Napoleon's Woman

by Samantha Saxon

  That was it then; he was a dead man. But he should have died with his men…in battle.

  Guilt feasted as the seraph leaned closer to get a good look at him. He lowered his gaze, fearful that she would see it. His eyes continued their downward decent, coming to rest on her breasts, now spilling from the bodice of her gown. Desire crawled in his chest as she squinted, peering through the mud and blood to the man beneath.

  "Bring me your handkerchief, Colonel," the woman commanded.

  She held out her hand and waited, still looking down at him, and asking once again, "What is your name, sir?"

  Aidan straightened himself and lifted both brows, saying with an air of condescension only the English possess, "I’m afraid I have forgotten."

  With the handkerchief now in hand, the woman took a step forward, grabbing his chin with her left hand and tilting his head upward. He flinched at the gentleness of her touch as she wiped away blood and dirt from his features, while boldly holding his gaze.

  He sat impassive, giving no indication of the effect she was having on his senses, no indication of how her feminine scent caused his heart to race, no indication of how her touch burned him.

  The angel leaned toward him, inspecting him as she turned his face from side to side. He watched her consider. What she contemplated, he hadn’t a clue, but her touch was becoming unbearable. And just when he thought his eyes would drift closed with the pleasure, she was gone, dropping his chin from her soft hands as if he were a vermin-infested guttersnipe.

  "Remove his jacket," she ordered, retreating toward the desk. "And give me the contents of his pockets."

  Aidan rose to his height of six feet one inch and towered over the two soldiers at his side. He grit his teeth against the pain from his injuries as they cruelly yanked off coat, pulling his shirt open in the process. His hands balled into fists, but he did not use them.

  It was not the time.

  When the soldiers had finished, he looked down at the woman who was clearly in command of the room. Their eyes held, and she observed him in return, waiting for the search to be completed. And when it was, the impatient rustling of silk petticoats was the only sound in the small chamber.

  Exhaustion drew air deep into his lungs, expanding his aching chest. He knew they would find nothing to identify him. The only item he carried into battle was a miniature portrait of his sister holding his niece and nephew. Reminders of why he was fighting this godforsaken war.

  The stunning angel, his enemy, came forward to take the miniature. She held Sarah’s portrait in one hand and placed the palm of the other against his exposed chest, running her fingers beneath his muddy shirt and awakening his flesh with reminders of long ago pleasures. Pleasures he hungered for, pleasures that provided, for a fleeting moment, a respite from the realities of war.

  Aidan closed his eyes and cursed himself for tensing, for revealing the effect she was having on his body. She was lovely, and she used that beauty, wielding it like a saber and he was too weak to defend himself against her.

  She continued the sensual assault, asking, "Are you injured, my lord?"

  The use of his title stopped his now-shallow breathing. He forced himself to regain his composure, and when he was once again in control, he said, "I’m afraid to disappoint you, my lady, but Frenchmen are notoriously bad shots. I believe I was merely grazed."

  Her feminine laughter was out of place within the filthy walls of the prison. She applied pressure to his shoulder in a silent command to have him resume sitting on the hard chair. He remained standing, but he was tired and saw no benefit in resistance. He glared at his stunning capture and then took his seat.

  "Oh, but you English are refreshingly arrogant, and you more so than most, my lord." Her smile was dazzling, as if she were flirting with him in the midst of some grand event, not in a filthy French prison. She walked to the desk and picked up a sheet of paper, reading to herself.

  "You fought at Albuera under the command of Lord Beresford." She nodded to the colonel in an unspoken communication, and the man began to take notes. "You were in command yourself of a small regiment, most likely, and from your accent are most assuredly a peer of the English House of Lords. The only question remains as to which one?"

  Impressed by her accuracy, he watched the treacherous seraph walk toward him, stopping close enough that her skirts obscured his filthy boots. Aidan lifted his chin and looked into her mesmerizing eyes. She allowed it, invited it. Her gaze held, continuing their mental swordplay. After several moments, the woman sighed and took a step back, looking as though she might expire with ennui.

