Napoleon's Woman (3 page)

"Aidan Duhearst, Earl of Wessex," she proclaimed in triumph. Aidan flinched. He grabbed her wrists, pulling them away from his face as shock relaxed his features. The soldiers moved toward their lady protectively, but the woman shook her head as she stepped away from him.

"Come, come, my lord. Did you think we would not hear of your exploits both here and in England?" Her lips curled with giddy amusement. "You have killed so many Frenchmen that you are becoming a legend."

The woman’s hips swayed as she walked forward and wound a finger around a lock of his hair. "And as for England, well," She bent toward his ear. "Let us just say that the ebony-haired earl has kept many a lady of the ton entertained over the years." She circled Aidan, coming to settle in front of him. "Is that not so, my lord?"

He smiled, raising one brow and not bothering to conceal his hatred. "Quite true. However, I would wager a great deal of blunt that I’ve not entertained as many ladies as you have entertained gentlemen."

His head snapped to the right with the force of her hand against his cheek, splattering blood on the delicate silk bodice of her costly gown. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and for the first time, Aidan saw her as a very dangerous woman.

"Take care, Lord Wessex," she hissed through clenched teeth. "I could have you hanged tomorrow if I so wished." The lady held his gaze to make sure that he understood his precarious position, and when they both knew he did, she said, "Take this English filth to his cell." The two soldiers were flanking him and Aiden had no choice but to comply when they wrenched him to his feet. "Colonel, have his wounds seen to. If he bleeds to death, I will hold you personally responsible.
Tu comprend
?"

The colonel understood quite clearly. "
Oui
, Mademoiselle." His reply a bit anxious as the soldiers moved Aidan toward the door.

"Hold." The woman spoke to the soldiers, both of whom came to an immediate stop with a crisp click of their boots against the wooden floorboards. "Colonel, please inform the general that I shall be unable to dine this evening." She glanced down at her blood-spattered evening dress and looked at her captive. "I seem to have ruined my gown."

Aidan felt a mean spurt of satisfaction to have been the cause of her inconvenience. The striking woman walked toward him, holding out his miniature as if it were rubbish.

"You may have your portrait of your sister, the Duchess of Glenbroke, Lord Wessex. It should comfort you on your walk to the gallows," she sang before spinning with a dismissive swish as she left the dank room, the colonel at her heels.

Celeste paused at her bedchamber door and turned to face the French officer.

"Colonel Meillerie, I would like the Earl of Wessex ready to travel by morning." She smiled sadistically, saying, "The earl will be quite a prize for the Emperor."

"Yes, Lady Rivenhall. He will most certainly delight Emperor Bonaparte, but the general will not be pleased at having him removed from his custody." The young man’s lips rolled in French, his gray eyes reflecting his concern.

Celeste lifted her hand to the colonel’s sunburned cheek. She smiled, filling her lungs to draw attention to her full breasts.

He noticed.

"But you did not tell the general of the Earl of Wessex’s capture. Did you, Philippe?"

His brows furrowed, darkening his mood. "No, however---"

"Then do not tell him." She cajoled with a delicate shake of her head. "You would not have known who the man was if not for me, and you know of my relationship with the Emperor." She shrugged. "I will inform Napoleon of your hand in this matter, and he will most likely promote you. Making you an advisor, which means…" She paused, stroking his lower lip with her thumb and letting her gaze linger on his mouth. She watched him shudder and try to conceal his desire. He failed. "You will be nearer to me."

The colonel turned her hand, pressing a kiss into her palm. "As you wish,
ma cherie
, but give me a memory to hold while I await our next meeting."

The man surged forward to capture a kiss, but Celeste smoothly retrieved an unmarked lace handkerchief from the folds of her gown, blocking his advance. He accepted her token with obvious frustration.

"Have the Earl of Wessex ready to travel by daybreak. My escort will come to you in the morning." She smiled, dragging her hand down the front of his jacket to lessen his disappointment. The man was very nearly undone and guilt pressed on her chest. "Thank you, Philippe," she said with fluttering lashes as she slipped into her rooms.

***

Madame Arnott rushed in from the bedchamber when she closed the heavy door. Worry clung to the older woman’s features as her eyes took in the blood spatters on Celeste’s silk gown.

"What did the colonel want of you?"

Celeste grabbed the desiccated hands of her old governess and the only mother she had ever known. "I am fine, Marie, but you must pack," she announced before crossing through the sitting room and into the bedchamber. "We are leaving at first light."

