Читать книгу Seduction - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 10
ОглавлениеCHAPTER THREE
HAD HE THOUGHT that he was amongst enemies? “I have cared for you for an entire week,” Julianne said, removing her hand from his.
His green gaze was on her face now. “I feel certain you would care for any dying man, no matter his country or politics.”
“Of course I would.”
“I am a Frenchman—you are an Englishwoman. What should I have thought, upon awakening?”
She began to realize the predicament he might have thought himself to be in. “We are on the very same side, monsieur. Yes, our countries are at war. Yes, I am English and you are French. But I am proud to support the revolution in your country. I was thrilled to realize that you are an officer in the French army!”
“You are a radical, then.”
“Yes.” Their gazes remained locked. His eyes were not as hard as before, but still, she felt oddly uncomfortable, as if she had been pushed off balance, as if she were in an important—no, crucial—interview. “Here in Penzance, we have a Society for the Friends of Man. I am one of the founders.”
He now sat back in his chair, seeming impressed. “You are an unusual woman.”
She couldn’t smile. “I will not be held back by my gender, monsieur.”
“I can see that. So you are a true Jacobin sympathizer.”
She hesitated. Was she being interviewed? Did she even blame him? “Did you think that you were in a household filled with enemies?”
His smile did not seem to reach his eyes. “Of course I did.”
She hadn’t had a clue as to his distress; he had been a master at hiding his thoughts and feelings. “You are amongst friends. I am your friend. In my eyes, you are a great hero of the revolution.”
His brows lifted. And now she knew he had relaxed. “How much more fortunate could I be? To wind up in your care?” Suddenly, he reached for her hand. “Am I being too direct, Julianne?”
She went still. He had never called her by her name before; he hadn’t even called her Miss Greystone. It had always been “mademoiselle.” Yet she did not protest. “No.”
And he knew that she had just allowed him an intimacy—and perhaps opened the door for even further intimacy.
He did not release her hand. It was late and dark and they were alone. “I hope you are not afraid of me,” he said softly.
She slowly looked up from their clasped hands. “Why would I be afraid of you, monsieur?”
He met her gaze. “Hero or not, I am a stranger…and we are alone.”
She didn’t know what to say. His stare was unwavering, intense. “I enjoy our conversation, monsieur,” she finally said softly. “We have so much in common.”
“Yes, we do.” He was pleased. Then, “I am glad you think of me as you do, Julianne.”
“What else could I possibly think?” She managed a fragile smile. “You are fighting for equality in France and the freedom of all men, everywhere. You have put your life in jeopardy for a great, universal cause. You almost died for the sake of freedom.”
He finally let go of her hand. “You are a romantic.”
“It is the truth.”
He studied her. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
He spoke in a murmur, but he had that tone of command again. She knew she flushed. She managed to look down at the table between them. “Some thoughts are meant to be privy.”
“Yes, some are. I am thinking that I am fortunate to have been brought into your care. And not because you are a Jacobin.”
She jerked to look up at him.
“When I first woke up, I remembered dreaming of a beautiful woman with titian hair, tending me, caring for me. And then I saw you and realized it was not a dream.”
He had just walked through that open door....
“Am I being too forward? I am accustomed to speaking directly, Julianne. In war, one learns that time is precious and no moment should go to waste.”
“No. You are not being too forward. ” She trembled. He was feeling the same pull toward her that she felt toward him. Amelia would be shocked if she knew what was unfolding; her brothers would be furious.
“And does your sister think of me as you do?”
She was so off balance that, for one absurd moment, she thought he was asking her if Amelia also found him attractive.
“I do not have the impression that she thinks of me as a war hero,” he said.
It was hard to think about Amelia just then. But he was waiting for her to respond. She inhaled. The change of topic had been so abrupt. “No, she does not,” Julianne breathed.
“She is not as radical as you are?” he supplied.
She took a breath, finding her composure. “She isn’t radical at all, monsieur.” She could not tell what he was thinking or feeling. She did not want to worry him. “But she is not political, and she would never turn you over to the authorities, I promise you that.”
