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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!
