spoken to him in French, so he spoke back to her in that language, as well. Until he knew where he was and who she was—and if it was safe to reveal himself—he would simply follow her lead.

She gasped. “Monsieur, you are awake! I am so very glad!”

He did not release her. Instead, he pulled her closer, down toward him, his heart racing with his fear. He hated this vacuum of knowledge; he had to find out who she was and where he was. “Who are you? Where am I?”

She seemed frozen, mere inches between their faces now. “I am Julianne Greystone, monsieur. I have been caring for you. You are at my family home, and you are safe here.”

He studied her, not willing to relax. The fact that she spoke of his being safe meant that she knew something of his activities. Why else would she suggest that he might otherwise be in danger? And who did she believe him to be in danger from? The Jacobins? Someone specific—like the assassin in Nantes?

Or did she think him in danger from his own allies? Did she think him a Frenchman in danger from the British?

Was her family home in England—or France? Why did she keep speaking in French?

She wet her lips and whispered hoarsely, “Are you feeling better? The fever has broken, but you remain so pale, monsieur.”

He fought a sudden wave of dizziness. God, he was so weak. He released her. But he did not regret intimidating her. He wanted her nervous and flustered and easily manipulated.

“I am sore, mademoiselle. My back aches, but yes, I am better.”

“You were shot in the back, monsieur. It was very serious,” she said softly. “You were very ill. We feared for your life.”

“We?”

“My sister, my brothers and I.”

There were men in the house, he thought. “Did you all care for me?”

“My brothers are not here. I cared for you mostly, monsieur, although my sister, Amelia, has helped, when she is not caring for Momma.” Her color increased.

He was alone with three women.

He was relieved, but only slightly. Of course he would work this situation to his advantage. He might be terribly weak, but he would find a weapon, and three women would not be a match for him—they must not be a match for him, not if he meant to survive. “Then it seems, mademoiselle, that I am entirely in your debt.”

Impossibly, she blushed another time and leapt to her feet. “Nonsense, monsieur.”

He studied her. She was very susceptible to seduction, he thought. “Do you fear me, mademoiselle?” he asked softly. She was very nervous.

“No! Of course not!”

“Good. There is nothing to fear, after all.” He slowly smiled. They had kissed. She had undressed him. Was that why she was so nervous?

She bit her lip. “You have suffered through an ordeal. I am relieved you are well.”

How much did she know? “Yes, I have.” He was calm. He hoped she would continue and tell him how he had gotten to that house, and what had happened to him after Nantes.

She fell silent, but her gray gaze never wavered.

She would not enlighten him, he thought; he would have to draw her out. “I am sorry to have put you out. Surely there are servants to do your bidding?”

It was a moment before she spoke. “We have no servants, monsieur. There is a stable boy, but he comes for just a few hours every day.”

There was more relief, but he remained wary.

“You are staring,” she said hoarsely.

He glanced at her hands, which she clasped tightly against her white muslin skirts. There was no wedding band, no diamond ring—there were no rings at all. “You have saved my life, mademoiselle, so I am curious about you.”

Her elegant hands lifted. She crossed them over her chest, defensively—or nervously. “You were in need. How could I not help?” Then, “You have not told me your name.”

The lie came as naturally as breathing. “Charles Maurice. I am forever in your debt.”

She finally smiled at him.

“You do not owe me,” she said firmly. She hesitated. “You must be hungry. I will be right back.”

The moment he heard her footsteps fading in the hall, he sat up and tossed the covers aside, about to stand. Pain shot through his back and chest. He froze, moaning.

And the room spun.

Damn it!

He refused to lie back down. It took him an endless moment to fight the pain, to will away the dizziness. He was in far worse condition than he had assumed. Then, slowly and carefully, he stood up.

He leaned against the wall, exhausted. It took a moment for the room to stop turning. But the minute the room was still, he staggered to the armoire. To his dismay, it was empty. Where were his clothes?

He cursed again. Then he moved to the window, his balance precarious enough that he knocked the chair over. There, he gripped the sill and stared past the barren cliffs at the ocean beyond them.

He had no doubt it was the Atlantic Ocean he gazed upon. He knew the steel-gray color of those often stormy waters. And then he stared at the pale rock cliffs, the desolate, flat landscape. In the distance, he saw the silhouette of a lone tower. He was not in Brest, he thought. The landscape looked very much like that of Cornwall.

Cornwall was renowned for its Jacobin sympathies. He turned, leaning against the sill for balance. The small table was before him, with her writing tablet, the inkwell, and the parchment page. He took two steps to the table, grunted hard and seized its edge to keep from falling down.

Dominic cursed again. He wasn’t going to be able to run from anyone if he had to, not in the next few days. He wouldn’t be able to even seduce her, for that matter.

His gaze found the parchment. She had been writing the letter in French.

Dread arose. He seized it and read the first line.

My dear friends, I am writing to celebrate with you the recent victories in the National Assembly, and especially the triumph of establishing a new Constitution, giving every man the right to vote.

She was a damned Jacobin.

She was the enemy.

And now, the words seemed to gray on the pale page. Somehow, he managed to read the next lines.

Our Society is hoping that more victories over the Opposition will come. We want to ask you how we can further aid our cause of equality and liberty in France, and throughout the Continent.

The words were now blurring rapidly, and becoming darker, and he could not make them out. He stared blindly at the vellum. She was a Jacobin.

Was she playing cat and mouse with him? he wondered. In France, everyone spied on their neighbors, looking for rebels and traitors. Was it now the same in Britain? As a Jacobin, was she hunting men like him? Hoping to identify British agents, and then intending to betray them?

Or did she think him a Frenchman? Now, he must make certain she never knew he was an Englishman. And how much did she know? Did she know he had just come from France? He needed information, damn it!

He was sweating and out of breath. Agitation was more than he could manage, in his state. Too late, he realized that the floor was undulating beneath him. He dropped the page, cursing.

Dark shadows were closing in on him.

It was hard to breathe. The room was spinning slowly, with all of its furnishings.

He must not faint now.

Dom finally sank to the floor. As he lay there, struggling to remain conscious, he heard the footsteps rushing at him. Fear stabbed through him.

“Monsieur!”

He fought to remain alert, so hard, sweat covered his entire body. His fists clenched and he inhaled, opening his eyes. The first thing he saw was her gray gaze, trained upon his face, as she knelt over him. Her expression seemed to be one of worry.

Miraculously, the room stopped swimming.

He stared up at her and she gaze down at him with great anxiety.

He was riddled with tension, lying prone beneath her. He was too weak to defend himself and he knew it. She must realize it, too.