For another moment, he stared, considering her words. Then he rubbed his neck, as if it ached. Before she could ask him if he was all right, he said, “And have you been able to aid our Jacobin allies in France? Is it easy to send word to them?”
“It isn’t easy, but there are couriers these days. One must merely pay handsomely to get a message across the Channel.” Did he wish to send word to France? She tensed. Wouldn’t he want Nadine to know he was alive?
“What’s wrong?”
The French woman had to be a lover—he could not possibly be married, not when he’d flirted with her as he had. But she hated ruining the evening by asking about her. She was afraid she would learn that he still loved her. She smiled quickly. “I was just thinking that I wish I could be of more help to our allies in Paris. Thus far, we have merely exchanged a few letters and ideas.”
He smiled at her. “And what is your brother, Lucas, like? I will have to eventually find a way to repay him for my use of his clothes.”
She looked closely at him, sensing he wished to ask far more. “Lucas will not mind you wearing his clothes. He is a generous man.”
“Would he turn me over to the authorities?”
He was worried, and rightly so, she thought. She hesitated. Hadn’t she feared that Lucas would do just that? Charles was most definitely interviewing her.
“No,” she finally said. “He would not.” She would not allow it.
“Is he a radical, then, as you are?”
She was grim. “No.”
“Julianne?”
“I am afraid that my brother Lucas is a patriot,” she said carefully. “He is a conservative. But he has no time for politics. He manages this estate, monsieur, providing for this family, and that occupies all of his time. He is rarely here—and I would never tell him who you are, if he suddenly appeared.”
“So you would withhold the truth about me from your own brother in order to protect me?”
She smiled weakly. “Yes, I would.”
“You believe that he would turn me in.”
“No! He could not do any such thing, anyway, because we would never tell him who you are.”
“Are you expecting him in the near future?”
“He always sends word when he is returning. You do not have to worry about him.” But Lucas hadn’t sent word a week ago; he had simply appeared. She decided not to tell Charles that.
He scrutinized her and said, “And your other brother?”
“Jack doesn’t care about this war, not one way or another.”
“Really?” He was mildly disbelieving.
“He is a smuggler, monsieur. The war has raised the price of whiskey, tobacco and tea—indeed, it has raised the price of many items—and he says it is good for his business.”
He rubbed his neck again, and sighed. “Good.”
She didn’t blame him for his questions. Of course he would want to know who the members of her family were—and what their politics were, as well. He would want to know if he was safe. She watched him massage his neck. Was his tension that great? How could it not be? “I have been wondering why Jack brought you here.”
He looked at her.
When he did not respond, when she could not decipher his direct regard, she said, “I haven’t seen Jack since he brought you here—he comes and goes very erratically, and he was gone when I arrived at the manor and found you here in a terrible state. I have been wondering about it. Lucas only said that Jack found you bleeding to death on the wharf in Brest.”
He hesitated. “I have a confession to make, Julianne. I do not remember how I got here.”
She was stunned. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she cried, concerned.
“We have just barely become acquainted.”
She could not absorb that explanation. Why hadn’t he asked her how he had gotten to the manor, if he couldn’t recall it? How odd! But she felt terribly for him. “What do you remember? Are there other memory lapses?”
“I recall being wounded in battle,” he said. “We were fighting the La Vendée royalists. The moment I felt that ball in my back, I knew I was in dire jeopardy. Everything became a haze of pain—and then it was simply darkness.”
He had been in that great battle against the La Vendée royalists! When she had told him the news of the rout, he hadn’t even blinked. She wondered why he hadn’t revealed how pleased he was—for surely their defeat had thrilled him. It seemed odd that he would receive news of his last battle with such an impassive demeanor. “Isn’t Nantes inland?”
He studied the table. “I suppose my men brought me to Brest. I wish I could remember. They might have been looking for a surgeon—we are always short on surgeons. Perhaps we got separated and cut off from our troops. Perhaps they were deserters.” He now looked up at her. “There are a number of possible scenarios. They may have even decided to leave me behind and let me die when they reached Brest.”
