Surrender (36 page)

Julianne was on her feet in an instant. “Lucas must know about
this. Damn it, why did he keep this from me? I want to know everything!” She
started for the door, and then turned. “Evelyn? I love you as much as I would if
you were truly my own sister.”

Evelyn didn’t know where that had come from. “And I you.”

“Good. Then you must tell me the truth. Are you with
child?”

Fort Penthievre, Quiberon Bay,
France
June 30, 1795

I
T
HURT
TO
SIT
UP
.

Jack somehow did so, gasping and holding his ribs—which were
broken this time. His head also hurt, as did various other body parts. He had
been savagely beaten for his treachery, but he was still alive.

However, he would not fool himself. He was going to be executed
for his crimes against the republic, for even if there was a trial, it would be
a mockery. LeClerc had been very clear on that point.

And now he was in a prison in France.

His heart shuddered with real fear—a feeling he was not
accustomed to. He was a prisoner of the French, and unless he escaped, soon, he
would be beheaded as a spy.

He knew better than to hope that he would be rescued. If his
crew had decided to set sail without him, Lucas and Warlock would probably
already know that he had been captured, and the obvious place of imprisonment
was at this fort. On the other hand it was unlikely that his ship had
disembarked; his ship and crew were probably being held by the French. If that
were the case, it might be days or even weeks before his brother and the
spymaster realized he was a prisoner of war—and one destined for the guillotine.
He did not think he had a great deal of time—only that morning, a prison guard
had leered at him and told him that his days were numbered.

Jack limped over to the small, barred window of his cell. From
it, he looked out over the beach and the bay. That afternoon was bright and
sunny, gulls wheeled overhead, and the bay was unblemished. The British naval
squadron was not in sight, not from his cell window, at least.

He did not think rescue likely.

And he had already tried to bribe two of his captors with the
promise of a fortune in gold, but to no avail. He had approached each
individually, in a hoarse whisper, at suppertime. The first guard had spit in
his face and laughed at him; the second had begun to sing “La Marseillaise.”

Attempting bribery was dangerous—he could be reported to the
warden. Therefore, he had begun to think of escape.

And there was only one way out of this prison—from his cell
door. Every day, two guards came in the morning and at night, to bring a piece
of bread and some bug-infested gruel. The guards were armed, and they used a
trap door to slide the trays into the prisoners. Thus far, in the five days he
had been a prisoner, he had identified six different guards.

He had already decided which pair was the most vulnerable. The
boy in that pair was clearly unnerved by the nearby fighting; he was thin, weak
in appearance and even somewhat effeminate. Jack had heard him speaking. He had
come from a good family, and by some bad luck, he had wound up in the republican
army, as a prison guard.

His partner was middle-aged and overweight. He moved slowly,
and Jack was certain his restricted movements were caused by arthritis or an
injury, as much as they were by his obesity.

Jack thought it would be easy to seize the boy from behind,
after he slid his tray into his cell and turned away—and put a knife to his
throat. A successful escape would then depend upon good fortune—whether the
second guard would hand over his weapons to save his comrade’s life.

Jack was well aware that he was desperate. But if the second
guard could be coerced into dropping his arms, Jack knew he could get the boy to
open up his cell. Last night, Jack had spoken to the man in the cell beside his.
The prisoner—a slim, dark Frenchman who was a captured Chouan rebel—was eager to
help.

The plan was simple. After the overweight guard surrendered his
weapons and opened up the cell, Jack would knock both guards out, then release
every prisoner on his row. In the ensuing chaos, he would don his captor’s
uniform and find a way to escape.

There was no point in delaying their attempt at escape beyond
tonight. Because he was damned if he wasn’t going to see Evelyn again.

Jack continued to stare out at the serene waters of the bay.
But he was worried. He prayed that LeClerc had given up his thoughts of revenge
against Evelyn, now that Jack was his prisoner. Hopefully he was preoccupied
with the rebel invasion.

But he had to get home to her, and not just to protect her.
There was no more denying the extent of his feelings for her. It hadn’t been
easy, telling her how he felt, just before he had taken her from Looe Island
back to London. But he had been compelled to declare his love. It was that
consuming.

He now knew he had fallen in love with her at first sight, that
night in Brest, when she had appeared in the middle of the night at the docks,
seeking a way out of France. She had been so strong and so brave then. She was
as strong and as brave now.

And she deserved a life of happiness, after all that she had
endured. If he ever got out of that prison—if he ever got out of France—he
wanted to be the man to give her that life. And he wondered at himself. He could
hardly believe his own thoughts. He was an adventurer, a smuggler, a spy. But in
the darkness of his prison cell, he did not feel the call of danger as he was
used to. Instead, he could only think of Evelyn, and of Aimee, and how they
needed a champion and a protector....

