Surrender (20 page)

Jack gave her a look. “Wait here.”

Evelyn nodded stiffly. She had no intention of moving—not unless she was told to do so.

Jack and LeClerc walked toward the dinghy, neither one speaking. The vicomte got into the rowboat, lifting the oars, while Jack pushed it into the water. When it was rocking on the waves, and Jack was knee-deep in the surf, they spoke briefly. Of course, Evelyn could not hear a word they were saying.

Tears abruptly filled her eyes and blurred her vision. LeClerc was alive—and she was glad. But if she had understood correctly, Jack had been betraying his country. Oh, God. She had to be wrong. This could not be happening.

She hugged herself, watching as Jack turned the dinghy so it faced the waiting ship and then gave it a shove. LeClerc began to row. Jack turned, wading through the water toward her. Surely he would begin to smile, surely he would embrace her, tell her he loved her—and explain what she had heard.

He waded out of the water, onto the beach, his face hard and set. She closed her eyes in dread.

“How much did you overhear?”

Her eyes flew open. “So much for a lover’s reunion.”

His face tightened. His gray gaze heated. “I haven’t forgotten last night, Evelyn. Are you trying to distract me?”

She shook her head, and she felt a tear spilling down her cheek. “I woke up so happy.”

He began shaking his head. His eyes flashed. “Yes, I imagine you were happy, and do not attempt to dissuade me! How long were you standing there—listening to us?”

Through her tears, she stared at him. “Why were you discussing le Comte D’Hervilly? Why were you discussing the Chouans? Who is Cadoudal?” She was breathing hard.

He cursed, not once, but several times.

“How did LeClerc escape Le Razor? It took the rest of his family!” she cried.

“How do you think?” he roared.

She cringed. She knew how he had escaped execution! “He is a republican, isn’t he? He turned on his friends, his family, swore his loyalty to la Patrie… He is not the first to do so!” She was sobbing now. She had not met his sons, but she had met his lovely wife. She could not recall the pretty blonde vicomtesse clearly, but she was now dead, so did it even matter?

“You shouldn’t have come down to this beach,” he cried. “And when you saw LeClerc, you should have left!”

“We made love last night! Are you a spy?” How was this happening? How? She clenched her fists.

His eyes continued to blaze. He finally said, “We did not make love, Evelyn.”

She hit him, hard, across the face. “You are a French spy!”

He stepped back, as if reeling from her blow. Red blossomed on his cheek. “I suggest that you forget what you saw and heard today. Let’s go back to the house. And I will take you home.” He gestured angrily at the rocky path.

She refused to move. “Oh! You haven’t denied it! But you deny making love!” Was she about to weep? Of course she was—a knife was stabbing through her heart, and he was the one wielding it!

“I told you,” he said softly, his anger now tightly reined, “that I would break your heart. I just did not realize it would be the morning after!”

She wanted to strike him again. “How can you betray your country? My country? Aimee’s?”

His stare sharpened. “But you already know, Evelyn. I have no conscience. I am a rogue and a mercenary. Let’s go.” He seized her elbow and half dragged her to the road.

She pulled her arm free. She did not want to believe him, but she had not misheard. Jack Greystone was a goddamned French spy. “Damn you.”

His eyes widened and she thought he flinched. “Well said. Now let’s go.”

She rushed past him; he followed.

* * *

S
HE
HARDLY
HAD
ANYTHING
to pack.

In tears, Evelyn folded her underclothes from the previous day and stuffed them into her valise. Her used stockings followed. Then she folded her dark gray dress and added that to the small bag, too. She had already packed her nightgown and robe, though she felt like burning both garments.

Jack was a French spy.
She had worried that that might be the case, but now, it was like ice water thrown in her face.
No, it was like gunpowder exploding in her heart.

She had been falling in love. She had woken up that morning, delirious with joy. She had believed, from the bottom of her heart, that Jack was a great man—a hero. He was intelligent, ambitious, powerful. He was strong and brave. He could outrun any navy. He was a smuggler, but it was a way of life for a man like him. And he had saved her life, and her daughter’s, four years ago in France. Of course he was a hero, a man she could admire and depend on.