She was shaken. How could his men have left him to die? Had they been such cowards? He was staring closely at her now. She trembled. “Thank God Jack found you! I didn’t understand why he brought you to Cornwall,” she said, their gazes locked, “but maybe he mistook you for a fellow smuggler. Knowing my brother, he might have been in a rush to disembark. He is usually on the run from one navy or another, or the revenue men. I am guessing that instead of leaving you to die, he simply brought you on board his ship and cast off. Lucas must also have thought you were a smuggler.”
“No matter what happened, I am fortunate, am I not? Had Jack not rescued me, I would not be here now, with you.”
His regard was filled with significance. “I am so glad he rescued you,” she said softly. “Jack will be back, sooner or later, and then we can find out what really happened.”
He reached across the table and took her hand and enclosed it in his larger one. “Fate put me in your hands,” he said. “Isn’t that enough, for now? You have saved my life.”
His soft tone washed through her, causing so much tension.
As she watched him, he sighed, releasing her hand and rubbing his neck again. “Thank God,” he said softly, “for Jack.”
She watched him rub his neck.
He caught her watching him and grimaced. “I have been in bed for far too long, I think. My neck is terribly stiff.”
The tension within her thickened. She could help him—if she dared. “Are you in pain?”
“Some.”
Her heart went out to him. She wanted to comfort him. But there was more. She wanted to touch him.
She had bathed him while he was unconscious. She knew what his skin felt like, what his muscles felt like. In the space of seconds, she was breathless.
She slowly stood up, barely able to believe herself. She felt like a different woman, someone older, wiser and experienced. The Julianne she knew—that her family and friends knew—would never do what she meant to do now.
His eyes became languid and watchful.
She whispered, “Can I help ease you, monsieur?”
He was looking up at her. “Oui.”
She walked around the table, toward him. She moved behind him, almost dazed. She began kneading his neck.
He made a deep, guttural sound. It was terribly male and terribly sensual.
Desire renewed itself, instantly. All other thoughts vanished and she began to increase the pressure on the knotted muscles of his neck with her thumbs, trying not to tremble, trying not to breathe. And as she did so, she felt the muscles there soften slightly; his head tilted back.
If he knew he had lain his head against her breasts, he gave no sign.
JULIANNE HAD ALREADY CHECKED upon Charles several times that morning, but he had been asleep. Still, he was recovering from being shot and the resulting infection—and she hadn’t left his bedchamber till half past ten last night.
She bit her lip. It was noon now. Her heart was racing like a schoolgirl’s, she thought, pausing in the corridor outside his door. Had she imagined it, or was something wonderful happening? He found her beautiful—he had said so, several times. He seemed as aware of her as she was of him. And they were both passionate revolutionaries. What if they were falling in love?
If only she were more experienced. She had never been as interested in anyone before. The feelings she had could not be one-sided!
But she was going to have to ask him about Nadine. She had to know about his relationship with the other woman.
She looked inside, smiling nervously. Charles was standing at the window. He was shirtless, staring outside. For one moment, she stared at his broad shoulders, his muscular chest and his narrow waist. Her mouth dry, her pulse pounding, she whispered, “Monsieur? Bonjour.”
He turned slowly, smiling at her. “Good morning, Julianne.” Clearly, he had known she was there.
Her heart turned over, hard. The way he was looking at her told her that he had to be thinking about the evening they had shared last night. It told her that he was as interested in her as she was in him.
He moved his gaze over her carefully, taking in the fact that she had curled her hair where it framed her face. Her hair was loose and hanging straight down her back, as was fashionable. She wore another ivory muslin dress, this one with a rounded neckline and fuller skirts. His gaze skidded across her bosom before he lowered his eyes and walked over to the chair where his shirt was hanging. He picked it up.
Julianne meant to look away, but she watched as he shrugged it on. The muscles in his chest and arms rippled. He looked up and caught her staring. He didn’t smile now.
Desire made her feel faint. She prayed she wasn’t blushing. She forced a smile. “How are you feeling today, monsieur?” She realized she was clinging to the doorknob, as if that would keep her standing upright.
“Better.” He spoke as softly as before. He paused, and then said, “You have changed your hair.”
“I might have to go into Penzance this afternoon,” she lied.
He said, “You did not change it for me?”