But a weapon did not appear in her hand. Instead, she touched his bare shoulders, clasping them. “Monsieur! Did you faint?” Her tone was hoarse. And then he realized why.

He was naked; she was entirely clothed.

“I fell, mademoiselle,” he lied smoothly. He would never let her know how weak he was. She must believe him capable of self-defense—even aggression. Somehow, he lifted his hand and touched her cheek. “You remain my savior.”

For one moment, their gazes collided. Then she leapt to her feet, turning her head away, to avoid looking at his body now. She was crimson.

He felt certain she had never seen a naked man before. Her inexperience would make her easy to manipulate. “I beg your pardon,” he said, praying he would not collapse again as he sat up. “I cannot find my clothes.”

“Your clothes,” she said roughly, “were laundered.”

He saw that she had her glance averted still, so he stood. He wanted to collapse upon the mattress; instead, he pulled the sheet from it and wrapped it around his waist. “Did you undress me?” He glanced at her.

“No.” She refused to look at him. “My brother did—we had to give you a sea bath, to reduce the fever.”

He sat on the bed. Pain exploded but he ignored it. Long ago, he had mastered the skill of keeping his expression frozen. “Then I thank you again.”

“You came to us only in breeches and boots, monsieur. The breeches are not dry yet. It has rained since you came to us. But I will bring you a pair of my brother Lucas’s breeches.”

He now sought her gaze until she met it. She remained undone by having glimpsed him unclothed. If he were fortunate, she hadn’t noticed how incapacitated he was. He smiled. “I would appreciate a shirt, as well.”

She looked at him as if he had spoken a foreign language she did not understand. Nor did she find humor in his remark.

He sobered. “I am sorry if I have offended your sensibilities, mademoiselle.”

“What were you attempting to do, monsieur? Why would you arise without my help?”

He was about to respond when he saw her letter, lying on the floor behind her, where he had dropped it. He knew better than to try to avert his eyes; she had already turned, to look behind her.

He said softly, “When I fell, I knocked over the chair and I also bumped into the table. I apologize. I hope I have not broken the chair.”

She swiftly retrieved the letter and placed it by the inkwell; as quickly, she lifted and righted the chair.

“I was thinking to open the window for some fresh air,” he added.

Without turning, she hurried to the window, unlatched it and pressed it outward. A cool blast of Atlantic air rushed into the room.

He studied her very closely.

She suddenly turned and caught him staring.

And he knew he did not mistake the new tension that had arisen between them.

Finally, she smiled back slightly. “I am sorry. You must think me very foolish. I…did not expect to return to the chamber and find you on the floor.”

She was a good liar—but not as good as he was. “No,” he said, “I think you very beautiful.”

She went still.

He lowered his gaze. A silence fell. To be safe, he thought, all he had to do was play her.

Unless, of course, she was the spy he feared, and her naiveté was theatrics. In that case, she was the one playing him.

“JULIANNE? WHY ARE YOU so concerned?” Amelia said.

They stood on the threshold of the guest bedchamber, looking into the room. It was a starry night outside, and Julianne had lit the fire, illuminating the chamber. Charles remained asleep and his supper tray was on the table, untouched.

She was never going to forget the fear that had stabbed through her when she had found him lying on the floor; for one moment, she had been afraid that he had died! But he hadn’t been dead, he had fallen. When he had slowly stood up—absolutely, magnificently, shockingly naked—she had pretended not to look, but she had been incapable of looking away. “It has been over twenty-four hours since he last awoke,” she said.

“He is recovering from a terrible wound,” Amelia pointed out, her tone hushed. “You are beginning to remind me of a mother hen.”

Julianne flinched. Amelia was right, she was worried—she wanted him to wake up, so she could be reassured. But then what? “That is nonsense. I am merely concerned, as anyone would be.”

Amelia stared, hands on her small hips. “Julianne, I may not have spoken with him as you have, but I am hardly blind. Even asleep, he is a very attractive man.”

She fought to remain impassive. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Amelia laughed, a rather rare sound for her. “Oh, please. I have noticed that when you are with him, you cannot keep your eyes to yourself. It is a good thing he has been sleeping, or he would have caught you ogling him! But I am glad. I had begun to wonder if you are immune to men.”

Amelia might not sound so cheerful if she knew what Julianne knew about their guest—and Julianne would soon have to tell her, as they were all under one small roof. Amelia was apolitical. Still, she was a patriot, and the most rational person Julianne knew. She would be horrified to learn that they were harboring an enemy of the state.

“My, that sounds like the pot calling the kettle black,” Julianne said quickly, changing the subject.

Amelia said softly, “I wasn’t always immune to handsome men, Julianne.”

Julianne immediately regretted having taken such a tack. She had been only twelve years old the summer Amelia had fallen in love with the earl of St. Just’s younger son, but she recalled their brief, passionate courtship. She remembered standing at the window downstairs, watching the two of them gallop away from the house, Simon Grenville in pursuit of her sister. He had been so dashing, he had seemed to be a veritable black prince, and she had thought her sister terribly fortunate. She also recalled Amelia’s shock when they had learned of his brother’s death. He had been summoned to London, and Julianne remembered thinking that her sister shouldn’t cry, for Simon loved her and he would be back. But she had been naive and foolish. He hadn’t returned. Amelia had cried herself to sleep for weeks on end, her heart broken.

Apparently Simon had quickly forgotten Amelia. Julianne did not think he had ever written, not a single missive, and two years later he had married the daughter of a viscount. In the past nine years, he had not been to the seat of his earldom, just to the north of St. Just, even once.

Julianne knew that Amelia had never forgotten him. The year after St. Just left, Amelia had turned down two very good offers, from a young, well-off barrister and a handsome officer in the royal navy. And then there were no more offers....

“I am twenty five years old, and no beauty,” she said, matter-of-fact now. “My dowry is sparse and I am committed to taking care of Momma. If I am immune to men, it is by choice.”

“You are very attractive, but you seem to want to vanish in plain sight!” Julianne hesitated. “Maybe one day you will meet someone who makes your heart race.” She blushed as she thought about Charles Maurice.

“I hope not!”

Julianne knew she must drop the sore subject. “Very well. I am not blind, so yes, Monsieur Maurice is rather handsome. And he was so grateful when he awoke. He was charming.” Charles Maurice was very eloquent, indicating some education and perhaps a genteel background. And he was dangerously charming.

“Ah, if that last part is true, then clearly, he has won your fickle heart!”

Julianne knew she was being teased, but she could not smile. She had thought about their guest night and day, well before he had awoken. She hoped she wasn’t as infatuated with the French stranger as she seemed to be. Maybe this was the right time to reveal his identity to her sister.

“Julianne?” Amelia asked.

