Chapter Twelve

Damien stretched his stiff muscles, though it was no easy task with his hands bound in front of him. His shirt hung in tatters, his breeches were covered with dirt and filth, and his hair hung in heavy black ropes across his forehead.

Still, he marched along the beach in front of Bewicke and his soldiers, more than eager to reach their destination and make the trade that would see his wife safely home. Though he felt certain of her care, he knew firsthand how impulsive she could be. Hadn’t he used her impetuous nature to his ill gain on more than one occasion?

Though he had prayed that she would behave herself and nothing untoward would happen, he’d worried about her every moment he spent in his dismal cell. And cursed her, and then cursed himself for ever getting her involved in this.

Damien scanned the inky horizon, searching for her now, or at least for the boats that would carry her ashore. A bank of fog lay just off the shoreline. Already tentacles of mist crept in to shroud their movements. It was nearly ten o’clock, the time they had set for the rendezvous. Lafon was meticulous. Barring any unseen difficulties, he would arrive right on time.

Bewicke said something to one of his men, then turned his attention to Damien. “You’re a lucky man, Falon. My questions remain unanswered, and now you return home to France.”

“You seem to forget, Colonel, that Castle Falon is my home.”

“Ah, yes, so it is. Then am I to believe you will miss it once you are gone?”

“You may rest assured I will miss it.”

“And your wife, Falon? Will you also miss her?”

Something squeezed inside his chest. “I’ll miss her,” he said gruffly.

Bewicke flashed a smile of satisfaction. “Never fear, your lordship, I will see to your lady wife’s welfare. Perhaps I can find a way to console her for the grievous loss of her husband. Perhaps the countess will enjoy the solace of my bed.”

Damien lunged for him, but the guards beside him gripped his shoulders and jerked him back.

“You had better take care, Lord Falon, lest you receive another lesson in manners before your friends arrive.”

Damien said nothing. Already he could see the dark outline of two small sails in the distance, just inside the fog bank. Several minutes from now the boats would reach the shore.

They did so with swift efficiency, their bows sliding up on the sand, Lafon and his men climbing over the sides, their boots sloshing noisily in the surf. When the colonel reached up to help Alexa alight, Damien breathed a sigh of relief.

She was home and she was safe. For now, it was all that mattered.

The men were still some distance away. Bewicke shoved him in that direction, and he stumbled forward, fighting to stay on his feet. A gust of wind tugged off the hood of Alexa’s cloak, and he caught his first real glimpse of her. Her cheeks looked pale, her dark copper hair clung damply to her throat and shoulders, but her beautiful face was no less arresting than it had been the first time he had seen her. It made his insides clench and his mouth go dry. It made him want to hold her, to make love to her for hours on end. It made him wonder what he would do without her.

“Time to go home, your lordship.” Bewicke shoved him again, and Damien continued walking, his boots crunching softly in the sand. Her eyes searched him out, and he wondered at her thoughts. He wondered if she would ever forgive him.

Alexa watched her husband coming toward her, her gaze locked on his face. One of his eyes was blackened and nearly puffed closed, and a line of dried blood trailed from his lips. His shirt gaped open, and even in the pale light of the moon Alexa could see the bruises on his ribs.

Dear God, Damien, what have they done to you?

But he seemed to be moving with his usual graceful stealth. She noted a bit of stiffness, but it was obvious no bones had been broken. He looked beaten and bruised, yet hardly defeated. He held his head high, his back straight, his broad shoulders squared. Part of her yearned to run to him, to throw herself into his arms, while another, saner part denounced him as a traitor and swore that she no longer cared.

They faced each other across a narrow stretch of sand, Bewicke and his soldiers on one side, she and Lafon and his small group of men on the other.

“I am sorry, madame,” the French colonel said, “but there will be no chance for a farewell to your husband.”

Alexa straightened her spine, drawing on her courage, ignoring her feelings of loss. “It doesn’t matter. There is nothing I have to say.”

“I am sorry, madame.”

At Colonel Lafon’s urging, Alexa started forward, and so did Damien. His eyes held hers, yet, as always, he carefully masked his emotions. She had taken only two uncertain steps when the blast of a musket split the air. Alexa whirled toward the sound and so did her husband. Men began shouting in both English and French, waving their arms, and then she heard the sound of running feet.

“It is a trap!” Lafon shouted, and Alexa’s heart dropped into her stomach.

Before she could think what to do, one of the Frenchmen grabbed her and twisted an arm behind her back. He turned and started shoving her toward the surf.