She became still. “Yes, I changed it for you.”
“I am glad.” He said, “I believe I am well enough to go downstairs, if you do not mind. Walking would be beneficial.”
She started. “Of course I don’t mind.” But she wondered if he would be able to make it down the stairs, which were rather steep and narrow.
“These four walls might madden me,” he added, buttoning up the rest of his shirt.
She watched his long, blunt fingers sliding the buttons into the buttonholes. Last night, his hands had been on the arms of his chair as she had rubbed his neck. Eventually, she had seen his knuckles turn white. She still could not believe her audacity—or how touching him had affected her.
He sat and began to pull his stockings on.
She wanted to ask him about his family, but she said, “Can I be of help?”
“Haven’t you helped enough already?” He seemed wry.
He knew she was as nervous and anxious as a debutante, she thought, flushing. She watched him pull both boots on. “Where does your family live?”
He stood up. “My family is from le Loire. My father’s shop was in Nantes.” He smiled, extending his arm. “Will you walk with me, Julianne? I can think of nothing I wish to do more.”
Julianne took his arm. “You are so very gallant. Of course I will walk with you. I just hope we are not rushing your recovery.”
“I enjoy your concern.” His gaze slid over her features, lingering on her mouth.
She forgot to be worried about his welfare. He was thinking about kissing her.
“I would be rather dismayed,” he added softly, “if you were not concerned about me.”
Her smile failed her. He gestured and they traversed the corridor in a new silence. She felt his thoughts racing. She wished she knew exactly what he was thinking, certain he was thinking about her.
Suddenly she realized his breathing was becoming labored. “Monsieur?”
He paused, leaning against the wall. “I am fine.”
She gripped his arm more tightly, to steady him, and his biceps pressed against her breast. Their gazes locked.
Her heart slammed.
And then he sagged, as if his knees had buckled. Julianne leapt forward, wrapping both of her arms around his waist, afraid he would fall entirely over and down the stairs. She embraced him, her face pressed against his chest.
“You are far too weak for this,” she accused breathlessly. She could hear his heart pounding beneath her ear.
He was silent, breathing hard, and she felt his frustration change. He grasped her waist loosely, his chin pressing against her temple, and she felt his breath against her cheek.
They were in one another’s arms.
Breathing became impossible. Her heart thundered. And his entire body began stiffening against hers.
Julianne went still. She looked up; his eyes were heated now.
“Julianne,” he said. “You are far too tempting like this.”
His tone had been rough. She wet her lips. “Monsieur.” Did she dare confess that she was as tempted by him?
“Charles,” he said softly, tightening his embrace. “You are so beautiful… You are so kind.”
She could barely think. Most of her body remained pressed against his. Her breasts were crushed by his chest. Her skirts covered his legs. She felt his knees against her thighs. He was stirring against her, a sensation she had never before experienced. She wanted to tell him that she would not mind, if he thought to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her—she wanted, desperately, to kiss him back.
Suddenly he shifted and she was the one with her back against the wall. His gaze moved to her mouth but he released her, stepping backward. “I do not want to take advantage of you.”
She wasn’t sure she had ever been so disappointed. “You cannot take advantage of me.”
One brow cocked upward, skeptically. “You are a woman without experience.”
“I have had a great many experiences,” she tried.
“I am not referring to assemblies and debates, Julianne.” His gaze was searching.
She did not know what to say. “I have been courted. Tom Treyton is smitten with me.”
He stared. “Let us go downstairs. I am determined, now.”
Dismay consumed her. Why hadn’t he kissed her? And didn’t he care about Tom? It was a moment before she could speak. “Are you certain? You are obviously weaker than either of us realized.”
“I am certain,” he said softly, “that I must regain my strength, which I will not be able to do lying in bed with your tending to my every whim.” He suddenly pulled away from her, seized the banister and started downstairs, giving her no choice but to follow.
In the hall below, he paused, lightly holding on to the banister, glancing carefully around.
For one moment, Julianne almost had the feeling that he was memorizing the details of her home. “Perhaps we should sit before the hearth,” she said, indicating the two burgundy chairs there.
