Seduction

He had no doubt it was the Atlantic Ocean he gazed upon. He knew the steel-gray color of those often stormy waters. And then he stared at the pale rock cliffs, the desolate, flat landscape. In the distance, he saw the silhouette of a lone tower. He was not in Brest, he thought. The landscape looked very much like that of Cornwall.

Cornwall was renowned for its Jacobin sympathies. He turned, leaning against the sill for balance. The small table was before him, with her writing tablet, the inkwell, and the parchment page. He took two steps to the table, grunted hard and seized its edge to keep from falling down.

Dominic cursed again. He wasn’t going to be able to run from anyone if he had to, not in the next few days. He wouldn’t be able to even seduce her, for that matter.

His gaze found the parchment. She had been writing the letter in French.

Dread arose. He seized it and read the first line.

My dear friends, I am writing to celebrate with you the recent victories in the National Assembly, and especially the triumph of establishing a new Constitution, giving every man the right to vote.

She was a damned Jacobin.

She was the enemy.

And now, the words seemed to gray on the pale page. Somehow, he managed to read the next lines.

Our Society is hoping that more victories over the Opposition will come. We want to ask you how we can further aid our cause of equality and liberty in France, and throughout the Continent.

The words were now blurring rapidly, and becoming darker, and he could not make them out. He stared blindly at the vellum. She was a Jacobin.

Was she playing cat and mouse with him? he wondered. In France, everyone spied on their neighbors, looking for rebels and traitors. Was it now the same in Britain? As a Jacobin, was she hunting men like him? Hoping to identify British agents, and then intending to betray them?

Or did she think him a Frenchman? Now, he must make certain she never knew he was an Englishman. And how much did she know? Did she know he had just come from France? He needed information, damn it!

He was sweating and out of breath. Agitation was more than he could manage, in his state. Too late, he realized that the floor was undulating beneath him. He dropped the page, cursing.

Dark shadows were closing in on him.

It was hard to breathe. The room was spinning slowly, with all of its furnishings.

He must not faint now.

Dom finally sank to the floor. As he lay there, struggling to remain conscious, he heard the footsteps rushing at him. Fear stabbed through him.

“Monsieur!”

He fought to remain alert, so hard, sweat covered his entire body. His fists clenched and he inhaled, opening his eyes. The first thing he saw was her gray gaze, trained upon his face, as she knelt over him. Her expression seemed to be one of worry.

Miraculously, the room stopped swimming.

He stared up at her and she gaze down at him with great anxiety.

He was riddled with tension, lying prone beneath her. He was too weak to defend himself and he knew it. She must realize it, too.

But a weapon did not appear in her hand. Instead, she touched his bare shoulders, clasping them. “Monsieur! Did you faint?” Her tone was hoarse. And then he realized why.

He was naked; she was entirely clothed.

“I fell, mademoiselle,” he lied smoothly. He would never let her know how weak he was. She must believe him capable of self-defense—even aggression. Somehow, he lifted his hand and touched her cheek. “You remain my savior.”

For one moment, their gazes collided. Then she leapt to her feet, turning her head away, to avoid looking at his body now. She was crimson.

He felt certain she had never seen a naked man before. Her inexperience would make her easy to manipulate. “I beg your pardon,” he said, praying he would not collapse again as he sat up. “I cannot find my clothes.”

“Your clothes,” she said roughly, “were laundered.”

He saw that she had her glance averted still, so he stood. He wanted to collapse upon the mattress; instead, he pulled the sheet from it and wrapped it around his waist. “Did you undress me?” He glanced at her.

“No.” She refused to look at him. “My brother did—we had to give you a sea bath, to reduce the fever.”

He sat on the bed. Pain exploded but he ignored it. Long ago, he had mastered the skill of keeping his expression frozen. “Then I thank you again.”

“You came to us only in breeches and boots, monsieur. The breeches are not dry yet. It has rained since you came to us. But I will bring you a pair of my brother Lucas’s breeches.”

He now sought her gaze until she met it. She remained undone by having glimpsed him unclothed. If he were fortunate, she hadn’t noticed how incapacitated he was. He smiled. “I would appreciate a shirt, as well.”

She looked at him as if he had spoken a foreign language she did not understand. Nor did she find humor in his remark.

He sobered. “I am sorry if I have offended your sensibilities, mademoiselle.”

“What were you attempting to do, monsieur? Why would you arise without my help?”

He was about to respond when he saw her letter, lying on the floor behind her, where he had dropped it. He knew better than to try to avert his eyes; she had already turned, to look behind her.

He said softly, “When I fell, I knocked over the chair and I also bumped into the table. I apologize. I hope I have not broken the chair.”

She swiftly retrieved the letter and placed it by the inkwell; as quickly, she lifted and righted the chair.

“I was thinking to open the window for some fresh air,” he added.

Without turning, she hurried to the window, unlatched it and pressed it outward. A cool blast of Atlantic air rushed into the room.

He studied her very closely.

She suddenly turned and caught him staring.

And he knew he did not mistake the new tension that had arisen between them.

Finally, she smiled back slightly. “I am sorry. You must think me very foolish. I…did not expect to return to the chamber and find you on the floor.”

She was a good liar—but not as good as he was. “No,” he said, “I think you very beautiful.”

She went still.

He lowered his gaze. A silence fell. To be safe, he thought, all he had to do was play her.

Unless, of course, she was the spy he feared, and her naiveté was theatrics. In that case, she was the one playing him.