  "When I was a child, I had a horse." She paused, smiling at her memory before continuing to pace the small room. Suspicion narrowed his eyes as he contemplated her reasons for revealing such personal information. "This horse was so stubborn that the more my father beat him, the more my horse refused to do the work that was required of him."

  Aidan’s eyes slid to the colonel, who was looking at the lady’s backside with undisguised lust.

  She continued, "Fearful that my father would kill my beloved horse, I enticed the animal with a carrot." She stopped in front of him and laughed. "And do you know, that horse did anything I asked of him from that moment on?" The woman waited for a response and he enjoyed taking his time in giving it.

  "Enchanting tale," he finally said, "But I fail to see the point of your little recitation."

  The woman lifted a brow and grinned. "Ah, but the tale has a point, my lord." Disquiet crept up his spine. "You strike me as a man with whom a beating would have little effect." Aidan set his jaw. He knew all too well the amount of punishment his body could endure during the heat of battle.

  "However," she said, placing her legs between his knees and spreading them wide, brushing his inner thighs as she stepped between them. Caressing him, knowing the effect the movement would have on him, on any man. The siren looked down at him, smiling as she bent forward to give him a long look at her breasts before her jade eyes met his.

  Her face, her mouth was a mere six inches away. His hands itched to touch the enticing mounds so elegantly displayed before him. He battled, but lost. His shaft was hardening, and his gaze fell to her lips when she breathed, "A carrot, you might just take into your mouth for the pleasure of tasting it."

  She leaned closer. He could smell her, feel the heat rising from her creamy skin. Aidan clenched his hands into fists and stared at the wall, but despite his effort to ignore her, he could feel her breath on his neck just behind his ear.

  "And I know just what you want to bite," she whispered, drawing the lobe of his ear between her teeth. Aidan closed his eyes as ripples of pleasure washed over his traitorous body.

  "Mmm, and I might want to…bite…back," she finished.

  Desire flared from the pit of his stomach, consuming his entire body. She stepped out of his reach, and relief flooded him. He looked up and forced himself to smile his most charming when he said, "I dare say you had a French horse, my lady. English mounts are not so easily led by such common enticements."

  Anger flashed in her beautiful eyes, but when she turned to look at him, he thought, for the briefest of moments, that he saw surprise. No, something more than surprise, different than surprise. He studied her, trying to identify the emotion. But she recovered quickly, lifting her delicately pointed chin as she spoke.

  "Well, my lord, it seems we need not offer you the stick nor the carrot." The angel walked toward him, placing her soft hands on his cheeks. He could feel them shaking as her thumbs traced the location of his dimples now hidden beneath the stubble of his fledgling beard. Her mood was light, her eyes sparkled. His blood ran cold as he identified the emotion as excitement.

  "Aidan Duhearst, Earl of Wessex," she proclaimed in triumph. Aidan flinched. He grabbed her wrists, pulling them away from his face as shock relaxed his features. The soldiers moved toward their lady protectively, but the woman shook her head as she stepped away from him.

  "Come, come
, my lord. Did you think we would not hear of your exploits both here and in England?" Her lips curled with giddy amusement. "You have killed so many Frenchmen that you are becoming a legend."

  The woman’s hips swayed as she walked forward and wound a finger around a lock of his hair. "And as for England, well," She bent toward his ear. "Let us just say that the ebony-haired earl has kept many a lady of the ton entertained over the years." She circled Aidan, coming to settle in front of him. "Is that not so, my lord?"

  He smiled, raising one brow and not bothering to conceal his hatred. "Quite true. However, I would wager a great deal of blunt that I’ve not entertained as many ladies as you have entertained gentlemen."

  His head snapped to the right with the force of her hand against his cheek, splattering blood on the delicate silk bodice of her costly gown. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and for the first time, Aidan saw her as a very dangerous woman.

  "Take care, Lord Wessex," she hissed through clenched teeth. "I could have you hanged tomorrow if I so wished." The lady held his gaze to make sure that he understood his precarious position, and when they both knew he did, she said, "Take this English filth to his cell." The two soldiers were flanking him and Aiden had no choice but to comply when they wrenched him to his feet. "Colonel, have his wounds seen to. If he bleeds to death, I will hold you personally responsible. Tu comprend?"

