Chapter Sixteen

Two days passed. The knowledge of Damien’s secret buoyed Alexa’s spirits and filled her with hope. Her instincts had been right about him from the start. Damien was a hard man, but he had very good cause. In truth, there was more to her husband than even she had suspected.

Sitting in front of her mirror, brushing her long auburn hair, Alexa smiled. Damien was a patriot, not a traitor. A spy for England—not France. She wanted to shout her joy to the world, to thank God for the unbearable weight that had been lifted from her shoulders. She wanted to lie in bed with her husband for hours on end, to learn every inch of his sleekly muscular body. She wanted to rejoice with him, to show him how much she cared.

Instead she kept her expressions carefully bland, her feelings tightly controlled. Only in bed did she allow her emotions free rein. Those heated moments were alive with passion and wonder, times when the world outside ceased to exist and for a few brief minutes both of them were free of the dangers around them. On several occasions after they had made love, she started to tell him about the man named Jules St. Owen she had met at the Hotel de Ville, but each time the promise she’d made held her back.

She had vowed not to broach the subject of his spying again, and she meant to keep her word.

And in truth, something deep inside kept her silent. A tiny voice of caution that warned her to beware.

Perhaps it was in part a reaction to the role her husband continued to play, for most of the time and always in the presence of others, Damien remained coolly reserved. He treated her much as he would one of his mistresses—a fact that galled her, though she now believed she understood. She consoled herself with the hope that they would soon be returning to England, to home and safety and the life they had shared before all of this had occurred.

She kept the thought fixed firmly in her mind that night as they traveled to the Opéra. They were seeing Cherubini’s Les Deux Journées, along with Colonel Lafon, M’sieur Celleries, and a captain of the hussars named Francois Quinault.

Unfortunately, it turned out that Quinault was accompanied by the big-breasted actress, Gabriella Beaumont, Damien’s former cher amie. All evening, the voluptuous blonde rudely ignored her escort and flirted outrageously with Damien, fluttering her hand-painted fan and laughing as she whispered in his ear.

Sitting in the blue velvet armchairs in Lafon’s private box, Alexa told herself it did not matter. Damien wasn’t flirting back, and though he accepted the woman’s overtures as if it were his due, he laced his fingers possessively with her own as if he willed her to understand.

I do, she inwardly repeated. He is playing a role and I must play one too.

In the light reflected from the metal-backed lamps, Alexa suddenly smiled. If he could act his part, she could act hers too. Damien might not like it, but there were limits to what she was willing to endure. Pulling her fingers from his dark-fingered hand, she rose from her seat and turned to the small buxom blonde who sat at his side, next to Captain Quinault.

“Madame Beaumont,” she said, eyeing the impertinent blonde from head to foot. “I realize you and Major Falon are extremely well-acquainted, but in case the fact has escaped you, he is now married to me. In the name of good taste, I ask that you please remove your hand from his leg.”

The woman gasped and surged to her feet, her tiara tilting sideways atop her lavish coiffure. “How dare you!”

“I dare because it is my privilege to do so. Perhaps in this country a wife allows such a thing. Perhaps it goes unnoticed. In my country—”

“That’s enough, Alexa,” Damien cut in shortly, rising to his full height between them, but there was a trace of humor in his eyes and perhaps a hint of approval. “You will insult Madame Beaumont no further.” He turned to Gabriella and bowed formally over her hand. “Excusez, madame. My wife is not usually given to such bursts of ill manners.” He spoke once more to Alexa. “The performance is nearly at an end. Perhaps it is time we went home.”

Alexa eyed the blonde with cool disdain. “Nothing would please me more.” Ignoring the woman’s gloating expression, she lifted her chin and strode regally from the room.

Damien said nothing as he led her outside the theatre onto the Rue Richelieu, but in the shadows around the corner, he pulled her away from the crowd and up against the wall into the darkness. Alexa held her breath, awaiting his rebuke, but instead saw a corner of his mouth curve up and amusement sparkle in his eyes.

“Jealous, were you?”

She arched a dark auburn brow. “Perhaps. Then again, perhaps I was only acting.”

“Were you?”

“That depends on why you encouraged the woman to behave as she did.”

“Because it’s what Lafon and the others would expect of me.”

“And as an Englishwoman—and your wife—they would expect nothing less of me than to put such a scene to an end.”

He laughed, a sound she hadn’t heard in far too long. “I suppose that is true.”

“Then you’re not angry?”

In answer, he leaned forward and kissed her, his mouth claiming hers in a thorough taking that shimmered through her limbs and made her knees feel weak.