Julianne pulled her out of the doorway. “There is something you should know.”

Amelia stared. “Obviously I am not going to like it.”

“No, I don’t think you will. You know Monsieur Maurice is a Frenchman, as I told you, Amelia…but he is not an émigré.”

Amelia blinked. “What are you saying? Surely he is a smuggler, like Jack.”

She wet her lips and said, “He is a French army officer, Amelia. He has survived terrible battles and the loss of so many of his men!”

Amelia gasped. “And how did you reach such a conclusion? Did he tell you this when he was awake?”

“He was delirious,” Julianne began.

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.”

“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.

“Is he a radical, then, as you are?”

She was grim. “No.”

“Julianne?”

“I am afraid that my brother Lucas is a patriot,” she said carefully. “He is a conservative. But he has no time for politics. He manages this estate, monsieur, providing for this family, and that occupies all of his time. He is rarely here—and I would never tell him who you are, if he suddenly appeared.”

“So you would withhold the truth about me from your own brother in order to protect me?”

She smiled weakly. “Yes, I would.”

“You believe that he would turn me in.”

“No! He could not do any such thing, anyway, because we would never tell him who you are.”

“Are you expecting him in the near future?”

“He always sends word when he is returning. You do not have to worry about him.” But Lucas hadn’t sent word a week ago; he had simply appeared. She decided not to tell Charles that.

He scrutinized her and said, “And your other brother?”

“Jack doesn’t care about this war, not one way or another.”

“Really?” He was mildly disbelieving.

“He is a smuggler, monsieur. The war has raised the price of whiskey, tobacco and tea—indeed, it has raised the price of many items—and he says it is good for his business.”

He rubbed his neck again, and sighed. “Good.”

She didn’t blame him for his questions. Of course he would want to know who the members of her family were—and what their politics were, as well. He would want to know if he was safe. She watched him massage his neck. Was his tension that great? How could it not be? “I have been wondering why Jack brought you here.”

He looked at her.

When he did not respond, when she could not decipher his direct regard, she said, “I haven’t seen Jack since he brought you here—he comes and goes very erratically, and he was gone when I arrived at the manor and found you here in a terrible state. I have been wondering about it. Lucas only said that Jack found you bleeding to death on the wharf in Brest.”

He hesitated. “I have a confession to make, Julianne. I do not remember how I got here.”

She was stunned. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she cried, concerned.

“We have just barely become acquainted.”

She could not absorb that explanation. Why hadn’t he asked her how he had gotten to the manor, if he couldn’t recall it? How odd! But she felt terribly for him. “What do you remember? Are there other memory lapses?”

“I recall being wounded in battle,” he said. “We were fighting the La Vendée royalists. The moment I felt that ball in my back, I knew I was in dire jeopardy. Everything became a haze of pain—and then it was simply darkness.”

He had been in that great battle against the La Vendée royalists! When she had told him the news of the rout, he hadn’t even blinked. She wondered why he hadn’t revealed how pleased he was—for surely their defeat had thrilled him. It seemed odd that he would receive news of his last battle with such an impassive demeanor. “Isn’t Nantes inland?”

He studied the table. “I suppose my men brought me to Brest. I wish I could remember. They might have been looking for a surgeon—we are always short on surgeons. Perhaps we got separated and cut off from our troops. Perhaps they were deserters.” He now looked up at her. “There are a number of possible scenarios. They may have even decided to leave me behind and let me die when they reached Brest.”

She was shaken. How could his men have left him to die? Had they been such cowards? He was staring closely at her now. She trembled. “Thank God Jack found you! I didn’t understand why he brought you to Cornwall,” she said, their gazes locked, “but maybe he mistook you for a fellow smuggler. Knowing my brother, he might have been in a rush to disembark. He is usually on the run from one navy or another, or the revenue men. I am guessing that instead of leaving you to die, he simply brought you on board his ship and cast off. Lucas must also have thought you were a smuggler.”

“No matter what happened, I am fortunate, am I not? Had Jack not rescued me, I would not be here now, with you.”

His regard was filled with significance. “I am so glad he rescued you,” she said softly. “Jack will be back, sooner or later, and then we can find out what really happened.”

He reached across the table and took her hand and enclosed it in his larger one. “Fate put me in your hands,” he said. “Isn’t that enough, for now? You have saved my life.”

His soft tone washed through her, causing so much tension.

As she watched him, he sighed, releasing her hand and rubbing his neck again. “Thank God,” he said softly, “for Jack.”

She watched him rub his neck.

He caught her watching him and grimaced. “I have been in bed for far too long, I think. My neck is terribly stiff.”

The tension within her thickened. She could help him—if she dared. “Are you in pain?”

“Some.”

Her heart went out to him. She wanted to comfort him. But there was more. She wanted to touch him.

She had bathed him while he was unconscious. She knew what his skin felt like, what his muscles felt like. In the space of seconds, she was breathless.

She slowly stood up, barely able to believe herself. She felt like a different woman, someone older, wiser and experienced. The Julianne she knew—that her family and friends knew—would never do what she meant to do now.

His eyes became languid and watchful.

She whispered, “Can I help ease you, monsieur?”

He was looking up at her. “Oui.”

She walked around the table, toward him. She moved behind him, almost dazed. She began kneading his neck.

He made a deep, guttural sound. It was terribly male and terribly sensual.

Desire renewed itself, instantly. All other thoughts vanished and she began to increase the pressure on the knotted muscles of his neck with her thumbs, trying not to tremble, trying not to breathe. And as she did so, she felt the muscles there soften slightly; his head tilted back.

If he knew he had lain his head against her breasts, he gave no sign.

JULIANNE HAD ALREADY CHECKED upon Charles several times that morning, but he had been asleep. Still, he was recovering from being shot and the resulting infection—and she hadn’t left his bedchamber till half past ten last night.

She bit her lip. It was noon now. Her heart was racing like a schoolgirl’s, she thought, pausing in the corridor outside his door. Had she imagined it, or was something wonderful happening? He found her beautiful—he had said so, several times. He seemed as aware of her as she was of him. And they were both passionate revolutionaries. What if they were falling in love?

If only she were more experienced. She had never been as interested in anyone before. The feelings she had could not be one-sided!

But she was going to have to ask him about Nadine. She had to know about his relationship with the other woman.

She looked inside, smiling nervously. Charles was standing at the window. He was shirtless, staring outside. For one moment, she stared at his broad shoulders, his muscular chest and his narrow waist. Her mouth dry, her pulse pounding, she whispered, “Monsieur? Bonjour.”

He turned slowly, smiling at her. “Good morning, Julianne.” Clearly, he had known she was there.