  The colonel understood quite clearly. "Oui, Mademoiselle." His reply a bit anxious as the soldiers moved Aidan toward the door.

  "Hold." The woman spoke to the soldiers, both of whom came to an immediate stop with a crisp click of their boots against the wooden floorboards. "Colonel, please inform the general that I shall be unable to dine this evening." She glanced down at her blood-spattered evening dress and looked at her captive. "I seem to have ruined my gown."

  Aidan felt a mean spurt of satisfaction to have been the cause of her inconvenience. The striking woman walked toward him, holding out his miniature as if it were rubbish.

  "You may have your portrait of your sister, the Duchess of Glenbroke, Lord Wessex. It should comfort you on your walk to the gallows," she sang before spinning with a dismissive swish as she left the dank room, the colonel at her heels.

  Chapter Three

  Celeste paused at her bedchamber door and turned to face the French officer.

  "Colonel Meillerie, I would like the Earl of Wessex ready to travel by morning." She smiled sadistically, saying, "The earl will be quite a prize for the Emperor."

  "Yes, Lady Rivenhall. He will most certainly delight Emperor Bonaparte, but the general will not be pleased at having him removed from his custody." The young man’s lips rolled in French, his gray eyes reflecting his concern.

  Celeste lifted her hand to the colonel’s sunburned cheek. She smiled, filling her lungs to draw attention to her full breasts.

  He noticed.

  "But you did not tell the general of the Earl of Wessex’s capture. Did you, Philippe?"

  His brows furrowed, darkening his mood. "No, however---"

  "Then do not tell him." She cajoled with a delicate shake of her head. "You would not have known who the man was if not for me, and you know of my relationship with the Emperor." She shrugged. "I will inform Napoleon of your hand in this matter, and he will most likely promote you. Making you an advisor, which means…" She paused, stroking his lower lip with her thumb and letting her gaze linger on his mouth. She watched him shudder and try to conceal his desire. He failed. "You will be nearer to me."

  The colonel turned her hand, pressing a kiss into her palm. "As you wish, ma cherie, but give me a memory to hold while I await our next meeting."

  The man surged forward to capture a kiss, but Celeste smoothly retrieved an unmarked lace handkerchief from the folds of her gown, blocking his advance. He accepted her token with obvious frustration.

  "Have the Earl of Wessex ready to travel by daybreak. My escort will come to you in the morning." She smiled, dragging her hand down the front of his jacket to lessen his disappointment. The man was very nearly undone and guilt pressed on her chest. "Thank you, Philippe," she said with fluttering lashes as she slipped into her rooms.

  ***

  Madame Arnott rushed in from the bedchamber when she closed the heavy door. Worry clung to the older woman’s features as her eyes took in the blood spatters on Celeste’s silk gown.

  "What did the colonel want of you?"

  Celeste grabbed the desiccated hands of her old governess and the only mother she had ever known. "I am fine, Marie, but you must pack," she announced before crossing through the sitting room and into the bedchamber. "We are leaving at first light."

  "Why?" Madame Arnott asked as she followed. "The Emperor wishes for you to evaluate the general and the garrison’s efficiency. We have not been here long enough--"

  "The colonel has captured the Earl of Wessex," Celeste interrupted, scarcely believing her own words.

  The Earl of Wessex had for so long been her hero, and in the dark hours of the night, her fantasy. She could scarcely believe that he was here and in very real danger.

  "No!" The old woman gasped, as if denying the man’s capture would make it untrue.

  "Yes." Celeste turned her back toward her servant to receive assistance in removing her ruined gown. The older woman’s hands moved deftly over the tiny buttons. "And I’m taking him with me at daybreak."

  Marie’s hands stilled. "You are not serious, ma petit? Do you have any idea of the dangerous position in which you are placing yourself?"