“No, ma chére, I’m not angry.” In truth, he seemed glad that she cared enough about him to have done what she did. “Let’s go home.” The gruffness in his voice said exactly what his plans were, but the words stirred a different thought inside her.

She raised her eyes to his face. “I want to go home, Damien. I want that more than anything else in this world.” But it wasn’t a return to the house in the Faubourg St. Honoré that she meant, and her husband knew it. “When can we go back where we belong?”

A long finger stroked down her cheek. “I’ll get you home just as soon as I safely can.”

“What about you?”

“I can’t return until I have something of importance to give them. When this is over, my usefulness will be ended. I want to bring back something the British can use.”

“But surely—”

“No more, Alexa. You gave me your word.”

She said nothing else, just let him guide her round in front and help her into their carriage. As he settled his long frame back against the seat, Alexa leaned forward and kissed him. In seconds he was kissing her back, pulling her onto his lap and sliding his hands inside the bodice of her gown. He didn’t stop until they’d reached the house, and then only for a moment.

They held hands on their way up the stairs, and once they reached their bedchamber, hurriedly dispensed with each other’s clothes. They made love until three in the morning, then finally fell asleep.

Later that afternoon, Damien suggested a ride through the city, which suited Alexa perfectly, since the sky had cleared to an azure shade of blue and a breeze kept the temperature from being overly warm. Fewer carriages clogged the streets, more people, it seemed, deciding to enjoy the day and stroll among the gardens.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Damien said with obvious affection as he stared outside the carriage window. “Unlike anywhere else in the world.”

She eyed him with some speculation. “I’m surprised that you like it. You never seemed to care for life in the city.”

“Paris is different.”

“Yes … I suppose it is. It must be difficult having your loyalties so divided.”

His expression shifted just a little. “Loving so beautiful a city has nothing to do with my loyalties. Nor is that a subject that we should be discussing.” He softened his words with a kiss. “Please, ma chére, this is difficult enough as it is.”

Alexa merely nodded. There was so much she wanted to ask, so much she needed to know. Instead she kept silent, determined to keep her word.

The day passed in warm companionship. They strolled the Tivoli Gardens and luncheoned at the Café Godet in the Boulevard du Temple, a crowded place filled with soldiers in colorful cockaded hats and ladies eating ices and oranges. They walked the streets of the Palais Royale in the shade of low-branched plane trees, and near the corner of the block discovered a small traveling sideshow.

“May we go in?” Alexa asked excitedly, enthralled by the antics of a huge brown bear and a bare-chested gravel swallower performing for a small crowd out in front.

“If you like.” Damien smiled with such warmth it took her breath away. “Though I have to admit there is something else I would rather be doing.” He bent and kissed the side of her neck as he led her into the tent.

That night they made love, leisurely this time, since the day had been a long one. She felt sated and content that next day, and more hopeful about the future than she had been in weeks.

Marie Claire helped her dress and make her way downstairs, but Damien had already gone. There were a few things he needed for the general’s house party they would be attending at week’s end, he had told Pierre. As Alexa thought on it now, there were several things she needed as well. When she discovered that Damien had not taken the carriage, she vowed to make a quick trip to the small shop she had seen near the Rue des Petits Champs for a fan to match her blue and silver gown and an extra pairs of slippers.

“Do you wish for me to go with you?” asked Marie Claire.

“Ah, non,” Alexa replied, looking forward to a little time alone. “I will only be gone for an hour.”

“At least let Claude-Louis drive you. Your husband will be angry if you go out alone.”

Alexa easily agreed. She liked the sandy-haired man who was her husband’s valet—she liked the entire Arnaux family. And being unfamiliar with the city, it would be comforting to have him along.

Her hour-long endeavor turned into three. The carriage was laden with boxes when she returned home, departing the conveyance out front, next to a coach she had never seen. It was a sleek black caleche, heavily trimmed in gold. Four matched blacks stood in harness, which, with the war going on and the shortage of horses, could only mean the rig belonged to a man of some importance.

She went into the house with no small amount of trepidation, wondering who their guest might be and hoping it boded good instead of ill.

Outside the main salon she paused. She could hear men’s voices, but she wasn’t about to go in. Still, she was suddenly determined to discover what went on. Two doors led into the room, one from the foyer, the second from a small informal drawing room off toward the rear of the house. Alexa made her way there.

The doors were closed but, to her relief, not snugly. It was easy to see through the crack, easier still to make out Colonel Lafon’s tall lean profile, as well as that of a stout, dark-haired man with bushy brows and thick, curling side whiskers. Both of the men were in uniform, the shorter man wearing enough gold braid to light the room without candles.

“It is always good to see you, mon general,” Damien was saying, “but I’m beginning to think this isn’t a social call.”