Her heart turned over, hard. The way he was looking at her told her that he had to be thinking about the evening they had shared last night. It told her that he was as interested in her as she was in him.

He moved his gaze over her carefully, taking in the fact that she had curled her hair where it framed her face. Her hair was loose and hanging straight down her back, as was fashionable. She wore another ivory muslin dress, this one with a rounded neckline and fuller skirts. His gaze skidded across her bosom before he lowered his eyes and walked over to the chair where his shirt was hanging. He picked it up.

Julianne meant to look away, but she watched as he shrugged it on. The muscles in his chest and arms rippled. He looked up and caught her staring. He didn’t smile now.

Desire made her feel faint. She prayed she wasn’t blushing. She forced a smile. “How are you feeling today, monsieur?” She realized she was clinging to the doorknob, as if that would keep her standing upright.

“Better.” He spoke as softly as before. He paused, and then said, “You have changed your hair.”

“I might have to go into Penzance this afternoon,” she lied.

He said, “You did not change it for me?”

She became still. “Yes, I changed it for you.”

“I am glad.” He said, “I believe I am well enough to go downstairs, if you do not mind. Walking would be beneficial.”

She started. “Of course I don’t mind.” But she wondered if he would be able to make it down the stairs, which were rather steep and narrow.

“These four walls might madden me,” he added, buttoning up the rest of his shirt.

She watched his long, blunt fingers sliding the buttons into the buttonholes. Last night, his hands had been on the arms of his chair as she had rubbed his neck. Eventually, she had seen his knuckles turn white. She still could not believe her audacity—or how touching him had affected her.

He sat and began to pull his stockings on.

She wanted to ask him about his family, but she said, “Can I be of help?”

“Haven’t you helped enough already?” He seemed wry.

He knew she was as nervous and anxious as a debutante, she thought, flushing. She watched him pull both boots on. “Where does your family live?”

He stood up. “My family is from le Loire. My father’s shop was in Nantes.” He smiled, extending his arm. “Will you walk with me, Julianne? I can think of nothing I wish to do more.”

Julianne took his arm. “You are so very gallant. Of course I will walk with you. I just hope we are not rushing your recovery.”

“I enjoy your concern.” His gaze slid over her features, lingering on her mouth.

She forgot to be worried about his welfare. He was thinking about kissing her.

“I would be rather dismayed,” he added softly, “if you were not concerned about me.”

Her smile failed her. He gestured and they traversed the corridor in a new silence. She felt his thoughts racing. She wished she knew exactly what he was thinking, certain he was thinking about her.

Suddenly she realized his breathing was becoming labored. “Monsieur?”

He paused, leaning against the wall. “I am fine.”

She gripped his arm more tightly, to steady him, and his biceps pressed against her breast. Their gazes locked.

Her heart slammed.

And then he sagged, as if his knees had buckled. Julianne leapt forward, wrapping both of her arms around his waist, afraid he would fall entirely over and down the stairs. She embraced him, her face pressed against his chest.

“You are far too weak for this,” she accused breathlessly. She could hear his heart pounding beneath her ear.

He was silent, breathing hard, and she felt his frustration change. He grasped her waist loosely, his chin pressing against her temple, and she felt his breath against her cheek.

They were in one another’s arms.

Breathing became impossible. Her heart thundered. And his entire body began stiffening against hers.

Julianne went still. She looked up; his eyes were heated now.

“Julianne,” he said. “You are far too tempting like this.”

His tone had been rough. She wet her lips. “Monsieur.” Did she dare confess that she was as tempted by him?

“Charles,” he said softly, tightening his embrace. “You are so beautiful… You are so kind.”

She could barely think. Most of her body remained pressed against his. Her breasts were crushed by his chest. Her skirts covered his legs. She felt his knees against her thighs. He was stirring against her, a sensation she had never before experienced. She wanted to tell him that she would not mind, if he thought to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her—she wanted, desperately, to kiss him back.

Suddenly he shifted and she was the one with her back against the wall. His gaze moved to her mouth but he released her, stepping backward. “I do not want to take advantage of you.”

She wasn’t sure she had ever been so disappointed. “You cannot take advantage of me.”

One brow cocked upward, skeptically. “You are a woman without experience.”

“I have had a great many experiences,” she tried.

“I am not referring to assemblies and debates, Julianne.” His gaze was searching.

She did not know what to say. “I have been courted. Tom Treyton is smitten with me.”

He stared. “Let us go downstairs. I am determined, now.”

Dismay consumed her. Why hadn’t he kissed her? And didn’t he care about Tom? It was a moment before she could speak. “Are you certain? You are obviously weaker than either of us realized.”

“I am certain,” he said softly, “that I must regain my strength, which I will not be able to do lying in bed with your tending to my every whim.” He suddenly pulled away from her, seized the banister and started downstairs, giving her no choice but to follow.

In the hall below, he paused, lightly holding on to the banister, glancing carefully around.

For one moment, Julianne almost had the feeling that he was memorizing the details of her home. “Perhaps we should sit before the hearth,” she said, indicating the two burgundy chairs there.

“Is that the parlor?” he asked, glancing at a pair of closed doors.

“That is the library. The parlor is the room closest to the front door.”

He stared past the library doors, which were closed.

“That is the dining room.” She answered his unspoken question. He was pale. He should not have come downstairs yet.

He faced her. “Where are your mother and sister?”

Did he want to know if they were alone? “Amelia took Momma outside for her daily ambulatory. They will be back shortly, as Momma cannot go far.”

“I was hoping for a tour of the premises.” He finally smiled at her, but it did not reach his eyes, and she found that odd, until she realized that he was unusually pale. Perspiration was beaded upon his brow.

“You cannot go far, either. Your tour will have to wait.”

His brow lifted at her tone.

“We are going back upstairs,” she said, meaning it. “You are not the only one capable of giving orders. You are still ill!”

He looked at her. Some amusement began to shimmer in his eyes. “You are so worried about me. I will miss your anxious concern when I leave.”

She started. She had almost forgotten that, one day, he would return to France. But surely that was weeks away, or even months! “You almost fell down the stairs,” she managed.

He slowly smiled. “And if I had? I would hardly suffer from your attentions after such a fall, Julianne.”

“Your hurting yourself again isn’t amusing—not at all. Have you forgotten how ill you were?”

His smile faded. “Actually, I have not.”

She took his arm, guiding him back to the stairs, glancing at him uncertainly. “Am I being too shrewish?”

“You could never be shrewish. I think I rather like being ordered about by you.”

She smiled. “I thought pale, fainting, compliant females were in vogue.”

He chuckled. They started up the stairs, this time going up them while abreast. Julianne had no intention of releasing him, and he leaned on her again. “I don’t care for vogues. And I have never cared for women who swoon.”

