Seduction (33 page)

And then she cried out, delighted. Finally, there was good news! Amelia smiled. “I thought you would be pleased. But…will you tell him about the child? Eventually he will find out.”

Her smile vanished. She wasn’t showing yet. But Cornwall was a small place, and in another month her condition would be noticeable, if she did not try to hide it. And eventually, there would be no hiding her pregnancy at all. “I don’t know.” She followed Amelia downstairs, aware that Tom would be horrified, and found him standing before the hearth. He whirled to face her, unsmiling.

Her smile vanished. “I am so glad you have been released!”

His gaze was hard and searching. “Hello, Julianne.”

She recoiled. Tension filled her. He had changed, she saw that immediately. But prison was a terrible place, and he had been incarcerated without protection for far longer than she had been. “I am happy to see you, Tom.”

He came forward, his eyes flashing. “Bedford arranged my release.”

She was shocked.
Dominic had done this?

“I can only assume that you asked him to help me. After all, you were his houseguest for most of the summer.” His eyes darkened impossibly.

He suspected the nature of her relationship with Dom, she thought. But why had Dominic arranged for Tom’s release? Surely he had done that after he had discovered her treachery? It made no sense!

“You seem very surprised.”

She stiffened, now wary. “I did reside at Bedford House thus summer. I was incarcerated, too, Tom. The convention in London was attacked by Reeves men. Dominic rescued me and invited me to stay. He felt that he owed me for his life.”

“And you convinced him to save my life.”

“Are you angry with me?” She was in shock.

“Yes, I am angry. Do you think I would not learn the truth?” He cast an utterly disparaging glance across her figure. “You are sharing his bed!”

Julianne gasped.

“Don’t try to deny it. Marcel told me. You are his mistress!” His eyes blazed.

Julianne trembled. “Yes, I am. I love him.”

He cried out. “He is a damned Tory!”

“And I don’t care!” she cried back.

He paled. “What has happened to your principles?”

“My priorities have changed.”

“Your priorities have changed?” he echoed in dis- belief.

“Marcel used me and then tried to assassinate Dom.”

“Good,” Tom cried. “I am simply sorry that he failed.”

She felt as if she had been shot. “You must leave this property now,” she said.

He did not move. “So you are a damned Tory, too?”

She would not dignify his last comment with a reply. “I am asking you to leave.” As she spoke, from the corner of her eye, she saw Garrett step into the hall, protectively.

“So we are enemies now?” Tom asked bitterly.

He wanted Dom dead. As bitterly, she said, “Yes, Tom, we are enemies.”

Tom did not speak for a moment. “I loved you!”

Julianne did not respond. She was too furious to do so.

His expression hard and tight with anger, Tom turned and left.

October, 1793—The Loire Valley, France

D
OMINIC
STARED
DOWN
at a series of rolling hills, all blackened and burned. His heart lurched and he could not breathe.

For as far as the eye could see, those lands belonged to him.

They had destroyed the vineyards, he thought. They had burned them to the ground.

He could not believe the destruction he was witnessing as he sat his black charger atop a blackened hill. He had grown up in those vineyards, and he fought not to recall playing there as a child with Nadine and their cousins. He inhaled, fighting for composure. Was the chateau still standing? Or had they taken that from them, too?

They had not been able to break the La Vendée rebellion, he thought, so instead, they would destroy their land. It was far more than a military tactic, far more than the intention to starve the rebels to death. The French government meant to punish the royalists—they wanted to break their spirit.

And Dominic decided he would fight to the bitter end, to his last dying breath.
“À la victoire,”
he breathed. And he felt the tears sliding down his face.

He swatted at them, annoyed. He had left Michel after the Battle of Cholet—a battle they had lost. But it was far worse than that. Michel’s army had been split apart. He had taken some twenty-five thousand men to Granville, where he would meet with the British supply convoy. The rest of his men were cut off and behind enemy lines. The rendezvous had been rescheduled for the third week of the month. Michel’s troops were in danger of being picked off—or slaughtered.

Michel needed him back. He was second in command. He hadn’t heeded Warlock’s orders. He had been in the midst of the battle, and on its front lines. Women and children had followed them into battle, just as they followed Michel now. A young mother had died in his arms, her little girl clinging to her. A relative had taken the child; he had another memory of this damned war now.

No, he thought grimly, he had been back in France for six weeks or so, and he had a hundred goddamned new memories, each one worse than the one before.

Dominic had been desperate to visit Chateau Fortescue, as it was but a half a day’s ride from Cholet, yet he hadn’t wanted to leave Jacquelyn or his command. Michel had urged him to go.

He began to trot past the blackened and burned vines. The stench was overpowering. Of course his lands had been chosen for reprisal. Marcel had known he was returning to France and his place in Jacquelyn’s command was undoubtedly well known to his enemies.

His gut tightened.
Had he been followed to France?
After all, Marcel remained free, and no one, not even Warlock, could track all of his activities.

He had never lived as cautiously. He did not blink without looking over his shoulder, to make certain no sniper stood there.

Julianne had spied upon him for Marcel.

It was a devastating truth that vibrated within his being with every breath he took. Dominic began to descend the steep slope, thinking of Julianne. It felt as if his heart were on fire inside of his chest. How could she have betrayed him? That refrain haunted him night and day. It was as if the answer was out there, somewhere, if only he could reach through the shadows to grasp it. And once he found that answer, he would understand....

He no longer slept at night. He was haunted by nightmares. In them, the innocent died in bloody battles and Julianne was there, ready to betray him. He preferred to stay awake, staring up at the ceiling, haunted by a single word.
Why?