"Why?" Madame Arnott asked as she followed. "The Emperor wishes for you to evaluate the general and the garrison’s efficiency. We have not been here long enough--"

"The colonel has captured the Earl of Wessex," Celeste interrupted, scarcely believing her own words.

The Earl of Wessex had for so long been her hero, and in the dark hours of the night, her fantasy. She could scarcely believe that he was here and in very real danger.

"No!" The old woman gasped, as if denying the man’s capture would make it untrue.

"Yes." Celeste turned her back toward her servant to receive assistance in removing her ruined gown. The older woman’s hands moved deftly over the tiny buttons. "And I’m taking him with me at daybreak."

Marie’s hands stilled. "You are not serious,
ma petit
? Do you have any idea of the dangerous position in which you are placing yourself?"

Celeste’s temper flared. She grabbed the bodice of her now loose gown and tugged it roughly from her slender body. "Of course, I am aware of the danger. But I am sick of death, of watching brave men hanged while I look on, a pretty ornament in Napoleon’s court."

Old hands grabbed her shoulders and gently turned her to face faded blue eyes. She looked away from her companion, not wanted to be comforted or absolved.

"You have helped so many. Albuera would not have been won if not for the troop locations you gave Lord Beresford. You saved hundreds, perhaps thousands of English lives. Not to mention the other instances where you sent information across the Channel. You cannot save every man,
ma petit
."

"I can save
him
." Celeste vowed. "I am taking Wessex with me, and then I will allow him to escape." She twisted out of the old woman’s grasp, full of determination to aid the English war hero.

"No, no! You must not," the older woman implored. "They will begin to suspect you, the daughter of an Englishman."

"And the daughter of a French woman, born and raised in France. I will not be swayed. I need this victory, Marie. Please." She begged her confidant to understand as she sat on the lumpy mattress that had been her bed for the last four nights.

"Why this man? This Wessex?" the old servant asked.

Celeste turned away in confusion, her heart pounding in her chest. She had all but swooned when she realized who sat before her in the interrogation room. How could she explain her connection to the Earl of Wessex? How could she explain that she silently savored his exploits as they were reported in the ballrooms of Paris? Explain her admiration for a man that fought against his enemy courageously, openly, while she was forced to hide behind a pretty veil.

She could not. "I don’t know. He’s so strong and alive. I just cannot witness, moreover, aid in his destruction." She buried her face in her hands, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. "Not him," she whispered.

Madame Arnott sat on the bed and held Celeste’s hand, stroking her back, soothing her. And for a moment the world lifted from her shoulders.

"All right, my sweet. I shall help you free the Englishman, but if we are discovered…"

Celeste pulled away from the comforting embrace. Her eyes cooled as hatred clogged her throat. "I know very well what the French do to their enemies." Images of her father being thrown downstairs by French soldiers rushed back with painful clarity, hardening her heart and her resolve.

"Falcon will not like it," the old woman said.

Celeste felt a flash of trepidation, but she had not remained alive these past four years without the ability to push fear aside.

"Falcon will never know. The earl will merely have escaped from the stupid French," she said, untying the dagger she wore strapped to her inner thigh and rolling down silk stocking from her shapely legs.

"But if Wessex returns to England and Falcon questions him about his escape…"

"Falcon will never know," Celeste repeated, "and neither will the earl," she said, hiding behind her veil once more. "Now let us pack and get some rest."

***

Aidan did not sleep. His head was pounding from the slapdash sewing that had been done to his scalp. He rubbed his temples in a futile attempt to ease the pain as he sat in the dampness and stench of his prison cell, awaiting his fate.

The gallows.

He did not mind the dying. It was the missing of things to come that tightened his chest. No children to play with their cousins. No teaching his son to ride. No giving his daughter’s hand in marriage. No wife…no wife to welcome him home and ease the emptiness that consumed him.

At least he was not leaving children to grieve him, leaving children to survive his reckless pursuit of glory.

Guilt washed away his bitterness. His father had been the best of men. Noble, generous, loyal…and everyone Aidan had ever met confirmed his memories. He rubbed his disloyal thoughts away from his brow with the palm of his right hand. No, his father was a war hero, and Aidan’s anger was misplaced. His father loved him, loved them both dearly…but he loved England more.

That was only right. Men of his position had responsibilities. He alone was responsible for protecting the land entrusted to him by his father. He could not bear the thought of a Frenchman stepping foot in Blackmore Hall. His father died to prevent that from happening…as would he.

