by Joan Vincent
“We must get him someplace where we can find the food he needs, the proper medicines. It will take more than the simple powders I have brought. The skill I have is far too little to save him,” Elizabeth said, lifting her eyes to his.
“Give him this,” he told her, handing over the flask of brandy. “We go as soon as it is dark.” Martin looked from her to Captain Paraton. “It will be a hard journey, rough and fast, but there is no help for it. They are certain to be out searching,” he explained.
“I will watch him, Elizabeth. Try to sleep for a time. You will need your strength.”
Chapter Twenty-three
The sloop rode gently on the waves as the dinghy neared it. Morton Jeffries was lifted aboard. Elizabeth, Paraton, and Martin scrambled up the rope ladder. After answering Barney’s eager greeting, Elizabeth hurried after her brother, who had been carried to the captain’s cabin.
“Welcome aboard,” Captain Hattern greeted his friend, then shouted orders to get the sloop under sail.
“Glad to be here,” Martin grinned. “This is Captain Paraton,” he introduced the thin, bearded figure at his side. “Of the king’s army despite his present uniform.”
“You don’t know how glad I am to be on an English ship,” Paraton said as the two shook hands.
“The captain could use some hot food and rest,” Martin said. “I imagine he wouldn’t mind a sailor’s suit.”
“Jud,” Hattern shouted, “take Captain Paraton below and see to ‘is needs. Ye can sleep when yer done, cap’n. We’ll wake ye when we come to port.”
“Thank you.” Paraton shook his hand again.
“And you,” he told Martin, and then followed the sailor.
“Have you brought the doctor?” Martin asked.
“Just as ye ordered,” the craggy captain answered. “How be the lad?”
“Poor at best. The journey to the coast didn’t help, but at least we had no trouble. I was surprised there weren’t more soldiers out searching.”
“‘Aven’t ye ‘eard? Bonaparte’s retaken northern Italy. All the troops that could be spared were with ‘im. Now most go to Paris for a jubilee, but they say over five thousand Frenchmen lie dead on the Marengo Plain.”
“When did this happen?”
“A month past by now. Mid-June it were. Bonaparte returned to Paris on the first or second of this month, from what we ‘ave ‘eard.”
“No doubt hailed the hero.” Martin shook his head. “How many more Frenchmen will die before the man is satisfied?” He looked back across the water to France.
“Strange words, Martin. What of we Englishmen? The lad below?”
“What of men? They die no matter what they are called.
“Come.” He clapped Hattern on the back. “I need a cup of your hot grog.”
“It’ll please ye to know Lord Fromby was unpleasantly surprised by the excise men yester morn. ‘Appened to meet a `friend’ this afternoon afore we made our way here,” Hattern explained. “The bloody fool actually went out on ‘is ship fer the run.”
A slow smile spread across Martin’s face. “Let us hope the doctor’s words on young Jeffries’ condition are as pleasing as your news.”
* * * *
Elizabeth leaned on the railing of the sloop. She gazed at the moon’s reflection on the low waves.
“It is beautiful, is it not?”
“Yes,” she answered, not needing to turn to know that Martin stood beside her.
“I am glad to hear your brother’s life is not likely to be forfeited.”
“But he is very seriously ill. The doctor says it will take careful nursing if he is to mend. I... I cannot find words which adequately express my... gratitude for what you have done.”
“You needn’t say anything.” Martin put his hand on her waist and turned her to face him. “Your brother is safe now. There is nothing for you to think of but us.”
Shaking her head, Elizabeth put a finger to his lips. “I have thought much of... us. Of you. I do not deny that you have the power to move me, to move me more deeply than I ever thought possible.
“No, listen to me first,” Elizabeth asked as his arms tightened about her and he began to lower his head.
Martin eased his hold, and she turned towards the sea.