“No! I’m not going with you!” She tried to pull free, but already they had reached the boats and he was dragging her into the sea. He lifted her up over the gunwale and tossed her into the hull, drenching her skirt in the brackish, stagnant water. Alexa surged toward the bow, shouting for someone to help her, searching frantically for Damien even as the boat was pushed into the sea.

She saw him fighting two of Bewicke’s men, downing one with a blow of his still-bound fists, kicking out at the other then sprinting on toward the water. A pistol shot rang out. She realized Lafon was in the other boat and his shot had brought down the second British soldier. Her heart beat madly as Damien fought two more men and continued running forward, determined to reach the boats and his last chance for escape.

She found herself praying he would make it, felt her heart aching for him so fiercely a flood of tears washed her cheeks. Her hopes began to fade as her own small craft plowed into the waves and farther out to sea. Then she saw him thrashing through the surf toward the boat that held Lafon and the rest of the men.

Dear God, please help him! Insanely, she wondered if God were an Englishman—if he closed blind eyes to the perils of the French.

She never knew whether her husband made it, for a volley of musket fire cracked through the air and a burning pain tore into her chest. She cried out at the feel of it, her flesh erupting in blood, the world spinning sideways as a wave of dizziness assaulted her.

“Mon Dieu,” one of the men in the boat said, “the little anglaise has been hit.”

“Serves the little whore right,” said the beefy Frenchman she had heard called Rouget.

“Damien…” she whispered, wishing she knew what had happened, the sharp pain growing, her fingers pressing into the ragged wound just inches above her heart. She tried to search out the second boat, but they had already entered the fog bank. She thought she heard the dip and glide of their oars but she couldn’t be sure.

“We must stop the bleeding,” the first man said. “Press something over the wound.”

“Why should I? Major Falon is safe—the woman is of no use to us now. After what she has done, if we let her die, ’e will probably be grateful.”

The first man seemed to ponder the other man’s words. “I have no love for the English myself. I do not believe the major will want a wife who has betrayed him.” His smile looked wolfish and cold. “But there is a better place for a beautiful woman than the bottom of an angry sea.”

“I do not see what you mean,” Rouget said.

“It is simple. If she lives until we reach Paris, we will take ’er to Madame Dumaine at Le Monde du Plaisir. She can join Madame’s fille de joie. We will be well-paid for such a prize—in money, and perhaps ways even more pleasant.”

“What if the major finds out?”

“’E will not be long in France—they will set him to spying someplace else. And ’e is not the type for Le Monde.”

Rouget nodded. “I heard he keeps a mistress.”

“More than one, so they say.”

“What if she dies?” Rouget asked, stuffing a dirty rag against her shoulder.

“If she dies…” The first man merely shrugged his shoulders. The men’s coarse laughter was the last thing Alexa heard as she sank deeper into the fiery pain and her mind slid into darkness.

*   *   *

Damien paced the beach south of Boulogne. Though the sun had come up, thick, flat-bottomed clouds darkened the horizon, and the wind blew bitter and cold.

“Nom de Dieu—where are they?” he said in French, speaking more to himself than the man who stood beside him.

Victor Lafon followed his gaze, the hollows in his gaunt cheeks even more pronounced this morning. “Two of the men were killed in the fighting on the beach. That left only Rouget and Monnard to crew the boat. The seas have been rough. The boat has obviously been swept off course. If that is the case and the men are forced to land somewhere else, their orders are to make their way as quickly as possible back to Paris.”

“If that happens, it’s going to take them some time.”

The colonel nodded. “Mais oui, that is so. If their boat has not been sighted within the next two hours, I suggest we make ready to leave.”

Two hours. It seemed more like two days. Was Alexa all right? This time Lafon wasn’t there to protect her. Damien didn’t know the two Frenchmen she had wound up with, only that they were enlisted men chosen because of their seamen’s skills. There was no way to judge how an Englishwoman would fair at their hands. He could only pray that her status as his wife would offer her some protection.

As he had for the thousandth time, he damned Douglas Bewicke to hell.

The hours passed, but the sky grew no clearer, and there was no sign of the boat.

“I think we had better go.” Lafon approached where he had walked to the edge of the sea. “The trip to Paris will take several days. You will wish to be there when the men arrive, n’est ce pas?”

Damien only nodded. He was worried about Alexa, but he didn’t want Lafon to know just how much. In the game of intrigue, it was unwise to betray one’s emotions. His care for Alexa was his Achilles’ heel. It was the kind of knowledge they might one day use against him. It was a mistake he couldn’t afford to make.

“How are you feeling?” the colonel asked as they made their way toward the carriage waiting in the distance.

“Like I’ve been set upon by the mob at the Bastille.”