“Is that the parlor?” he asked, glancing at a pair of closed doors.
“That is the library. The parlor is the room closest to the front door.”
He stared past the library doors, which were closed.
“That is the dining room.” She answered his unspoken question. He was pale. He should not have come downstairs yet.
He faced her. “Where are your mother and sister?”
Did he want to know if they were alone? “Amelia took Momma outside for her daily ambulatory. They will be back shortly, as Momma cannot go far.”
“I was hoping for a tour of the premises.” He finally smiled at her, but it did not reach his eyes, and she found that odd, until she realized that he was unusually pale. Perspiration was beaded upon his brow.
“You cannot go far, either. Your tour will have to wait.”
His brow lifted at her tone.
“We are going back upstairs,” she said, meaning it. “You are not the only one capable of giving orders. You are still ill!”
He looked at her. Some amusement began to shimmer in his eyes. “You are so worried about me. I will miss your anxious concern when I leave.”
She started. She had almost forgotten that, one day, he would return to France. But surely that was weeks away, or even months! “You almost fell down the stairs,” she managed.
He slowly smiled. “And if I had? I would hardly suffer from your attentions after such a fall, Julianne.”
“Your hurting yourself again isn’t amusing—not at all. Have you forgotten how ill you were?”
His smile faded. “Actually, I have not.”
She took his arm, guiding him back to the stairs, glancing at him uncertainly. “Am I being too shrewish?”
“You could never be shrewish. I think I rather like being ordered about by you.”
She smiled. “I thought pale, fainting, compliant females were in vogue.”
He chuckled. They started up the stairs, this time going up them while abreast. Julianne had no intention of releasing him, and he leaned on her again. “I don’t care for vogues. And I have never cared for women who swoon.”
She was fiercely glad she had never fainted, not once in her life. They traversed the hall in silence. As they entered the bedchamber, he said, “And will you order me to bed?”
She saw the humor in his eyes. But she also thought there was another innuendo in his words. Now, she was afraid to look at the bed.
She wet her lips and managed to sound brisk. “You may sit at the table, if you wish, and I will bring us both a light luncheon.”
“Maybe,” he said, stumbling slightly, “I had better lie down.”
Julianne rushed to help him.
A FEW HOURS LATER, Julianne hesitated outside Charles’s door. When she had brought him a light luncheon earlier, she had found him soundly asleep. She had placed his lunch tray on the table, covered him with a thin blanket and left.
His door was ajar, and in case he was still sleeping, she did not knock. She peered into the bedchamber and was rewarded by the sight of him at the table, eating the stew she had left for him earlier. “Hello,” she said, stepping inside.
“I fell asleep,” he exclaimed, setting down his fork, his plate empty.
“Yes, you did. Obviously our small outing was far too strenuous for you. And I can see that you have enjoyed your late lunch.”
“You are an excellent cook.”
“Charles, I burn everything I touch—I am not allowed to cook. It is a rule in this house.”
He laughed.
“You are feeling better,” she remarked, pleased.
“Yes, I am. Come, sit and join me.” As she did so, he said, “I hope I was not as difficult as I recall, in demanding to go downstairs earlier.”
“You were not too difficult,” she teased. “Are you in a rush to recuperate fully?” She hesitated, reminded that he would leave Greystone Manor and return to France when he was well.
“As much as I enjoy your hovering over me—” he smiled “—I prefer being able to see to my own needs. I am not accustomed to being weak. And I am used to taking care of those around me. I can hardly take care of anything right now.”
She absorbed that. “This must be awkward for you.”
“It is. We must repeat our attempted outing tomorrow.” His tone was one of command, and she knew she would not refuse. He smiled. “However, you are the one bright light in this difficult circumstance. I like being here with you, Julianne. I have no regrets.” His gaze locked with hers.
She wanted to tell him that she was so glad he was there, in her care, and that she had no regrets, either. Instead, she hesitated.
“When you worry, you bite your lip.” He spoke softly. “Am I a terrible burden? It must be maddening, to have to care for a stranger day in and day out. I am taking up all of your time.”
Impulsively she seized his hand. “You could never be a burden. I am pleased to care for you. I do not mind, not at all.” And she felt as if she had admitted all of her feelings for him.