“We have little in common, we two,” Elizabeth began after a pause. “And we know little of one another. I dare not question you about the work you do for fear of what the answers would be. I do know you enjoy the excitement of danger. I saw that in the prison corridor when you fought those guards.”
“I do not relish killing,” Martin told her tonelessly.
“I do not think you do, but you do enjoy the challenge of battle, of having your strength tested.”
“What is wrong in that?” he demanded.
“Nothing in itself.” Elizabeth turned to him. “It is just that I am an ordinary woman who wants the ordinary things in life. I cannot see you settling for that.”
“But we need not settle for that.” Martin drew her to him.
“How long would this passion last?” Elizabeth asked searching his face questioningly. “How long has your desire for any one woman lasted?”
“You cannot expect that I have lived like a monk.”
“No. That there have been others is not what troubles me.”
“Then come to me. Let me teach you what love really is.” He gripped her shoulders.
“I am not free to come.”
“Who is to stop you?” Martin laughed, slid his hands down her back and drew her closer. “Show him to me and he will trouble you no longer.”
“I have no doubt he would tremble before you,” Elizabeth said sadly.
“Then nothing stops you.” Martin claimed her lips in a passionate appeal.
The coil of desire began to stir in Elizabeth as his lips moved insistently against hers. Resolve weakened, began to crumble.
Martin sensed the beginning of her response and, strangely angry, drew back with the pretence of passion. “See,” he breathed heavily, “together we could go to such heights. I will show you what it is to be loved.”
The last gleam of hesitance in her eyes spurred Martin. “We shall go anywhere you desire. I am rich. There are no bounds to what we can do. Why are you afraid? With me you need never fear.”
Elizabeth retreated inwardly and tried to move away from him. “I must return to my brother.”
“No. I will have an answer,” he demanded.
“My word has been given to another.”
“If you were released, would you come to me?”
“I... I don’t know.”
“Then go to this man. Tell him you love me,” Martin urged.
“Honour binds me to speak of you, but he may still hold me bound to him,” Elizabeth told him. She looked unflinchingly into his dark, glittering eyes.
“Why do you look at me so strangely?” She raised a hand to his cheek.
“You will speak to him?”
“First I must see my brother’s health returned. Then I shall. Tell me where I can write you. I cannot promise to come.”
“Can you not say you love me?”
She shook her head. “I play no game with you. I don’t understand myself why I hold this doubt.” Elizabeth laid a hand on his arm imploring him to understand, but he looked away. “There is a lack... something which I must resolve before I am free to do anything.”
“I have never waited for a woman to choose me,” Martin told her coldly. “But—I do love you. When you have decided, send a letter to Captain Hattern. He will see it reaches me.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Farewell, my love. You shall not see me again unless you send word that I am to come for you.” Martin crushed her to him and kissed her with an ardour that flamed her passion to life. Releasing her as suddenly as he had embraced her, he strode silently away.
Wrapping her arms about herself to still her pounding heart, Elizabeth stifled the urge to cry out. Before tears c
ould come she hurried back to her brother.
* * * *
“It pleases me greatly that you consented to bring Morton here,” Sir Henry told Elizabeth as they walked in the garden.
“To be truthful, Uncle, Morton insisted upon coming. He is much improved in the past month.”
“The lad has more sense than I’ve given him,” Sir Henry noted. “Nursing him has been too much for you, too great a burden. Look how worn you’ve become. Why, you’re as thin as I am,” he scolded.
They walked on for a time in silence, each with his own thoughts.
“Have you seen Comte de Cavilon since your return to England?” Sir Henry asked.
“No. He has written inquiring about Morton and said he would take care of any expenses. He has sent me flowers each week, but I have not seen him.” Elizabeth kept her eyes on the roses they were walking past. A few steps farther she halted suddenly and turned to her uncle.
“When you wed Aunt Lettie, were you passionately in love with her?”
“What an indelicate question, my dear,” Sir Henry noted in surprise. He scowled to hide his embarrassment.