“You will feel better once we have arrived back in Paris and your pretty little wife is returned to your bed—although on that score, I do not think I envy you.”

Damien smiled thinly, falling into the role of the hard-edged, conscienceless man they expected. The tough, unfeeling man he had been.

“Her loyalties to England are strong. It is a fault I should have dealt with sooner. Perhaps if I had, none of this would have occurred.” He glanced at the shrewd man standing at his side. “The fact is, the girl is my wife. Her loyalty belongs to me—a lesson she will learn soon enough. As for her return to my bed—that is another of her duties I mean to see she soon fulfills.”

With some amazement, Damien realized just how much he meant the latter.

*   *   *

“Colonel Lafon is here, m’sieur.” The small dark maître d’ stood in the open doorway. Damien sat behind his desk in the study of his town house—hôtel, the French called it—in the Rue St. Philippe, Faubourg St. Honoré. They had reached Paris two days ago.

Two days. And still no word of Alexa.

Now Lafon was here, and Damien’s heart set up an uneven rhythm inside his chest. “Merci, Pierre,” he said to the butler. “See him in.”

The little man nodded, his slicked-back, pomaded hair unmoving, and hurriedly left the room. A few minutes later he opened the heavy oak door and Lafon walked in. One look at the tight lines and bitter expression on the colonel’s gaunt face and Damien came up from his chair, his hands biting into the wooden armrests.

“What’s happened? Have you found her?”

“You had better sit down, mon ami.”

Damien did not move. “Tell me.”

His blue and white uniform spotless, Lafon walked forward until he stood in front of the desk. They faced each other across the polished rosewood surface. “Your wife took a musket ball in the chest as her boat escaped the beach. The wound was a mortal one. I am afraid she did not survive the voyage.”

Damien said nothing. Just slowly sank down in his chair. “There must be some mistake.”

“I am sorry, Major Falon.”

“You … you’re certain of this? There can be no mistake?”

“Corporal Rouget was with her when she died. He says she did not suffer.”

“Where … where is her body?” He tried to remain in control, fought desperately to hide his turbulent emotions.

“I am afraid that is part of the tragedy. The boat capsized in the waves as it was approaching the shore. Madame Falon’s body was lost at sea.”

Damien’s eyes slid closed. Sweet Christ, it couldn’t be true. He felt sick inside, his chest so tight he could barely breathe. “Bewicke. I’ll see that bastard dead, I swear it.”

“We should have known better than to trust an Englishman.”

Damien could do no more than nod. “I appreciate your bringing the news.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat. It took all of his will to pull himself under control. When he did, he looked up at Lafon and slowly shook his head. “I wished my wife no ill.” He tried to sound matter-of-fact. “In truth, I had grown rather fond of her.”

“Your wife was a beautiful young woman. You have my deepest sympathies.”

Damien shoved back his chair and rounded the desk. He prayed Lafon wouldn’t notice that his legs were shaking. “Thank you, Colonel.” He sighed. “Our marriage was hardly a long one. Money was involved, of course—but I had yet to grow tired of her sweet little body. Ah, but these things happen.”

“So they do,” Lafon said, moving toward the door.

“Ironic, isn’t it? Were I still in England, I would be a very wealthy man. Fate can be a ruthless enemy, n’est ce pas?”

“Oui, Major Falon. Fate has always been more fickle than the vainest of women.”

Damien waited for the colonel to leave, closed the door behind him and leaned against it. His head was pounding, his stomach felt leaden, and there was a roaring in his ears that blocked out all other sound. God’s blood, he couldn’t believe it. Yet these uncertain feelings he had harbored all week had warned him that something was wrong.

Woodenly, he moved to the ornately carved sideboard near the fireplace in the corner. With trembling hands he lifted the stopper from a crystal decanter and poured a liberal dose of cognac into a snifter. He took a long nerve-dulling sip and then another.

In minutes he had finished the glass, refilled it, and finished that too. He meant to get good and drunk. He knew it was futile, yet he prayed it would help ease the pain. Alexa was dead because of him—there was no way to deny it. Dead and gone and missing from his life forever. The pain seemed to grow, to swell with every heartbeat, to gouge and tear and twist. The fiery ache expanded, filling every muscle and joint, sliding through his veins like white-hot oil.

For years he had cared about nothing. For a while he and Peter had been close, then his brother had died and he was once more alone.

For a brief, sweet moment in time he had cared for Alexa, known feelings for her he hadn’t believed himself capable of. Now, however unwillingly, she had abandoned him too.