“Hardly,” Lafon put in, his bearing nearly as rigid as the general’s. He held a glass of cognac, as did the other two men, but hadn’t yet taken a drink.

“No, my dear Major, I am very much afraid it is not.” Tension rippled through the general’s thick body. “Unfortunately, it is about a conversation you had in this house several nights past.”

“Oh?” Damien arched a slashing black brow. “And just what conversation was that?”

“The one where you informed your lovely wife that you were a spy for the British.”

Dear God in heaven. Alexa’s nails dug into the palms of her hands. Damien’s fears had not been unfounded. Sweet Lord, what would they do?

Terrified, she watched him through the door, his hesitation so slight she knew she had imagined it. A rich burst of laughter bubbled up from his throat.

“Clever, wasn’t it?” Moving to the sideboard, he refilled the glass of cognac he cradled in a long-fingered hand, his grip not the least bit unsteady. “She was surly and ill-tempered before. Now she welcomes me into her bed. She’s even jealous of my mistresses—Gabriella in particular. Isn’t that right, Lafon?” He turned away from the colonel and looked the general square in the eye. “I said what the woman wished to hear. I didn’t think I’d be expected to report my marital machinations to a general of the Grande Armée.”

“You’re telling us it was an act?” Lafon said, clearly incredulous, but no more stunned than Alexa.

Damien merely shrugged. “I thought it was a stroke of brilliance, myself, but as I said, I didn’t expect my ruse to be reported to the Grande Armée.”

The general eyed him a moment, carefully stroking his side whiskers. “We have known each other through very many years, n’est ce pas?”

“Very many years, mon general—and very many women.”

A smile touched the general’s lips. It turned into a grin, and then he burst out laughing. His barrel chest shook and his eyes crinkled up at the corners. “I should have known.” More deep laughter, enough to rattle the medals across his thick chest. “You never cease to amaze me, mon ami.”

Alexa stood at the door in stunned silence. It’s only his way of protecting us, she thought wildly. Dear God, it couldn’t be the truth. Still, her chest ached and her throat felt so tight she could not speak. She heard Lafon join in the laughter, saw him shaking his head and Damien chuckling softly. It was all too real. Too terribly, unbearably real.

She remembered the way he had manipulated her from the beginning, his ruthless attempt at seduction, then forcing her into an unwanted marriage. She thought of the lies he had told, the lengths to which he had gone for revenge, the threats he made against her brother. She recalled the night he met with the French. He had lied about that too, and later when he’d gone into the city.

If he had been an English spy, why hadn’t he told her about it then? She remembered Jules St. Owen. Surely General Wilcox would know the truth. Surely someone would!

Dear God, she wanted so much to believe him. Surely Damien would tell her about the men, she thought with desperation, explain his words and prove where his loyalties lay. Perhaps she should simply confront him, tell him what she had heard and ask him to explain.

And he would, she was sure. Logically and sensibly, and the fact remained it would not be the truth.

Alexa’s stomach knotted; for a moment she thought she might be sick. You’re a fool, Alexa, a voice said inside her. You defend this man again and again. You believe his lies when every particle of common sense screams that it can’t be the truth.

You believe he is the man you fell in love with, when no such man exists.

Fighting back tears, Alexa left the drawing room and headed for her room upstairs. She felt battered and bruised, used and abused and deceived. Dear God, she was tired of being duped.

It was her fault, she knew, for wanting to believe in him so badly. For seeing something inside him that wasn’t really there. Closing the door behind her, she moved woodenly to the window and sat down in a high-backed chair. Through a glaze of tears she stared out into the garden, but it was only a colorful blur.

She had cried too much since her marriage, since the night at the inn when her heart had first clashed with Damien Falon. He had bested her time and again, and yet she had not learned her lesson. She had been abducted, manhandled, shot, and sold into bondage, and still she had not learned. She loved this man who was her husband, and yet she had never really trusted him. Was he using her again, or was he telling her the truth?

Alexa heard the front door close and jumped up from the window seat. Dashing the tears from her eyes, she checked her image in the mirror, turned and hurried from the room toward the servants’ stairs in the rear.

You’ve got to stay calm, she told herself, you’ve got to at least pretend. Forcing herself to smile, she descended the stairs and hurried down the hall to the door that led to the carriage house in the rear. She opened the door and slammed it behind her, pretending she had only just come in.

“I’m home,” she called out, approaching her husband in the entry, working to appear as if nothing were wrong, praying he couldn’t detect a trace of her tears. Praying with all her heart and soul that he would tell her about the men and convince her once more that she was wrong. “Did you miss me?”

“Of course I missed you. I always miss you.” He gave her a smile as well, but she noticed a trace of tension around his lips.