A war like this one could go on for ten or even twenty years.
He knew that. Wars like this were always fought in the name of freedom, but they
brought destruction and tyranny instead. He suddenly gripped the bars of his
window. He was most definitely imprisoned by this war now. But even if he
escaped the French, would he really be free, if he continued to work for
Warlock? Did he really want to spend the next few years outracing two navies and
outwitting both the French and his English spymasters? When Evelyn needed
him?

When he needed her?

And suddenly he stiffened, as he heard footsteps in the
corridor outside his cell. He was disbelieving. Were they coming to execute
him
now?
When he planned to escape that
night?

Jack slowly turned—and saw LeClerc standing outside his cell.
“
Bonjour,
mon ami.
I have a few questions for you.”

A guard was with him, holding a ring of keys. Jack looked from
the key ring to LeClerc, his heart racing. He did not think he would be politely
questioned; he thought he would be brutally tortured. And that guard had the
keys to his cell....

Cannon boomed.

In the quiet of the afternoon, the sound was shocking. It was
very close by. Jack started—as did LeClerc.

And then more cannon boomed, again and again, and there were
the screams and shouts of an invading army and the sound of muskets firing.

Within the prison, bells began to toll, rapidly, warningly—a
sound even a child would know....

“The fort is being attacked!” LeClerc cried, blanching.

Jack saw fear in his eyes.

“I have to get out of here!” LeClerc whirled, and as he did,
the guard turned to look at him—and Jack seized him through the bars of his
cell, both of his hands on his neck. The guard gasped and began to choke.

LeClerc looked at them in terror, and ran away, down the
corridor.

“Pierre!” Jack ordered his neighbor, because he had had the
good fortune to have seized the guard at the edge of his cell.

Pierre reached forward, laughing, and took the gun from the
guard’s belt. He then placed it against the guard’s temple.

“Open my door,” Jack ordered, as more cannons boomed, as
muskets fired, as horses screamed and men shouted. The battle seemed to be just
below his window, which meant that the fort was being besieged.

The guard jammed his key into Jack’s cell door, unlocking
it.

Jack stepped through, took his musket from him and hit him over
the head with it. He crumpled. Jack then opened Pierre’s cell, and the one
across from them. “Finish this,” he said, handing him the keys, he ran into the
opposite cell and looked out of the window.

He saw the British troops below the fort walls, a sea of
invading red, fighting the French in blue. And in the center of the battle,
waving high, was the red cross of St George, atop the white cross of St Andrew.
His gaze slammed to the officer on the black charger, who was beneath the
British tricolor, and in the midst of the battle—at once fighting his way
forward and rallying his men.

“It is D’Hervilly,” he said. “And if I do not miss my guess,
they are about to take the fort.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

London
July 10, 1795

E
VERY
PASSING
DAY
felt like an eternity now. Émigré troops, led by the Comte D’Hervilly,
had invaded Quiberon Bay. All of London waited with bated breath for the daily
war news, as the British forces took the fort there, and then, as the fighting
swung back and forth between both armies, with the rebels advancing, and then
the French. But in the past two weeks, there had been no word from Jack and no
news about him.

Evelyn sat in the salon downstairs, alone, curled up on a sofa.
She could not embroider or read. She was so sick at heart—afraid that Jack was
dead. What other explanation could there be for this terrible sound of
silence?

“Hello, Evelyn.”

And even though she now knew the timbre of Lucas’s voice, he
sounded so much like Jack that as she glanced up, her heart slammed. He stood in
the doorway, bicorn hat in hand, golden and handsome, smiling slightly at her.
Julianne was with him.

Evelyn slowly got up. She was most definitely pregnant—she was
probably four months along, or close to it. “Lucas!” Her gaze searched his. He
was not an expressive man and it was hard to tell if he was disturbed or simply
solemn.

He strode into the room, taking her hands warmly in his. “How
are you?” he asked softly.

By now, the entire family and both households knew of her
condition; she instantly knew Julianne had either written him, or mentioned it
to him after he had just walked in the door. “As far as this child goes, I am
fine. But I am terribly worried about Jack.”

He put his arm around her. “Jack is very much alive.”

She cried out, beyond relief, then turned into his arms, her
face against his chest. She fought her tears, quite unsuccessfully. Her
condition was making her temperamental now. She looked up. “Are you
certain?”

“I received word indirectly, Evelyn. But I am certain.” His
smile was brief but reassuring. However, he sent Julianne an odd, inquiring
glance.

“What is wrong?” Evelyn cried as Julianne came forward. “What
happened and where is Jack?”

“We do not know where he is now,” Julianne soothed. “Evelyn, he
was captured during the invasion. He was, briefly, in prison.”

Evelyn had to sit down. Jack had been captured by the French—if
he had been in prison, they knew he was not their agent.

LeClerc would know it, too.

Were they both in danger now?