Damien picked up the bottle of cognac and returned to the chair behind his desk. He slumped into the deep leather seat, his head hanging forward, the glass once more empty.

There had been pain when he lost Peter, but it was nothing compared to this. This was a soul-crushing, mind-numbing ache that the liquor he consumed did not begin to dull. He felt as if his chest had been ripped open and his heart torn out. As if he had died and now burned in the fires of hell.

He refilled his drink and downed the contents, his fingers painfully gripping the empty glass. He reached for the bottle and, on the small silver medallion hanging from the neck, caught a glimpse of his reflection.

For the first time he noticed that his face was wet with tears.

*   *   *

Celeste Dumaine stood in silence at the foot of the old iron bed, its white-painted brass chipped and peeling. Beneath the worn pink satin counterpane, the young girl lay sleeping. She was a slight woman, not unlike herself—twenty years ago. Now Celeste’s once-taut body had turned fleshy. Her breasts were no longer firm, her skin no longer supple. Her long chestnut hair had begun to thin, to fade and lose its luster. Ah, but she had been a beauty once—not unlike the girl.

Celeste moved toward her around the side of the bed. Her breathing was still too shallow, her pulse a fluttery thread at the side of her neck. Celeste reached a hand in that direction, tracing a finger down the alabaster column of her throat, gauging the texture of her skin. In the glow of the lamp, the large ruby ring Celeste always wore on her third blunt finger glittered like a drop of blood against the girl’s pale cheek.

She trailed a light touch across it. Never had she seen smoother skin, the color of priceless ivory. Never had she seen finer features. Or hair such a vibrant shade of auburn, the dark red hue of polished rosewood. Celeste had brushed it, then fanned it out on the pillow, the long shimmering curls like flaming silk beneath her hands.

She leaned forward to smooth the heavy strands, and the shimmering mass seemed to sear into her fingers. Under Celeste’s black lace robe her nipples grew hard, the stiff peaks pulsing, growing tender beneath the abrasive fabric. The blood in her veins seemed to thicken, to pump a little slower, and the vee at the base of her legs began to dampen and burn.

She bent over the bed and eased back the covers. Below the bandage that covered the young woman’s wound, her full breasts rose and fell softly. Each of them was perfectly formed, full yet firm, and pointing erotically upward. Celeste’s hand shook as she cupped one. A fever still raged, making the skin hot, making the girl toss and turn.

Reluctantly, Celeste pulled up the covers. It had been years since she had been afflicted with such yearning. Whether the object of her desire was man or a woman did not matter. It was the beauty of the subject, the exquisiteness of form. It was an elegance, an exuding of grace, an essence of purity that made her blood pulse heavily and a dampness settle between her legs.

What a splendid creature, she thought, tasting a hunger long forgotten, her anticipation growing, swelling just as her breasts did. And she belongs to me.

Celeste vowed the woman would live. She would see to it personally. Once she was healed, she would break her in carefully, use her to the best advantage without destroying her spirit. Money was all-important, of course, but with the proper care, there was more to be gained than just added coins for her purse. Far more.

She had plans of her own for the beautiful young girl.

*   *   *

Damien roused himself a little at the insistent knock on his bedchamber door but didn’t get up from the chair.

The knob turned, the door opened, and his valet de chambre, a tall, stately man with sandy brown hair, walked in. Claude-Louis Arnaux was just two years older than Damien, a married man with a young son, whose wife served as his housekeeper.

“General Moreau is here to see you. He is downstairs now, waiting for you in the study.”

Moreau. Christ. He sure as hell couldn’t let the general see him like this. “Tell him I’ve been ill. Tell him I apologize, but I’m not yet dressed to receive callers. Tell him I’ll see him in his office, later this afternoon.”

Claude seemed relieved. Damien knew his friend had been worried about him. “As you wish. I will have a bath sent up and see to fresh clothes.”

Damien nodded, grateful as always for his friend’s unwavering loyalty. He dragged himself up from the overstuffed chair he had pulled in front of the now dead fire. He hadn’t come out of the room in days. His hair was dirty, his face unshaven, his clothes a wrinkled mass of stains and creases. He kicked aside an empty bottle of cognac. A broken glass crunched beneath the heel of his boot.

“Nom de Dieu,” he muttered, followed by an indrawn hiss of breath as he passed by the cheval glass mirror. God, he looked like hell.

He felt like it too.

He smelled of stale brandy, his head pounded, and his tongue felt leathery and dry. He wished he could crawl back into the bottle he’d been living in for the past four days, but the liquor hadn’t really helped, and he couldn’t hide from himself forever.