In her arms, he had slept like a baby.

She was safely in Cornwall by now. For that, he was relieved. Was she still engaged in her radical activities? Her radical associations? God, if only she could see what was happening to this country! As angry as he was, he did not want her involved in this war—and he wanted her securely out of Marcel’s reach. Warlock had assured him that Garret Ferguson was one of his most skilled men. He had sworn that Julianne and her family would be safe from the likes of Marcel and his friends.

She had betrayed him—but he would always protect her. She had betrayed La Vendée—but he would always love her. But he would never return to her. He would never forgive her for her treachery. He would never understand.

His heart burned again. It almost felt as if more tears wished to arise. He would not allow it. He did not want to think about her. He did not want to recall her shining eyes, filled with love, or her warm smile or teasing glances. He did not want to think about how beautiful she had been in that silver evening gown, or how passionate she was in his bed. He must not remember her utter naïveté, and how it frustrated him at times and how, at other times, it enchanted him. He must not think of the time they had spent together—but he thought about her every day, helplessly, and she haunted his nights.

An hour later, he spurred his charger into a canter and up the road that had emerged from the blackened hills, the chateau and all its outbuildings clearly ahead. It was still standing. But he wasn’t relieved—he was afraid.

He was closer now. He saw that the stables, the various living quarters and the winery had been gutted. The stone buildings were blackened shells.

Two stories tall, the house was flanked by two higher towers. The pale stone walls were scorched in places. Some of the windows were broken. The front door was wide open.

Dominic halted his gelding and dismounted. He walked slowly up the stone path to the house and paused before the open door, looking inside.

Once, the front hall had boasted immaculate marble floors, crimson furnishings and masterpieces. Nothing remained, not even the piano-size crystal chandeliers.

He looked into the adjacent salon. Even the gold damask draperies were gone.

They had taken everything.

Even Julianne.

T
WO
DAYS
LATER
,
Dominic handed his tired mount to a young camp follower, smiling at the lad and telling him to feed the horse well. As the boy eagerly led the horse away, Dominic sobered, walking past several groups of men, women and children, all around small cook fires. Michel was eating his supper with his officers at another larger campfire.

His horse would not be well fed. There was no grain, and the horse would graze wherever it could.

It was a dark starless night, with drifting black clouds hiding most of the moon. But the fire was intense, and as he moved into the circle of its light, he saw Michel, a short, dark man in breeches, boots and a shabby jacket. Michel set his soup aside—a soup that Dominic knew consisted of potatoes, carrots and, if fortunate, a piece of meat. Everywhere they went, the local farmers and citizenry offered their assistance, but locals could not feed an entire army.

Dominic went to sit beside Michel on a folded blanket. Jacquelyn clasped his shoulder, his gaze piercing. He did not say a word.

He was too choked up to speak for a moment, thinking of what he had seen. “It is gone. They burned the land. They took everything from the house.”

Michel’s grasp briefly tightened before he released Dominic. “Houses can be refurnished. The vineyards can be seeded.”

He could not force a smile. Yes, he thought grimly, but only if the damned French republican government was overturned.

Michel went to the pot, and ladled some soup into a bowl. He returned and handed the bowl to Dom, sitting back down beside him. “There is still no sign of the convoy. We have been here for two days.”

Dominic put the bowl down, hard. A part of him was not surprised, but he was furious. “They will come.”

“Will they? We are starving, and we have no arms. We cannot go on much longer.” Michel’s eyes flashed.

“Wait a few more days,” he advised.

“Oh, I intend to.” He rocked backed slightly, clearly thinking. “The garrison at Granville does not know we are here…yet. We have the element of surprise.”

Dominic tensed. He did not think an attack on the garrison a good idea, as they were too poorly armed and missing a third of their soldiers. On the other hand, Michel had proven himself to be a great military commander. He did not reply, picking up his bowl, beginning to eat. The soup was tasteless. He was starving and he did not care.

Michel did not speak, either, until Dom had finished the bowl’s entire contents. Then he said, very seriously, “You must return to London.”

Dom froze. “I can hardly leave now.”

“You are more valuable to me in London, at the War Office, as my emissary. You must make sure that damned convoy comes!”

He was right, Dominic thought grimly. But he hated leaving Michel now. Jacquelyn needed every man.

Slowly, Michel smiled, a sparkle in his eyes. “Besides, aren’t you tired of a cold, empty bed?”

He jerked, instantly thinking of Julianne.

“Dom, you had a different woman in your bed almost every night before you returned to Britain. You haven’t even looked at a woman since you got here last month. I am wondering who she is!” He was laughing. “It must be love.”

Julianne’s image searing his mind, he said tersely, “It is not love and it is not a laughing matter.”

Michel’s amusement vanished. “What is wrong? You should see your face,
mon ami.
So you have chosen to be faithful to this woman?”

The decision had not been a conscious one, although he had turned away many women in the past few weeks. Suddenly he wanted to unburden himself, desperately. “She saved my life, Michel, when I first returned to Britain. And yes, I fell in love with her—even knowing that she was a Jacobin sympathizer.”

Michel’s eyes widened.

“She doesn’t understand the revolution or the war,” he said quickly, defending Julianne. “She is impossibly naive, impossibly romantic. Julianne would give her last penny to a homeless man. And she is beautiful, and warm and so generous…” He realized he couldn’t speak. Suddenly he felt an overwhelming urge to be in Julianne’s arms. In her arms, there was no war. In her arms, there was no anguish, no desperation, no fear. In her arms, there was only relief, comfort and love.