“He spent five days in the prison at Fort Penthievre,” Lucas
said, sitting down beside her. “The fort was liberated by our troops and the
rebels—Jack got out then.”

“Thank God,” she breathed. “Was he hurt?”

“We don’t know,” Lucas said. “But I have some good news. Victor
LaSalle, the Vicomte LeClerc, was badly wounded when we took the fort. He died
there a few days ago.”

She shuddered. She could not wish death on anyone, but he had
been intent on using her and Aimee against Jack, and she had believed his
threats. “I cannot be sorry,” she whispered.

Julianne put her arm around her. “No one expects you to be
sorry, Evelyn. At least we do not have to worry about LeClerc now.”

Evelyn’s mind raced. Did Jack know LeClerc was dead? God, she
hoped so! And Jack was, at least, freed. “Could he still be in France? There is
so much fighting going on now—I can’t even follow the news! One day, the rebels
seem to have won, the next, we hear of a French victory. Would he stay to help
the rebels, who are his friends?”

Lucas hesitated. “He might. But he could have returned to Looe
Island.”

“No.” She shook her head, standing. “He would come to me, I am
certain.”

Julianne took her arm. “But he doesn’t know about the child.
His men have families in Looe.”

“Can we send word?”

Lucas patted her shoulder. “I am on my way to Quiberon Bay now.
I intend to stop at the island briefly. If you wish to compose a note, why don’t
you do so now? If he is there, I will give it to him.”

“And if he isn’t there?”

“Then I will surely see him in France,” Lucas said.

And suddenly Evelyn knew he was still in France—he would never
abandon the émigré troops and the rebels now. He would be in the midst of
combat, fighting alongside them for their freedom. He would be there not just
because he was so reckless with his life, and so enamored with danger, but
because he was a man of honor, a patriot, a hero.

Evelyn closed her eyes. If he came home alive, it would be
enough, and she would not ask him for anything more. Then she looked at Lucas.
“When you find him, tell him that I love him,” she said.

Lucas smiled. “I will…but I am sure he already knows.”

* * *

T
HE
DAYS
PASSED
WITH
excruciating slowness. Evelyn
stared grimly out of a salon window at Lambert House. Outside, in the gardens,
Aimee was playing tag with William and John, Grenville’s sons, with Jolie racing
madly about them. In a moment, they would all troop over to the stables to ride
Grenville’s ponies.

She could not smile. Her heart felt frozen over with fear, with
dread. Lucas had sent a brief message to them, a week ago—Jack was not at Looe
Island. In fact, he hadn’t been in residence since the third week of June.
Evelyn was not surprised. Of course he hadn’t been there—he was at Quiberon
Bay.

If she did not have a child to care for, she would shout and
scream, rant and rave, and allow herself to become a madwoman. But Aimee must
never suspect how frightened she was. And there was her unborn child to care
for.

And of course, neither Amelia nor Julianne would leave her
alone for very long. Both sisters recalled the time in their lives when they had
been separated from their husbands during the war, and what it was like to live
with the fear of the unknown. Amelia and Julianne were determined to preoccupy
and distract her with the family’s many affairs. Every day she went with
Julianne, Jacquelyn and Aimee to Lambert House, and every evening there was a
family supper. If she dared retire to her chamber for a moment of privacy, a
knock would sound on her door and either Amelia or Julianne would inquire after
her to make certain she was well.

And Evelyn did not mind. They had all grown so close. She knew
that Amelia and Julianne merely wished to comfort and reassure her—even if that
task was an impossible one.

Because the invasion had failed.

The French had recaptured Fort Penthievre the other day,
shocking London with the news. And to make matters worse, the British émigrés
and Chouan rebels had been routed. Thousands had died or had been captured,
while thousands more had been pushed from the beaches into the sea. And gale
winds had prevented the British navy from rescuing the troops.

She hated the damned war!

And she was sick, because she knew Jack had been among the
rebels. Now, she did not know if he was one of those captured, or if he was even
alive.

Looe Island
August 3, 1795

J
ACK
LIMPED
SLOWLY
INTO
his bedchamber, ripping off his
bloody and dirty shirt. He was so exhausted, he could barely stand, and he
collapsed into a chair to take off his riding boots.

He threw them aside. Then he slumped in the chair, eyes closed,
sitting motionless.

Images from the various land battles he had been in assailed
him yet again—men in red and blue slashing at one another with their bayonets,
human blood spurting, spraying, men screaming, as cannons boomed, as smoke
filled the air, as horses whinnied in terror....

Would he ever forget those battles on the peninsula?

He dreamed of the wounded and the dying at night, and in the
day, the ghastly images haunted him, too.

He opened his eyes and stared across the bedchamber, but he did
not see the four-poster bed he slept in, or any other accoutrement.

Help! Help!

Aidez-moi! Aidez-moi!