She was fiercely glad she had never fainted, not once in her life. They traversed the hall in silence. As they entered the bedchamber, he said, “And will you order me to bed?”

She saw the humor in his eyes. But she also thought there was another innuendo in his words. Now, she was afraid to look at the bed.

She wet her lips and managed to sound brisk. “You may sit at the table, if you wish, and I will bring us both a light luncheon.”

“Maybe,” he said, stumbling slightly, “I had better lie down.”

Julianne rushed to help him.

A FEW HOURS LATER, Julianne hesitated outside Charles’s door. When she had brought him a light luncheon earlier, she had found him soundly asleep. She had placed his lunch tray on the table, covered him with a thin blanket and left.

His door was ajar, and in case he was still sleeping, she did not knock. She peered into the bedchamber and was rewarded by the sight of him at the table, eating the stew she had left for him earlier. “Hello,” she said, stepping inside.

“I fell asleep,” he exclaimed, setting down his fork, his plate empty.

“Yes, you did. Obviously our small outing was far too strenuous for you. And I can see that you have enjoyed your late lunch.”

“You are an excellent cook.”

“Charles, I burn everything I touch—I am not allowed to cook. It is a rule in this house.”

He laughed.

“You are feeling better,” she remarked, pleased.

“Yes, I am. Come, sit and join me.” As she did so, he said, “I hope I was not as difficult as I recall, in demanding to go downstairs earlier.”

“You were not too difficult,” she teased. “Are you in a rush to recuperate fully?” She hesitated, reminded that he would leave Greystone Manor and return to France when he was well.

“As much as I enjoy your hovering over me—” he smiled “—I prefer being able to see to my own needs. I am not accustomed to being weak. And I am used to taking care of those around me. I can hardly take care of anything right now.”

She absorbed that. “This must be awkward for you.”

“It is. We must repeat our attempted outing tomorrow.” His tone was one of command, and she knew she would not refuse. He smiled. “However, you are the one bright light in this difficult circumstance. I like being here with you, Julianne. I have no regrets.” His gaze locked with hers.

She wanted to tell him that she was so glad he was there, in her care, and that she had no regrets, either. Instead, she hesitated.

“When you worry, you bite your lip.” He spoke softly. “Am I a terrible burden? It must be maddening, to have to care for a stranger day in and day out. I am taking up all of your time.”

Impulsively she seized his hand. “You could never be a burden. I am pleased to care for you. I do not mind, not at all.” And she felt as if she had admitted all of her feelings for him.

His green eyes darkened and he returned her grasp. “That is what I wanted to hear.”

She stared into his eyes, which were smoldering. Breathlessly, she whispered, “Sometimes, I think you deliberately guide me into making admissions and confessions.”

“Our conversations flow freely. That is your imagination, Julianne.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“I wonder if I will ever be able to repay you for all you have done and are doing for me.”

When he looked at her that way, she felt as if she were melting. “I would never take any kind of repayment from you. When you are well again, you will take up arms for the revolution. Why, that is all the repayment I will ever need!” She touched his hand again.

He took her hand and suddenly clasped it firmly against his chest. She went still. For one moment, she was certain he meant to kiss her palm. Instead, he looked up at her from beneath his heavy dark lashes. She felt his heart beating, thickly, a bit swiftly. “What would your neighbors do, if they knew I was here?”

“They must never learn that you are here!” She added, “You have a disconcerting habit of changing subjects so suddenly.”

“I suppose I do. Your neighbors do not share your sympathies, I fear.” He released her.

“No, they do not.” She was grim. “There are a few radicals in the parish, but since Britain joined the war against France, patriotism has swept most of Cornwall. It is best if my neighbors never know that you are here—or were here.”

It was as if he hadn’t heard her. “And may I ask who your neighbors are and how close they are to this manor house?”

He was interviewing her again, she thought, but she did not blame him. If she were in his position, she would be asking him the same questions. “The village of Sennen is just a short walk from the manor, and it is much closer than the farms that border Greystone. We are rather isolated.”

He absorbed that. “And just how far is the closest farm?”

Did he truly think that he was in jeopardy from their neighbors? “Squire Jones leases his lands from Lord Rutledge, and he is about a two hours’ ride from us. Two other farmers lease their lands from the earl of St. Just, but they are perhaps fifty kilometers away. Penrose has a great deal of land to the east, but it is barren and deserted. The Greystone lands here are also barren—we have no tenants.”

“Does the squire call? Or Rutledge?”

“The only times Squire Jones has ever called was when his wife was terribly ill. Rutledge is a boor and a recluse.”

He nodded. “And St. Just?”

“St. Just has not been in residence in years. He runs in very high Tory circles in London, as does Penrose—who is rarely in the parish. I believe they are friends. Neither man would ever call, even if they were here.”

“How far away is St. Just? Penrose?”

“The manor at St. Just is an hour from here, by horseback—in good weather. Penrose’s estate is farther away.” Attempting levity, she added, “And the weather is rarely good, here in the southwest.” She reached across the table to take his hand. “I don’t blame you for asking so many questions. But I don’t want you to worry. I want you to rest and heal from your ordeal.”

His gaze held hers. “I am exercising caution. Where are we, exactly, Julianne?” He glanced down at her hand, as if he did not want her to touch him now, and then he slid his hand away from hers. “Is it possible to have some maps?”

Almost hurt, she said, “We are above Sennen Cove. You are more worried than you have let on!”

He didn’t respond to that. “How far is Sennen Cove from Penzance?”

“It is an hour’s drive by coach.”

“And the Channel? We are on the Atlantic, are we not? How far is it on foot to the closest point of departure?”

He was already thinking about returning to France, she thought, stunned. But he was weak—he could hardly leave anytime soon! “If you walk down to Land’s End, which I can do in fifteen minutes, you are, for all intents and purposes, facing the southernmost portion of the Channel.”

“We are that close to Land’s End?” He seemed surprised, and pleased. “And where is the closest naval station?”

She folded her arms across her chest. This was undoubtedly how he was when in command of his troops. He was so authoritative, it would be hard to refuse him—not that she had any reason not to answer him. “There is usually a naval gunship at St. Ives or Penzance, to help the customs men. Since the war began, our navy has been diverted to the Channel. From time to time, however, a gunship will cruise into one port or another.”

He steepled his hands and leaned his forehead there, deep in thought.

“When will you leave?” she heard herself ask, her tone strained.

He looked up at her. “I am in no condition to go anywhere, obviously. Have you told the Jacobins in Paris about me?”

She started. “No, not yet.”