“Uncle Henry, if you will not speak with me, who shall?” Elizabeth implored him.
He looked at her sharply, then took her arm. “All right, my dear, I shall answer what I can. Let us continue our walk.”
“Did you feel... ardour... the need for Aunt Lettie... for anyone before you wed?” she repeated.
“There was one or two who... well, who stirred me so to speak. Poets use such terms.” He laughed softly, keeping his eyes straight before him as they walked. “But that was a matter of desire—need, if you will.
“Now, my Lettie, she was a proper lady and never permitted me more than a kiss or two before we wed. Of course her harridan of a mother, who never left us alone for more than a second, could have been the cause of that. But to your question.
“No, she did not fill me with passionate longing. It was more a feeling she gave me when I heard the sound of her voice before she came into a room. She knew how to tease me out of an ill humour... and so many small things I never realized until she was gone. No, Elizabeth, I did not wed your aunt in a blaze of passion, but that does not mean it did not burn brightly for us.” His voice thickened with emotion. “Mayhaps it was more vivid because it grew with us and was not a mere flash, which once experienced is gone.
“But for others the reverse is oft true,” he continued thoughtfully. “Each one of us must make his own way. Happiness is never guaranteed.”
“I know, Uncle.”
“Elizabeth!” Suzanne Chatworth called from the door to the gardens. “Where are you?”
“Coming,” she answered. Reaching up, she brushed her uncle’s cheek with a kiss and ran towards the house.
“How good to see you, Suzanne,” she returned the younger woman’s greeting hug.
“My goodness, Elizabeth, how thin you’ve become,” she exclaimed. “I hope it does not mean Morton has not grown better? How does he fare?”
“Improving more each day. In fact, I think a visitor is just what he needs. Come along.” She took Suzanne’s arm.
“Morton has asked about your family several times since we arrived two days ago. In fact, he asked after you while we were in Folkestone.” She watched a red tinge came to Suzanne’s cheeks.
“How kind of him,” the younger woman murmured.
“The day of your summer party... do you remember it?” Elizabeth questioned as they walked up the stairs.
“Of course.”
Elizabeth paused at the top of the stairs. “Why did you flirt so outrageously with Comte de Cavilon?”
“I... “
“The truth.”
“I was trying to help you, to make you see you could become jealous,” Suzanne said lowering her gaze. “Your Aunt Waddie had said it was you he offered—”
“You needn’t explain.” Elizabeth smiled and walked on. “Wait just a moment,” she instructed, halting before a door. Knocking, she opened the door.. “You can go in,” she smiled after glancing in. “I shall be in the garden.”
“Thank you.” Suzanne hugged her and hastened inside.
Elizabeth took one backward glance at the embracing lovers and pulled the door shut. How blind I was, she thought as she went to the stairs, not to have seen what was plainly before me. But I have learned much. It is time my own decision was made.
* * * *
A week later, having been informed of Comte de Cavilon’s arrival, Elizabeth approached the open doors of the salon slowly. She halted a short distance from them.
“My felicitations on your nephew’s betrothal,” she heard the comte’s voice. “His continuing recovery must be a pleasure to you.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. The voice struck a strange note of familiarity. Shrugging the question aside, she walked in.
“Elizabeth, we meet again at last.” Cavilon rose and bowed with a flourish. Coming to her side, he kissed her hand.
“I will leave you,” Sir Henry told them and closed the doors behind him.
“I suppose this is proper.” Cavilon drew his lacy kerchief from his waistcoat and sniffed into it daintily. “We are betrothed, n’est-ce pas?”
“There is a pledge between us,” Elizabeth answered. She studied him closely, wondering at that same sense of recognition she had felt earlier. “How is Tom? And Barney?”
“I believe both are well. The lad is very good with horses. You know,” he raised an eyebrow, “I never did understand what occurred. Why was it you were not in Folkestone when my agent arrived with the lad?