They bobbed in the gale-driven ocean, waving frantically,
screaming for help. Dozens of heads and dozens of arms were all that could be
seen of the drowning troops, begging to be rescued. It was a horrific sight, one
he would never forget.

Abruptly, Jack flinched and forced his vision to clear. He made
himself identify the furnishings of his bedroom. And while he stared at the dark
four-poster bed with its gold-and-red coverings, he still saw those bobbing
heads and flailing arms.... He thought he might live with the gruesome memory
until he died.

Hot tears filled his eyes.

He had been setting sail for Britain, having stayed along the
French coast to help with the invasion. As it turned out, the delay had been
timely; he was just in time to rescue one hundred and three of the drowning men,
mostly émigrés, but a few had been former French prisoners of war. He wished he
had been able to save more of them, but by the time he had dragged the last
survivor aboard his ship, the ocean had been silent, the cries for help having
ceased, and when he had looked out over the water, there had been no one
left....

He had the terrible urge to weep.

God, he was so sick and tired of war and death!

He stood, cursed at the pain in his knee and limped over to the
bureau and poured a stiff drink. He had been in other battles, but never had he
planned for and fought in a cause like this. He had truly believed they could
liberate Britanny from the French. Instead, thousands were dead, as many were
captured and General Hoche was rampaging across the countryside, exacting
vengeance upon anyone and everyone associated with the Chouans.

He slammed down the entire glass of brandy. At least LeClerc
was dead. His French master had died from the wounds inflicted during the first
attack upon Fort Penthievre. Jack had run past him, too, as he was leaving the
fort. He had taken one look at LeClerc, who lay bleeding upon the ground, shot
in the chest, and he had known he would not survive.

He hadn’t felt satisfaction, and he hadn’t felt remorse. He
hadn’t felt anything at all, but now he was grateful that he had been spared the
ugly task of murdering his enemy.

Evelyn’s enemy.

His hand shaking, Jack poured another drink. Not a day had gone
by in this past month of hell that he hadn’t thought of Evelyn and Aimee, that
he hadn’t been aware of the depth of his yearning and love for them. Just then,
he would give his soul to have her in his arms, so he could hold her tight.

He continued to tremble. The dreams about the battles and the
drowning men were bad enough, but he had other dreams, as well: of being in
prison. Almost nightly, he was trapped behind stone walls and iron bars, the
sound of cannons booming, exploding. In those nightmares he knew he would never
escape the French prison and the French wars. LeClerc came to leer at him. So
did Warlock.

He was furious, he was frustrated and he was desperate. He
would beg to be set free—so he could return to Evelyn. But no one ever answered
his pleas. Instead, he would awaken, aware that even though he was not behind
bars now, he was still a prisoner of the war, and shaken to the core because of
it.

It was said that war changed a man. So did prison. One was bad
enough—both were sheer madness.

He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but he was done—with the
war, with Warlock, with spy games. He would never take his life or his liberty
for granted again. And he never intended to be a prisoner of war again, either.
Not due to incarceration, and not due to these war games.

He had given Britain everything he had—he had almost given her
his life. And for what? He, Jack Greystone, could not save Europe from the
French Revolution. He had done his best to play his part in the effort; let
someone else save Britain and her Allies from the French now. Everyone who was
anyone in the world of intrigue knew he had been playing the French, so he was
useless to Warlock in continuing to play both sides. There could be no better
time to get out.

And even if it were a bad time to stop spying, he didn’t
care.

He cared about Evelyn and her daughter.

Jack turned slowly. He almost cringed when he faced his
reflection in the mirror. He was unshaven, bruised, battered and shirtless. He
looked as disreputable as a fifteenth-century pirate. He did not appear to be a
gentleman, or at all good enough for the Countess D’Orsay.

She was a great lady. He was just a smuggler and a rogue.

But he was a soon-to-be-free smuggling rogue; Admiral Hood
thought him a hero. He had invited him to dine aboard the Channel fleet’s
flagship after the rescue of the drowning men. Jack had accepted.

And it was probably the most fortunate invitation he had ever
received. They had drunk a great deal of wine and shared a great many stories
and secrets. Jack had told Hood almost everything about the spy games he had
been playing. He had also pointed out that his government had a price on his
head. Hood had been furious.

And he had promised him that he would be a free man
again—before the summer was over. He had stated it was his personal mission.

Jack stared at his dirty, battered reflection. He had never
cared about that bounty, until recently. For a long time, he had enjoyed the
notoriety of being wanted by not just one government, but two. It had been an
amusing game, avoiding the authorities on both sides of the Channel.

And he knew exactly when he had grown tired of the game; he
knew exactly when it had begun to hamper and hinder him, when it had become
frustrating. When Captain Barrow had come looking for him at Roselynd, something
within him had snapped. Every urge he had—and had always had—was to protect
Evelyn, not to put her in more danger.