His green eyes darkened and he returned her grasp. “That is what I wanted to hear.”
She stared into his eyes, which were smoldering. Breathlessly, she whispered, “Sometimes, I think you deliberately guide me into making admissions and confessions.”
“Our conversations flow freely. That is your imagination, Julianne.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“I wonder if I will ever be able to repay you for all you have done and are doing for me.”
When he looked at her that way, she felt as if she were melting. “I would never take any kind of repayment from you. When you are well again, you will take up arms for the revolution. Why, that is all the repayment I will ever need!” She touched his hand again.
He took her hand and suddenly clasped it firmly against his chest. She went still. For one moment, she was certain he meant to kiss her palm. Instead, he looked up at her from beneath his heavy dark lashes. She felt his heart beating, thickly, a bit swiftly. “What would your neighbors do, if they knew I was here?”
“They must never learn that you are here!” She added, “You have a disconcerting habit of changing subjects so suddenly.”
“I suppose I do. Your neighbors do not share your sympathies, I fear.” He released her.
“No, they do not.” She was grim. “There are a few radicals in the parish, but since Britain joined the war against France, patriotism has swept most of Cornwall. It is best if my neighbors never know that you are here—or were here.”
It was as if he hadn’t heard her. “And may I ask who your neighbors are and how close they are to this manor house?”
He was interviewing her again, she thought, but she did not blame him. If she were in his position, she would be asking him the same questions. “The village of Sennen is just a short walk from the manor, and it is much closer than the farms that border Greystone. We are rather isolated.”
He absorbed that. “And just how far is the closest farm?”
Did he truly think that he was in jeopardy from their neighbors? “Squire Jones leases his lands from Lord Rutledge, and he is about a two hours’ ride from us. Two other farmers lease their lands from the earl of St. Just, but they are perhaps fifty kilometers away. Penrose has a great deal of land to the east, but it is barren and deserted. The Greystone lands here are also barren—we have no tenants.”
“Does the squire call? Or Rutledge?”
“The only times Squire Jones has ever called was when his wife was terribly ill. Rutledge is a boor and a recluse.”
He nodded. “And St. Just?”
“St. Just has not been in residence in years. He runs in very high Tory circles in London, as does Penrose—who is rarely in the parish. I believe they are friends. Neither man would ever call, even if they were here.”
“How far away is St. Just? Penrose?”
“The manor at St. Just is an hour from here, by horseback—in good weather. Penrose’s estate is farther away.” Attempting levity, she added, “And the weather is rarely good, here in the southwest.” She reached across the table to take his hand. “I don’t blame you for asking so many questions. But I don’t want you to worry. I want you to rest and heal from your ordeal.”
His gaze held hers. “I am exercising caution. Where are we, exactly, Julianne?” He glanced down at her hand, as if he did not want her to touch him now, and then he slid his hand away from hers. “Is it possible to have some maps?”
Almost hurt, she said, “We are above Sennen Cove. You are more worried than you have let on!”
He didn’t respond to that. “How far is Sennen Cove from Penzance?”
“It is an hour’s drive by coach.”
“And the Channel? We are on the Atlantic, are we not? How far is it on foot to the closest point of departure?”
He was already thinking about returning to France, she thought, stunned. But he was weak—he could hardly leave anytime soon! “If you walk down to Land’s End, which I can do in fifteen minutes, you are, for all intents and purposes, facing the southernmost portion of the Channel.”
“We are that close to Land’s End?” He seemed surprised, and pleased. “And where is the closest naval station?”
She folded her arms across her chest. This was undoubtedly how he was when in command of his troops. He was so authoritative, it would be hard to refuse him—not that she had any reason not to answer him. “There is usually a naval gunship at St. Ives or Penzance, to help the customs men. Since the war began, our navy has been diverted to the Channel. From time to time, however, a gunship will cruise into one port or another.”
He steepled his hands and leaned his forehead there, deep in thought.
“When will you leave?” she heard herself ask, her tone strained.
He looked up at her. “I am in no condition to go anywhere, obviously. Have you told the Jacobins in Paris about me?”