“But we have plenty of time to discuss such a trivial matter,” he waved her reply aside. “Please, come and sit, ma petite.” The comte motioned to a chair. He sat and leaned back languidly. “When shall our betrothal be announced?”
“You must hear me out and then decide if you still wish to wed me,” Elizabeth told him. She folded her hands carefully and met his gaze evenly. It is odd, she thought, that I never before noticed how dark his eyes are.
“I await your words.” He fluttered his kerchief indifferently.
“When you left Folkestone, I did not remain there. Nor did I return here,” she told him. “It matters not how, but I went with the man you hired to rescue Morton. Barney was with me also. That is why he could not be found when your agent searched for him,” she added, then shook herself.
“We travelled together from Folkestone to France, then to Saint-Brieuc and back.”
“Alone?” Cavilon’s face was impassive. He let his eyelids droop to conceal any reaction which might reflect in his eyes.
“Yes. During that time we came to know one another well. Quite well.”
“So I would imagine—knowing Martin,” Cavilon drawled. “You now wish to be free to go to him?”
“I did not say that. Until a few moments ago I was uncertain what I wished to do. Martin did ask me to come to him.”
“Do you... love him?”
“He is an attractive man. Handsome. Strong. There is a sense of adventure about him that is alluring. It would be very difficult for any woman not to yield to his charms.
Rising, Cavilon sauntered to the window. “So you too have succumbed to his... charms?”
“The desire to do so was very strong,” Elizabeth said in a low voice, rising.
“And if I do not release you from your promise, you will go to him anyway?”
Elizabeth heard the comte’s voice tightened as if his throat had constricted. She walked towards him. “Do you wish me to?”
Cavilon kept his back to her. “You would still wed me?”
“Yes.”
“Because of my wealth?” he asked bitterly.
“Martin has assured me he is also wealthy. I have no reason to doubt him.”
“Then why?” Cavilon turned to her. “Why? Because you gave me your word?”
“Because I believe I love you,” Elizabeth answered simply.
“Love me?” he
repeated scornfully. “A pitiful fop who is laughed at, derided behind his back. You would have me believe you choose me over a man like this Martin? Do you think I am a fool?”
“You are kind and gentle.” Elizabeth laid a hand on his arm. “Only those who have suffered know what it means to be thus.”
“And Martin is not?”
“There is a kindness in Martin but it comes only from his strength. He knows he is the stronger and therefore believes he can afford the luxury of kindness. It adds to his stature.
“You attempt to hide your kindness. Just as you believe this,” she brushed a hand against his powdered cheek, “protects you.”
Cavilon stiffened, wondering at the meaning of her words. “You would think nothing of rejecting Martin?”
“It troubles me that he should be hurt in any way, but I cannot believe the pain will be long or lasting. He is a man who thrives on action and adventure. On women’s adoration. There are plenty of both for him. I shall be quickly forgotten.”
She saw a wave of strong emotion sweep across Cavilon’s face.
“You shall never be forgotten,” he said in a deep clear voice.
Elizabeth stared at him. She gasped.
Reaching up, the comte removed the powdered peruke that covered his thick black hair.
“It cannot be,” she breathed. But all of the strange glimpses, the odd moments that had seemed so peculiar, so familiar, flashed to mind.
“Why would you do such a thing to me?”
“I did not mean for you to meet Martin,” Cavilon began. “When you did, it was as if a demon possessed me. Once, long ago,” he tried to explain, “I believed someone loved me. I was betrayed by that love. All these years I have never loved another woman, and yet I could not reason my feelings for you away. They kept prodding me, refused to be put aside in peace.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“I have not fathomed it entirely. I do not know why I acted as I did. I can only ask that you forgive me.” His eyes implored her. “Forgive both—”
“How easy it would be to rage at you.” Elizabeth said and took several deep breaths to stave off her temper.
“That, I believe, you could do very well, ma petite,” Cavilon gently teased her.