Aidan reached into his jacket and pulled out the miniature of Sarah and the twins. His sister would be inconsolable, but her husband, Gilbert, would help her through the worst of her suffering. He smiled as he ran his finger across the image of his niece and nephew. At least he had done his part to ensure that they would live in a free England. The twins would inherit his and Sarah’s childhood home. He had made sure of that before leaving for the continent.

His throat constricted as melancholy settled in his chest. He swallowed and stared at the chubby cheeks of his young nephew, wishing he had a son to watch grow to manhood, wishing he had a son to leave the estate to, but it was not to be. He would die for his country, like so many men before him.

Aidan sighed, regretting not dying in battle rather than swinging from a rope. He was not a particularly vain man, but he had killed quite a large number of Frenchmen and would prefer to be remembered for those feats and not his undignified demise.

A legend, the woman had said. He smiled at the thought. Well, the legend of the Earl of Wessex had one last duty to perform. Aidan rose and walked to the water basin, carefully removing the bandage that covered the stitching in his head.

He stripped and began to wash himself and his uniform of as much mud and blood as his water basin would allow. If he were to be hanged this day, he would bloody well look like an English gentleman.

***

At dawn, the doors at the far end of the corridor clanked open. Aidan rose, shaking the stiffness from his legs then straightening his damp cravat. His uniform looked remarkably better after hours of his ministrations, and he was rather pleased with the result.

Two soldiers followed the jailor to his cell, both in dark blue uniforms and both very young. Irritation burned away his fear when he realized the commanding officer had not bothered to escort him to the gallows.

"Follow these men," the jailor ordered, opening the cell. Aidan set his jaw and glared down at the small man who stepped back instinctively. "Watch him carefully," the man cautioned the soldiers.

One of the men pointed toward the entrance of the prison, which was set aglow by the morning sun. Aidan took a step toward the door, only to be shoved in the back by the now-brave soldiers. He stopped in the narrow corridor and turned, warning them with his eyes that another push would not be tolerated.

Aidan straightened himself, determined to die with dignity as he emerged into the sunlight of the muddy courtyard. But his left brow arched when he saw not a hangman, but a demon of darkness masquerading as a blonde.

Surely, even the French would not allow a woman to command the garrison, leaving him to wonder for a second time who she was. 

Beside her stood an old woman dressed entirely in black, and his fair enemy smiled at her, saying, "Did I not tell you that the earl would be a fine prize to present to the Emperor? It will be quite entertaining to see this tall tree fall at the foot of France." The young woman’s disdainful gaze lingered on him while her troops chuckled at her words.

Aidan smiled with amusement of his own. "Not bloody likely," he sneered, knowing that he would never bow before Bonaparte.

The stunning woman walked toward him, her hips swaying enticingly, her jade eyes sparkling. "When you are a corpse, my lord, you will have very little to say about the matter." Her smile was sweet and swift, before dying as she swung around to give instructions to her troops.

"Load him, and guard him well, or you will have me to answer to." Aidan noted the wary looks on the faces of her young soldiers before the ruthless woman climbed into her ornate carriage with the old woman following after her.

***

Lady Rivenhall was shaking when she settled in the comfort of her garish carriage that had been given her by Napoleon. "Pull the blinds," she said, a bit breathless, as Madame Arnott seated herself opposite her.

Reaching out to pull the thick velvet across the windows, the old woman whispered, "I do not like this. You did not tell me he was so…"

Celeste’s heart was pounding far too rapidly, which only added to her irritation with herself. "So what? Handsome? I had no idea. He was covered with blood and dirt last night. All I could really see was his size. However, it changes nothing," she said firmly.

"As long as your interest in Wessex is not personal. It does no good to wish for things that will never be, my sweet."

Celeste shook her head as the carriage lurched forward. "Wish for what? I do not expect to live through this war! Much less can I imagine a home with a husband and children."

"Do not lie to me, Celeste," Marie said in clipped tones that revealed her anger. "You fight to end this war so you can have exactly that. The handsome earl is the embodiment of all those hopes and dreams you have buried in your heart. And if he lives, so too will your hopes of that life."

Celeste’s chin quivered, and she knew she would soon cry. She closed her eyes to stop the tears and let the numbness take over. "I am going to sleep," she said.

But Celeste did not sleep.

Her mind was filled with the image of the Earl of Wessex as he regally stepped out of the prison. The man had taken her breath away. He was every bit as handsome as she dreamt him to be. His black hair, now clean, contrasted with his light skin to capture the eye and hold the spectator enthralled. The dark locks were in disarray and curled at the collar, but far from detracting from his looks, it enhanced them, making him more dangerous, more masculine.