Alexa was dead—he would never forgive himself for that, and inside, his grieving would continue. Outside, his absence would soon be noticed and the depth of his feelings made note of—he couldn’t afford that.

Claude-Louis walked back in. He was one of the cidevants, a former member of the aristocracy, one of the emigrés now returned home. If the Revolution had not occurred, if Louis still remained king, Claude would be a count. Instead he was a servant … or at least so it seemed.

“I am glad to see you’ve come back to the living,” Claude said.

He only wished he had. “I was a fool. No woman is worth that much grief.” Behind him, servants walked in carrying a steaming cuveau of hot water. Claude-Louis waited till the servants had left and closed the door behind them.

“There is no need for pretense with me. We have known each other far too long for such folly, n’est ce pas?”

Damien sighed. “That is so, mon ami. I did not mean to play games.” He raked a hand through his wavy black hair. “Sometimes I’m no longer sure where the games leave off and the real world begins.”

“It is all right, my friend. I believe that is so for us all.”

Damien stripped off his clothes and sank into the steaming copper tub, welcoming its cleansing warmth. He rested his head against the rim and his eyes drifted closed. For a moment he saw Alexa smiling at something he had said. She was admiring his beautiful birds, her eyes filled with happiness and admiration. He saw her speaking to his mother, her eyes flashing, standing up for him when she should have been fighting for herself.

Then he saw her running toward him on the beach. There was fear in her eyes, regret, and terrible sorrow. A world of emotion shown in a face filled with worry—for him. The sight was so heart-wrenching, it jerked him fully awake. He groped for the white muslin towel with a trembling hand and Claude-Louis held it out for him.

“You are weak. You have not eaten in some time. Even now Chef Masson prepares a tray. You will feel better with something in your belly.”

Damien said nothing. The thought of food made his stomach turn over. Still, he would force himself to eat. He had a job to do, and though it hadn’t gone as he had planned, he would find a way to salvage the situation. Work would help ease the pain, for it was work that gave him purpose. He would cling to that purpose now as he never had before.

Cling to it, though he knew without doubt that no matter how successful he was, the price he had paid was more than a man should have to bear.

*   *   *

“So, ma belle, how are you feeling?”

Alexa studied the garishly dressed woman seated in the faded chintz chair across from her. “Nearly as good as new, thanks to you, Madame Dumaine.” They were sharing a cup of mocha, sipping from fine porcelain cups, incongruous in the shabby, tastelessly decorated room.

“Another few days and you will be ready to face the world, I think. You will set them on their ears.”

Alexa’s face went pale. “Madame, I know how generous you have been, I—I know I owe you my life, but I beg of you to release me.”

“We have been over this a dozen times, my pet. I have paid a small fortune for you. I have spent hours at your bedside. I have fed you and nursed you and protected you. It is a debt that must be repaid.”

“I told you, I’m a very wealthy woman. If you will see me safely returned to England—”

“England, bah! You will remain right here!”

“But surely—”

“The past is finished, my dove. The sooner you accept that, the happier you will be. You are mine now. You will do exactly as I say.” Her expression was implacable, the lines of her mouth thin and grim. She was a hard woman—she’d had to be. Whatever softness she had known had been burned out by the past she had led. And yet …

Her voice grew soft, almost cajoling. “Trust me, ma belle. Your life here will not be so hard. There will be men, yes—a good many of them. But you are intelligent. In time you will learn how to please them. It is not such a bad life, really.”

Alexa shivered to think of it, her blood running suddenly cold. “Please, madame, is there nothing I can say to convince you?” She had tried—dear God, she had spent hours pleading and crying, begging the woman to see reason. She had tried to escape, only to discover the windows had been barred from the outside and a huge bearded blackamoor posted outside her door.

“Hush, my pretty. The time for talking is past. Resign yourself, and perhaps the day will come when your debt has been repaid. When that times comes”—she smiled—“your body will belong only to me.”

Alexa said nothing, but a tremor of dread slid down her spine. She watched in silence as the thick-waisted older woman crossed to the door and went outside. She could hear the blackamoor speaking to her in soft suggestive tones, then the sound of their mutual laughter.

A chill stole over her. What would happen to her now? she wondered. When would the first man come? What would he look like? How would his hands feel on her body?

How would she bear it?

She thought of Damien and her mind cried out with longing. She wondered where he was—wondered if he still lived—and a bleak despair crept over her soul.

She thought of Bewicke and her heart filled with loathing. It was Bewicke and his treachery that had brought her to this. A man she had trusted, a man she had foolishly believed would help her.

But he had not helped her. He would not help her now.

In truth, she had no one.

She could not even help herself.