  Celeste’s temper flared. She grabbed the bodice of her now loose gown and tugged it roughly from her slender body. "Of course, I am aware of the danger. But I am sick of death, of watching brave men hanged while I look on, a pretty ornament in Napoleon’s court."

  Old hands grabbed her shoulders and gently turned her to face faded blue eyes. She looked away from her companion, not wanted to be comforted or absolved.

  "You have helped so many. Albuera would not have been won if not for the troop locations you gave Lord Beresford. You saved hundreds, perhaps thousands of English lives. Not to mention the other instances where you sent information across the Channel. You cannot save every man, ma petit."

  "I can save him." Celeste vowed. "I am taking Wessex with me, and then I will allow him to escape." She twisted out of the old woman’s grasp, full of determination to aid the English war hero.

  "No, no! You must not," the older woman implored. "They will begin to suspect you, the daughter of an Englishman."

  "And the daughter of a French woman, born and raised in France. I will not be swayed. I need this victory, Marie. Please." She begged her confidant to understand as she sat on the lumpy mattress that had been her bed for the last four nights.

  "Why this man? This Wessex?" the old servant asked.

  Celeste turned away in confusion, her heart pounding in her chest. She had all but swooned when she realized who sat before her in the interrogation room. How could she explain her connection to the Earl of Wessex? How could she explain that she silently savored his exploits as they were reported in the ballrooms of Paris? Explain her admiration for a man that fought against his enemy courageously, openly, while she was forced to hide behind a pretty veil.

  She could not. "I don’t know. He’s so strong and alive. I just cannot witness, moreover, aid in his destruction." She buried her face in her hands, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. "Not him," she whispered.

  Madame Arnott sat on the bed and held Celeste’s hand, stroking her back, soothing her. And for a moment the world lifted from her shoulders.

  "All right, my sweet. I shall help you free the Englishman, but if we are discovered…"

  Celeste pulled away from the comforting embrace. Her eyes cooled as hatred clogged her throat. "I know very well what the French do to their enemies." Images of her father being thrown downstairs by French soldiers rushed back with painful clarity, hardening her heart and her resolve.

  "Falcon will not like it," the
old woman said.

  Celeste felt a flash of trepidation, but she had not remained alive these past four years without the ability to push fear aside.

  "Falcon will never know. The earl will merely have escaped from the stupid French," she said, untying the dagger she wore strapped to her inner thigh and rolling down silk stocking from her shapely legs.

  "But if Wessex returns to England and Falcon questions him about his escape…"

  "Falcon will never know," Celeste repeated, "and neither will the earl," she said, hiding behind her veil once more. "Now let us pack and get some rest."

  ***

  Aidan did not sleep. His head was pounding from the slapdash sewing that had been done to his scalp. He rubbed his temples in a futile attempt to ease the pain as he sat in the dampness and stench of his prison cell, awaiting his fate.

  The gallows.

  He did not mind the dying. It was the missing of things to come that tightened his chest. No children to play with their cousins. No teaching his son to ride. No giving his daughter’s hand in marriage. No wife…no wife to welcome him home and ease the emptiness that consumed him.

  At least he was not leaving children to grieve him, leaving children to survive his reckless pursuit of glory.

  Guilt washed away his bitterness. His father had been the best of men. Noble, generous, loyal…and everyone Aidan had ever met confirmed his memories. He rubbed his disloyal thoughts away from his brow with the palm of his right hand. No, his father was a war hero, and Aidan’s anger was misplaced. His father loved him, loved them both dearly…but he loved England more.

  That was only right. Men of his position had responsibilities. He alone was responsible for protecting the land entrusted to him by his father. He could not bear the thought of a Frenchman stepping foot in Blackmore Hall. His father died to prevent that from happening…as would he.

  Aidan reached into his jacket and pulled out the miniature of Sarah and the twins. His sister would be inconsolable, but her husband, Gilbert, would help her through the worst of her suffering. He smiled as he ran his finger across the image of his niece and nephew. At least he had done his part to ensure that they would live in a free England. The twins would inherit his and Sarah’s childhood home. He had made sure of that before leaving for the continent.