But she had been wrong, hadn’t she? And it was as if she had viewed him in a bubble, and that bubble had now burst. He was aiding her enemies, Henri’s enemies and Aimee’s enemies. He wasn’t a great man—he was a
traitor.

She was so sick now and not just in her heart, but in her stomach. She was going to have to reconcile her view of the Jack she had believed in—the man she had taken as a lover—and the one she had overheard on the beach. But how, exactly, was she going to do that, when a part of her was protesting furiously? A part of her wanted an explanation—one that would make that afternoon go away—as if it had never happened!

But she knew what she had heard. He had told the French about a British invasion of Britanny. He had peddled military secrets. Had he been well paid? Justly rewarded? His services were expensive!

She sank onto the foot of the bed, more tears arising. How could this be happening? Last night, they had made love. This morning, she had gone down to the beach to find him and leap into his arms. She began to laugh, bitterly. But her lover was a spy—he was actually her enemy!

Of course he was. After all, she had no experience when it came to taking lovers, otherwise, she would have sensed something amiss; she would have known better! She surely would have considered the fact that everyone in Britain knew he ran the British blockade, and was wanted for treason!

Her heart should not be broken and she should not be surprised.

It was so hard to think clearly, when she was in such anguish. Would D’Hervilly and the British troops accompanying him be massacred because of what Jack was doing? She did not know much about war, but only a fool would think that the count and the British would land in France safely now. French troops would probably be waiting for them.

Shouldn’t she tell someone, anyone, what she knew? Shouldn’t she go to the authorities?

“Are you ready?” Jack asked coldly.

She slowly turned and stared at him as he stood in the doorway of her bedchamber. His face was taut, his eyes dark and flat. He was clad for travel in his dark brown wool jacket. She slowly stood up. “I was falling in love with you.”

His expression tightened. “I never wanted your love, Evelyn, and I never expected it.”

How his words hurt! “My God, you meant it, didn’t you? When you said our desire was just lust.”

His eyes blazed and he did not answer her.

“I don’t understand,” she said, sickened. And she was not referring to what she had just said. “I will accept that you are a cad, a rogue, a man who takes lovers unconscionably—” and his face hardened “—but you have an entire family whom you adore, and they are all British. Dear God, Julianne’s husband was in France, fighting the revolution! When you give state secrets to the French, you are not only betraying your country, you are betraying them.”

“You are leaping to conclusions,” he warned.

“I know what I heard. Comte D’Hervilly has amassed an émigré army, and he will be meeting a Chouan army—after invading France.” She wiped at fresh tears as they arose. “And you will soon tell LeClerc precisely when they will invade—won’t you?”

He moved. His strides were like pistons as he approached, his face enraged. Evelyn cringed as he seized her arm. “You have one choice, Evelyn, and I mean it. You are to forget every damned word you heard.”

Was he threatening her? “And if I cannot?” she cried. “If I go to the authorities?”

“Then you are placing your life in jeopardy!” he exclaimed shaking her. “Swear to me now that you will forget this day. Swear it!”

She shook her head, crying. “You mean, I am placing
your
life in jeopardy?”

He lifted her chin. “No, I meant exactly what I said. My life is already in jeopardy, Evelyn. If you tell anyone about this, you are placing your life in danger. I am looking after you, damn it. I do not want you hurt by any of this.”

“I don’t believe you,” she managed. “I just don’t know what to believe!” Was he now, absurdly, incredibly, trying to protect her? Or was he trying to protect himself?

“You might believe in me,” he said harshly.

She froze. “Deny it, then. Explain it away.”

He stared. And when he spoke, he was calmer. “I am not a French spy. You misheard—because you did not hear the entire conversation. I am asking you to give me the benefit of the doubt—because you care about me.”

She stared incredulously. Was she supposed to believe him? She knew what she had heard—what she had seen! Was she supposed to trust him? Because she wanted to trust him! And he was now using the fact that she cared—that she was falling in love with him—to gain her compliance. “That’s not fair,” she whispered.

He stared, hard. “Nothing is fair.”

Nothing is fair in a time of war,
she thought. He had said so last night.