“I ask that you do not mention me. I do not want word of my having been wounded to get back to my family. I do not want to worry them.”

“Of course not,” she said, instantly understanding.

Finally, he softened. He took her hand and shocked her by kissing it. “I am sorry. You have been nothing but kind, and I have just rudely interrogated you. But I need to know where my enemies are, Julianne, just as I need to know where I am, if I ever have to escape.”

“I understand.” Her heart beat so wildly now she could hardly think. Such a simple kiss—and she was undone!

“No, Julianne, you can’t possibly understand what it is like to be surrounded by one’s enemies—and to fear discovery with every breath one takes.”

He still held her hand to his chest. She tried to breathe, she tried to think. “I will protect you.”

“And how will you do that?” He was openly amused. But his grasp on her hand tightened. Somehow, her knuckles were pressed against the bare skin exposed by the top and open buttons of his shirt. “You are such a tiny woman.”

“By making sure that no one knows about you.”

His eyes darkened. His smile vanished. “Amelia knows. Lucas knows. Jack knows.”

“Only Amelia knows who you are and she would never betray me.”

“Never,” he said, “is a dangerous concept.”

“If a neighbor called, they would not realize you are upstairs in this room,” she insisted.

“I trust you,” he said.

“Good,” she cried fervently, their gazes locked.

He lifted her hand to his lips, but slowly. Now Julianne froze. His gaze on hers, he pressed his mouth to the back of her hand, below her knuckles. This time, the kiss was entirely different. It wasn’t light, innocent or brief. His mouth drifted over her knuckles and the vee between her thumb and forefinger. And then his eyes closed and his mouth firmed. He kissed her hand again and again.

As he kissed her, her heart exploded. His mouth moved over her skin another time, with more fervor, and her entire body tightened—her own eyes closed. His mouth became insistent and fierce, as if he enjoyed the taste of her skin, as if so much more was to come. She finally allowed her mouth to part. She heard a small moan escape her lips. He separated her fingers and nuzzled the soft flesh there. She felt his tongue.

“Are there weapons in the house?”

Her eyes flew open, meeting his hot yet hard green gaze.

“Julianne?”

She was trembling. Desire made it almost impossible to breathe, to speak. “Yes.” She wet her lips. She inhaled. Her body was throbbing, the need acute.

“Where?”

She exhaled. “There is a gun closet in the library.”

He continued to stare. Then he lifted her hand, kissed it and released it. Abruptly, he stood.

If he ever truly kissed her, with the passion that raged between them, she might lose all of her good sense, she thought.

He glanced at her. “Do you know how to use a pistol? A musket?”

She must find her composure, she thought. “Of course I do. I am a good markswoman.”

She added, “You do not feel safe.”

His gaze moved over her features, then met her eyes. “I do not feel safe here, no.”

Julianne slowly stood up. He watched her, and she wasn’t sure she trusted herself to speak now. So she turned and left the room. She went downstairs, her body on fire, wondering if she should kiss him. She was certain he would allow it.

In the library, she paused, finding herself staring through the glass doors of the gun closet.

Three pistols and three muskets were racked within. It wasn’t locked. It never was. When there were revenue men descending on the cove, those guns were instantly needed. Julianne took out a pistol, then closed the glass door. She retrieved powder and flint from the desk before going back upstairs.

Charles was standing by the window, staring at the threshold, clearly waiting for her to return. His eyes widened when he saw her with the pistol, powder and flint.

Their gazes locked. Still tight with desire, Julianne crossed the room. She handed him the pistol. She managed, “I doubt you will need to use it.”

He put the pistol in the waistband of his breeches. She handed him the flint and powder. He slipped the powder bag’s strap over one shoulder. He put the flint in his pocket. Then, slowly, he reached for her.

She went into his arms.

But he did not kiss her. “I hope not.”

Trembling, she slipped her hands up his heavy biceps, which flexed beneath her palms.

He did not smile. He slid his fingertips over her cheek, then tucked a tendril of hair behind her ears. “Thank you.”

Somehow, Julianne nodded—and he released her.

CHAPTER FOUR

HE HEARD HER before she appeared in the open doorway. Dominic pushed the maps she had brought him aside, already having entirely familiarized himself with the southernmost part of Cornwall. He picked up his quill to resume the letter he was writing to his “family” in France. After all, that was surely what Charles Maurice would do, and if Julianne ever thought to spy, she would read the reassuring letter he was writing to the family he did not have. He had learned long ago to take elaborate precautions to guarantee than no one ever suspected he was using an alias.

Julianne arrived on the threshold, smiling. He slowly smiled back, meeting her gaze. Some guilt nagged at him. He owed her greatly; she had saved his life. He now knew she would not be very enamored with Dominic Paget—a titled, powerful Tory. It almost amazed him that his life had come down to this constant game of deception, of plot and counterplot.

He still didn’t know her well, but he knew that she was genuinely kind, as well as intelligent, educated and opinionated. She was also terribly beautiful and completely unaware of it.

He stared openly, aware that she noticed his obvious admiration for her. His body stirred. He was recovering more swiftly now and his body had begun to make demands—urgently.

He knew he shouldn’t seduce her. She was a gentlewoman, without experience, and in love with his alias—not him. She was already clay in his hands. The problem was, he wasn’t interested in being moral. He was fairly certain that his time in London would be brief. His assignment was to ensure that the British resupplied Michel Jacquelyn’s army. Once he had arranged that and was assured that the correct quantity of troops, weapons and other sorely needed supplies were being routed to La Vendée, he would be sent back to the Loire Valley or Paris.

His entire body tightened. He refused to allow his memories of the wars or the mobs to form. He was sick of dreaming of death, of being afraid, and he was sick of how a small gesture or word could cause those memories to come flooding vividly back.

“I have brought tea,” she said softly. “Am I interrupting?”

He had been anticipating her company. She was an interesting woman and their conversation was never mundane. Sometimes, though, he felt like shaking some common sense into her.

She should not trust him!

He took his time answering, considering her carefully. He wondered how she would feel if she ever knew the truth about France—or about him.

Sometimes, he wanted to tell her. Usually that was when she spouted her nonsense about liberty and equality in France, and for all. His anger was instant, but he would hide it. He wanted to tell her that the ends did not justify the means, that France was a bloodbath, that innocent men and women died every day, that he hated the tyranny being inflicted on the country—that it was tyranny, not freedom!

Sometimes, he wanted to shout at her that he was a nobleman, not some damned revolutionary—that his mother was a French viscountess, and that he was the earl of Bedford!