She started. “No, not yet.”
“I ask that you do not mention me. I do not want word of my having been wounded to get back to my family. I do not want to worry them.”
“Of course not,” she said, instantly understanding.
Finally, he softened. He took her hand and shocked her by kissing it. “I am sorry. You have been nothing but kind, and I have just rudely interrogated you. But I need to know where my enemies are, Julianne, just as I need to know where I am, if I ever have to escape.”
“I understand.” Her heart beat so wildly now she could hardly think. Such a simple kiss—and she was undone!
“No, Julianne, you can’t possibly understand what it is like to be surrounded by one’s enemies—and to fear discovery with every breath one takes.”
He still held her hand to his chest. She tried to breathe, she tried to think. “I will protect you.”
“And how will you do that?” He was openly amused. But his grasp on her hand tightened. Somehow, her knuckles were pressed against the bare skin exposed by the top and open buttons of his shirt. “You are such a tiny woman.”
“By making sure that no one knows about you.”
His eyes darkened. His smile vanished. “Amelia knows. Lucas knows. Jack knows.”
“Only Amelia knows who you are and she would never betray me.”
“Never,” he said, “is a dangerous concept.”
“If a neighbor called, they would not realize you are upstairs in this room,” she insisted.
“I trust you,” he said.
“Good,” she cried fervently, their gazes locked.
He lifted her hand to his lips, but slowly. Now Julianne froze. His gaze on hers, he pressed his mouth to the back of her hand, below her knuckles. This time, the kiss was entirely different. It wasn’t light, innocent or brief. His mouth drifted over her knuckles and the vee between her thumb and forefinger. And then his eyes closed and his mouth firmed. He kissed her hand again and again.
As he kissed her, her heart exploded. His mouth moved over her skin another time, with more fervor, and her entire body tightened—her own eyes closed. His mouth became insistent and fierce, as if he enjoyed the taste of her skin, as if so much more was to come. She finally allowed her mouth to part. She heard a small moan escape her lips. He separated her fingers and nuzzled the soft flesh there. She felt his tongue.
“Are there weapons in the house?”
Her eyes flew open, meeting his hot yet hard green gaze.
“Julianne?”
She was trembling. Desire made it almost impossible to breathe, to speak. “Yes.” She wet her lips. She inhaled. Her body was throbbing, the need acute.
“Where?”
She exhaled. “There is a gun closet in the library.”
He continued to stare. Then he lifted her hand, kissed it and released it. Abruptly, he stood.
If he ever truly kissed her, with the passion that raged between them, she might lose all of her good sense, she thought.
He glanced at her. “Do you know how to use a pistol? A musket?”
She must find her composure, she thought. “Of course I do. I am a good markswoman.”
She added, “You do not feel safe.”
His gaze moved over her features, then met her eyes. “I do not feel safe here, no.”
Julianne slowly stood up. He watched her, and she wasn’t sure she trusted herself to speak now. So she turned and left the room. She went downstairs, her body on fire, wondering if she should kiss him. She was certain he would allow it.
In the library, she paused, finding herself staring through the glass doors of the gun closet.
Three pistols and three muskets were racked within. It wasn’t locked. It never was. When there were revenue men descending on the cove, those guns were instantly needed. Julianne took out a pistol, then closed the glass door. She retrieved powder and flint from the desk before going back upstairs.
Charles was standing by the window, staring at the threshold, clearly waiting for her to return. His eyes widened when he saw her with the pistol, powder and flint.
Their gazes locked. Still tight with desire, Julianne crossed the room. She handed him the pistol. She managed, “I doubt you will need to use it.”
He put the pistol in the waistband of his breeches. She handed him the flint and powder. He slipped the powder bag’s strap over one shoulder. He put the flint in his pocket. Then, slowly, he reached for her.
She went into his arms.
But he did not kiss her. “I hope not.”
Trembling, she slipped her hands up his heavy biceps, which flexed beneath her palms.
He did not smile. He slid his fingertips over her cheek, then tucked a tendril of hair behind her ears. “Thank you.”
Somehow, Julianne nodded—and he released her.