“I can see that you have doubts. What if you are wrong, Evelyn? How will you feel if you go to the authorities, accusing me of treason, if I am innocent—when I am the man you love?”

“Don’t play me!”

“Then don’t play war games!”

She stood, shaking. “And what if I am right? What if you are giving the republicans our military secrets? What then? British soldiers—and émigrés—will die!”

“Since when did you become such a patriot?” he shouted.

“Others believe you a traitor—there is a bounty on your head!” she shouted back. And that was the final coup de grâce, she thought, the proof that she had not misunderstood. For wasn’t he running the British blockade? How could any Englishman do such a thing?

“Yes, there is. And at times, I run the British blockade—which is why there is a bounty. But I told you last night, I run the French blockade lines, too. If you care for me, you will forget everything that happened today. If you truly care, you will make the decision to trust me.”

“You are using my feelings against me!”

“Then let your heart decide!”

“Damn it!” Evelyn cried. Her heart would lead her astray, as it was protesting wildly now. And she was almost ready to forget that entire, horrid afternoon. “What if D’Hervilly leads his men into a massacre?”

“What if you are wrong?” he shot back. He stared for a long moment. “And what about Aimee?”

She gasped, not because his tone was so dire, his stare so frightening, but because he was involving her daughter now. “How dare you bring Aimee into this!”

“This is war, damn it, and this is a war game, Evelyn, one you will be playing if you tell anyone what you have heard. I don’t think you understand that the stakes are life and death.”

She whispered, “Life and death for whom? D’Hervilly and his men—or you?”

His eyes flashed with impatience. “Life and death for him, them, me…and you.”

She gasped. Now she truly did not understand. Now she felt as if she were drowning, she was so far out of her depth. “Are you protecting or threatening me?”

His eyes widened. “I would never threaten you—I am not a monster! Good men—and good women—die every single day because of this war and the games we play. I do not want you to be another damned victim of this war. I am trying to protect you in spite of your accusations.”

“If you are trying to frighten me, you are succeeding.”

“Good. Hopefully I have frightened you into a memory lapse.” He seized her valise. “Aimee just lost her father. She cannot afford to lose you, too.” He left the room.

Evelyn cried out. She did not know what to do, or even what to believe. She did not know why he might wish to protect her, for if he were a scurrilous spy, he had no conscience. And she was also afraid he was using her feelings to gain her silence.

But what if she was mistaken, what if he was innocent? With more tears arising, she slowly followed.

* * *

H
ER
UNCLE
’
S
CARRIAGE
halted in the driveway at Roselynd, Evelyn having spent the past hour in the backseat fighting tears. It was truly over, she kept thinking, as she could hardly continue a love affair with Jack Greystone now—and he undoubtedly did not even want one. He seemed so hateful now. It had been lust, anyway, not love.

Her grief was consuming.

But she also kept recalling the night he had helped her and her family flee from France. And as much as she fought it, she recalled their voyage to France and his lovemaking last night.

It was as if she had memories of two entirely different men.

The first was not real, she reminded herself. The French spy was the genuine Jack Greystone.

Except, he wanted her to give him the benefit of the doubt—he wanted her to trust him. A part of her wished to do just that!

But she would not be that foolish, she thought grimly. She would be strong. She had a daughter to protect. She must stay out of these war games.

As she alighted, the front door of the house opened and Aimee ran out. “Mama! Mama!”

Evelyn turned, holding out her arms, thrilled to see her child now, no matter the staggering heartbreak. Aimee flew into her embrace. Evelyn knelt and rocked her, as much to find comfort as to greet and hold her daughter.

“Mama! You are crying!” Aimee accused.

She was crying—when she had hardly shed a single tear over her husband’s death. In the past few hours since her discovery on the beach at Looe Island, she had shed a thousand tears. It amazed her that Jack Greystone could hurt her this way.

And there had not been even the briefest, or most cordial, of goodbyes. Jack had sailed her to the cove below her uncle’s house, the short voyage taking a bit more than an hour. He had stood stiffly at the ship’s helm the entire time, while she had stood at the railing, her back to him. He had been angry; she had been engulfed in her own anguish.