But there was more. Sometimes, when she looked at him with those shining gray eyes, he felt a terrible stabbing of guilt, which surprised him. And then he felt like shouting at her that he was no hero. There was nothing heroic about running a print shop in Paris and fawning over the local gendarmes so they would never suspect the truth about him, or about flattering and befriending the Jacobins so they would truly think him one of them.

Writing ciphers by candlelight, then smuggling them through a network of couriers to the coast, to be transferred to London, was not heroic—it was terrifying. It was not heroic to pretend to be that Frenchman or to pretend to be a French army officer—it was not heroic to take up a musket and march off into battle, fighting to defend one’s birthright against one’s countrymen. It was all a great necessity, a matter of survival.

It was all madness.

How shocked and horrified she would be by it all.

But she would never hear any such nonsense from him. He was too deep in this alias to get out. If anyone at Greystone learned that he was an Englishman, much less that he was Paget, there was but one obvious conclusion to draw—that he was a British agent. After all, he had been transported from France, he’d been speaking French and he now posed as a Frenchman. The leap would be a simple one to make.

Her sister and two brothers could be managed, certainly—they were patriots. He did not worry about their mother; he had eavesdropped and learned that she was mentally incapacitated.

But it was preferable that they never learned of his identity. Only five men knew that Dominic Paget, the earl of Bedford, was a British agent working under an alias in France. Those men were Windham, the War Secretary; Sebastian Warlock, whom he assumed was his spymaster; Edmund Burke, who was highly influential in governing circles; his old friend, the earl of St. Just; and of course, Michel Jacquelyn.

That circle must never be expanded. The more people who knew the truth, the more likely it was that he would be unmasked.

But Julianne was a different matter entirely. She was not a patriot. Her friends in Paris would soon recruit her to actively work on their behalf—it was how the Jacobin clubs operated. Even now, he did not trust her entirely. If she ever learned he was Dominic Paget, he would not trust her at all.

Sooner or later, he would return to France and continue the fight for his land and his people. He had spent summers at his mother’s chateau as a boy. It was his chateau now. The men and boys who had died at Nantes so recently had been his neighbors, his friends and his relations. He had known Michel Jacquelyn since childhood. Jacquelyn had already lost his estate—it had been burned to the ground by the revolutionaries. They couldn’t burn his title, though—they couldn’t burn his birthright—or his patriotism.

If Julianne ever learned who he was and exposed him to her French friends, he would be in even greater jeopardy. The spy networks inside France were vast. Men he thought mere commoners and men he knew to be gendarmerie would have his description and seek to uncover him. No one in Paris could trust the kindly matron next door, or the elderly bookseller down the street. Neighbor spied on neighbor, friend upon friend. Agents of the state were everywhere, seeking traitors. Enemies of the revolution were decapitated now. In Paris, they called it Le Terroir. There was nothing like the sight of the gendarmerie leading the accused in shackles to the guillotine, the crowds in the street cheering. There was nothing like the sight of that street running red with blood. He would never survive discovery and arrest.

But he was being very careful. If all went according to plan, he would recover from his wound and simply leave. He would be journeying to London to plan for the resupplying of La Vendée by the War Office, but Julianne would assume he had gone back to France, to resume his command in the French army.

It was so ironic.

She was interrupting him, he thought. She was interrupting because this was a game, not a real flirtation. He was not her French army officer, eager to share tea, but a British agent who needed to get to London—and then return to France. He estimated it would be another week before he was ready to leave the manor and travel to London. It was at least a two-day carriage ride. But in a few more days or even a week, he could steal a horse or a carriage and go to St. Just. Even if Grenville were not in residence, as he most likely would not be, his staff would leap to obey his every command once he made it clear who he was.

Their time together was very limited now. He would leave on the pretext that he was returning to France. His cover would not be compromised; Julianne would remember him as her war hero, while her brothers would assume him to be a smuggler whose life they had saved.

The solution was ideal.

“You are staring,” she said softly.

He smiled at her. “I am sorry. You are easy to stare at.” It was the truth, so he softly added, “I enjoy looking at you, Julianne, very much so.”

She no longer blushed at his every word, but he knew his flattery pleased her. “You can be impossible, Charles.” Her stare was direct. “I also enjoy looking at you.”

Julianne sat opposite him and began to pour the tea, trembling. He wanted her, but she was so innocent. Yet he wouldn’t think twice about taking that innocence if she were infatuated with the man he actually was. He would enjoy having such a woman as his mistress, both on his arm and in his bed. He would like showing her the finer things in life or taking her about London. But that would never happen.

“You are so thoughtful today,” she said, handing him a cup and saucer. “Are you thinking about your family?”

“You are very astute,” he lied.

“You must miss them,” she added, her gaze on his. “Do you realize that you have asked me dozens of questions, while I have not asked you anything at all?”

“Really?” He feigned surprise. “You can ask me anything you desire, Julianne.” Outwardly he was casual, but inwardly he was entirely alert.

“Who is Nadine?”

He started. How did she know about Nadine? What had he said in his delirium? He avoided thinking about his fiancée. He would never forget the months he had spent frantically trying to locate her—and then, eventually, his only choice had been to conclude what had been her fate. “Did I speak of her when I was delirious?”

She nodded. “You mistook me for her, Charles.”

It was always best to stay as close to the truth as possible. “Nadine was my fiancée,” he said. “She got caught up in a riot in Paris and she did not survive it.”

Julianne cried out. “I am so sorry!”

“Paris isn’t even safe for the sans-culottes,” he said, referring to the unemployed and the homeless. “Unfortunately, the mobs are incited to violence more often than not.” He spoke calmly. “Nadine was knocked down when she tried to navigate the crowd.” That was true. He had known Nadine since childhood and their engagement had not surprised anyone. Nadine’s ancestral home was outside Nantes, just down the road from his mother’s chateau. Her family had fled France shortly after her death.

He had imagined her death in the riot many times; he was careful not to do so now. He was careful not to really think about what he was saying. He was careful not to feel. “You do not want to know the rest.”

It was a long moment before Julianne spoke. When she did, her gray eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I thought that the mobs were protesting the lack of employment and the high prices. Everyone deserves employment, a good wage and a decent price of bread. The poor cannot feed their families or even shelter them!”

Spoken like a true radical, he thought grimly. “Their distress is inflamed by the politicians,” he said, meaning it. “Yes, everyone should have employment and a wage, but the radicals—the Jacobins—deliberately incite crowds to violence. Fear rules the streets—the people. There is power for those who can cause the fear. And the innocent like Nadine are caught up in the violence and are its victims.” He knew he must stop, but he hadn’t actually said anything amiss. After all, any man would speak as he just had if his beloved fiancée had been murdered in a mob.