Alexa glanced toward the entry. “I thought I heard someone at the door. Did we have visitors?”

“Colonel Lafon and General Moreau stopped by.”

“Wh-What did they want?” Hope rose. Her pulse leaped hard inside her chest.

He simply shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing much. The general wanted to be certain we’d be joining him in the country.”

“I see.” But her heart wrenched painfully and her stomach nearly rebelled. Tears burned behind her eyes. She quickly blinked them away and continued to smile. “I’d like to change, if you don’t mind. My feet are beginning to hurt, and it’s time I got out of these clothes.”

“Perhaps I should help you.” His eyes swept the length of her, then settled on the swell of her breast.

Alexa smiled but shook her head. “I’ve a bit of the headache, I’m afraid. I think I’ll lie down for a while.”

“If that is the case, then it’s best that you do. Later, if you’re up to it, Colonel Lafon has invited us to join his group at the theatre.”

It took all of her will, but she nodded. “That sounds lovely. I’m sure I’ll be fine by then.” Damien kissed her cheek and she left him, forcing her unsteady legs to climb the stairs. As she reached the safety of her room, tears flooded her eyes and a wave of despair swept over her.

Lies. More and more of them, one of them heaped upon another.

What did you expect? came the voice in her head. Even you can’t be that big a fool. Deceptions, deceit, a constant assortment of games. Dear God, she hated him for it!

Misery washed over her, weighing her down like a water-soaked skirt, sucking her under, leaving her drained and confused. Leaving him once more the victor, the man who would surface undefeated. Perhaps she should simply give in, let him win the game completely.

Perhaps she should simply succumb to despair, curl up in a tiny ball of misery and let matters run their course.

Alexa clamped her jaw, her mind crying out in denial, her resolve turning hard as something rebelled inside her. Her English blood perhaps, or simply her pride and her strong sense of will. She hurt deep down. Despair soaked into her very bones, disappointment and loss as harsh an enemy as she had ever known. Yet there was anger there, too.

Damn you. Damn you to bloody hell for the bastard you are! she thought, and in that moment, if she had owned a knife, she might have plunged it into his heart.

Stay calm, the little voice warned, it is you who have everything to lose. It is you has suffered at this man’s hands, you who will continue to suffer unless you do something about it.

The voice was right, she knew. There had to be a way to redeem things, a means to save herself … a way to even the score.

Her mind began working, sorting through her thoughts, piecing them together then discarding them one idea after another and forming new ones again.

Alexa whirled toward the window, her heart leaping hard inside her chest. She needed an answer to her problem. Sweet God in heaven—suddenly she knew what it was.

Her fingers pressed against the window, her thoughts beginning to focus, the solution becoming crystal clear. Damien was a spy—a very successful one, it seemed. If his story had been true, his purpose in France would have been to gather information. He mingled with Napoleon’s top advisers, with his generals and most trusted staff. He was invited into their homes, into their confidence, treated as a good and loyal friend.

He had access to a great deal of knowledge. Perhaps, if she were careful, she could gain access to it too. Alexa’s heart pumped as her thoughts whirled and the last of her tears dried on her cheeks. Her blood was thrumming with new resolve, determination stirring, anger and resignation slipping away.

If Damien could do it, so could she. All she had to do was learn to control her emotions. He had played so many games, she finally lost count, and he’d won every hand. Her emotions had caused her defeat, the feelings he aroused in her, the need she believed she saw in his eyes whenever he looked at her. If she could learn to control those emotions, she could win.

Alexa moved from her place inside the door and began to pace the carpet. At week’s end they would be attending the general’s house party. Surely she could glean some useful information, something she could take back home.

Until then she would find a means to avoid him. An argument, perhaps, something that would anger him enough to stay away. For a moment she considered telling him what she had heard. Damien would be angry, furious that his deception would no longer work. He might stay away from her—then again, he might not. He’d have no reason to maintain his caring facade; he might simply take what he wanted. Worst than that, he would once more be on guard.

No, the truth here would not serve her. She needed a ruse, something that would keep him away from her bed and focus his attentions elsewhere from what she had planned.

Alexa took a long, courage-building breath. She would do whatever she had to and hope she would find some way to help her country. She would ignore the terrible pain, the throbbing ache of despair, ignore the rending of her soul, so deep it nearly tore her in two. She would shoulder her loss, steel every thread of her being, and pretend not feel the heartache.

She would pray for God’s help to lighten the load, and pray that she heard from Jules St. Owen. Jules would see her back to England. She would be safe at last, and there would finally be an end to this terrible nightmare.

Alexa thanked the Almighty and her own common sense that she hadn’t succumbed to her urge and given the poor man away.