Julianne hesitated. “What happened to your fiancée is terrible, Charles. But really, if you were starving and without means, or if your employer paid you pennies for your labor while living in the lap of luxury, wouldn’t you take to the streets to protest? I would not need direction. And why would the Jacobins or anyone incite such extreme violence? I know they cherish human life—they hardly wish to cause innocent bystanders to die.”

She was so wrong, he thought grimly. She did not understand how power corrupted even the greatest cause. “I’m afraid I am not fond of politicians, not even radical ones.” He managed to soften, thinking it time to withdraw from the conversation.

But she was taken aback. “You almost sound like my brother Lucas. He favors reform, not revolution. He despises the mobs. He has accused the radicals in Paris of the same kinds of actions as you have. And Lucas fears violence here, at home.”

“Reform can be kinder and violence should always be feared.”

Her eyes widened. “The French nobility—the French king—would have never given the country a constitution without great pressure, Charles. The kind that comes from the rising up of hundreds of oppressed people.”

He smiled at her, knowing that she truly believed her words. But the pressure she spoke of had caused the execution of King Louis. Because of “pressure,” there was no constitutional monarchy now. Thousands of French noblemen had fled—and they would never return. Their lands had been taken away, or even destroyed. Why couldn’t she see the terrible loss that this was? Why didn’t she realize how savage and murderous the mobs were—and how many innocent men, women and children had died because of them? Would she still insist that this was liberty? Equality?

“I am against oppression. Who isn’t? But the violence in France is not justifiable. There are different ways one can achieve the same end, Julianne,” he finally said.

She stared at him, shocked. “Were you conscripted?” she finally asked.

He knew he must backtrack now. “I volunteered,” he said flatly. “There is no conscription in France. I am not against the revolution, Julianne, obviously. But I would have preferred a different means—a different beginning. But the convening of the Third Assembly has led us to this point in time, and there is no going back. Innocent men have died in my arms. Innocent men—and boys—will continue to die. I suppose I am glad you do not understand the reality.”

“I do understand,” she whispered, covering his hand with hers. “And I am so sorry for those you have lost. I am so sorry you have suffered so much pain.”

She did not understand at all, he thought. “I will fight to the death for my cause—the cause of freedom.” For him, freedom meant being able to live in the Loire Valley without fear of reprisal—without fear of having his home taken from him. Just then, his family and friends were fighting for that very freedom in le Loire, yet they were running out of arms and food.

“You are frightening me.”

He looked at her. The urge to take her in his arms was stunning. “That is not my intention.”

She had saved his life and he owed her a great debt that did not include this deception. It did not include seduction. But he could not deny the urgent attraction he felt. “You are afraid for me.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Death is a part of war, Julianne. Even you know that.”

“How can you be so casual about it?” she cried.

He almost told her that he did not feel casually about the subject at all. But he would never tell her any such thing. “Everyone dies sooner or later, whether in war or from sickness or from old age.”

She stared, stricken. “I must ask you something, Charles, and it is difficult for me.”

Although wary, he looked calmly at her.

“How long has it been since you lost Nadine?”

He instantly understood. “It has been a year and a half, Julianne.” He saw the flicker of relief in her eyes, and that twinge of guilt came again. Was she truly in love with her revolutionary war hero? “There has been so much death, in these past few years. One learns how to accept it rather quickly.”

She stood up and walked over to him and lay her shaking hand on his shoulder. “Do you still love her?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.” She turned partially away. “I shouldn’t have asked. That was selfish of me.”

He stood, pulling her into his arms, and her soft, voluptuous body inflamed him. It was becoming hard to think clearly. “You had every right to ask.”

She was trembling. He could feel the same insane urgency in her. He turned up her face. “I have become very fond of you, Julianne.”

“So have I,” she gasped. “I am so glad…Jack brought you here. I am so glad…that we are friends.”

He looked at her parted lips, very carefully. It was becoming hard to think coherently. “But we are more than friends, no?” he asked softly.

“We are more than friends,” she whispered hoarsely.

“Soon, I will return to France.” Finally, he was speaking the truth.

The tears brimmed. “And I will miss you.”

And as they stared at one another, he heard a door downstairs slam.

He could not believe her sister’s timing. It would not serve him or his deception to have Amelia walk in on them now. But there was no turning back now. Surely, one kiss would not hurt either one of them.

Dominic bent over her, touching his mouth to hers. And very carefully, he feathered her lips with his. As he did, he was blinded by a flood of hot desire.

She gasped, seizing his shoulders, opening for him.

The desire brought a shocking anguish. And as he claimed her mouth, hard, the memories of blood and death, of rage and hatred, of distress and despair engulfed him. A part of him was in France, in agony, another part of him was with her, in ecstasy. He could not pull away. He could not check himself now. Nor did he want to.

He deepened the kiss, demanding everything from her, and she mated fiercely with his tongue.

And he thought, she should know better than to trust a stranger.

AMELIA AND JULIANNE had gone into the town of St. Just together for some groceries. Dominic stood at the top of the stairs, unbeknownst to them, and watched the sisters exit the house.

Julianne had been concerned about leaving him alone for an hour or two but he had reassured her.

She had accepted his promise that he would rest. He had appeared stoic, but inwardly, he had been thrilled.

Spying was inherent in his nature now. Everything he had learned about Greystone, the family and the area and its denizens, he had learned from Julianne. He was eager to go through the house, prying into the family’s lives and affairs. He didn’t expect to find very much, but one never knew. Jack Greystone held the most promise. He might claim not to care about the war, and be a simple smuggler, but he could be actively involved.

He entered a woman’s bedroom. He saw the two beds, the two small bed stands, each with its own candle, the clothes hanging from the wall pegs, and knew the sisters shared the chamber. Julianne wore white muslin, exclusively, while Amelia favored gray frocks as if to make herself drabber than she actually was.

Within ten minutes, Dominic had made a thorough search of the room. He found some old journals, a few toiletries, spare candles and a sheath of letters, hidden in the armoire, under a pile of shirtwaists.

He paused, taken aback. The stack was tied with a blue ribbon, and his immediate assumption was that the letters belonged to Julianne.

He glanced at the top one—and realized he was looking at love letters written to Amelia. Oddly relieved, he put the letters back where he had found them.

The next room belonged to Jack. He was certain of it. It smelled like ships and the sea.

He began a rapid, thorough search. He found nothing of interest until he looked under the mattress, where he found a dozen navigational charts. The charts had been meticulously sketched. He was getting the inkling that Jack Greystone had made them himself. He sat on the bed, looking closely at the first chart, which detailed a cove at Land’s End, right down to hidden reefs and rocks. He went through them quickly then. The man had charted the entire Cornish peninsula, from Cape Cornwall, just above St. Just, to Penzance.

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