by Mary Nichols
`Certainly, sir,' she said, offering her hand.
He raised her to her feet, put his hand about her waist and whirled her round, humming the waltz tune they had danced to at her come-out ball and for a little while she was back in London, wearing the white crêpe gown of the Goddess of the Hunt. The tiny hut became filled with glittering lights and the sound of music and laughter.
`Juliette,' he murmured against her ear and now she was sure it was Philip and not Philippe who spoke.
The imaginary music faded, the fantasy lights dimmed, their steps slowed and they found themselves standing in the middle of the earth floor of a crude shepherd's hut, holding each other. She looked up into his eyes, waiting for him to tell her the truth, and was lost in the depths of them, sucked in and drowned. She could not look away.
`Juliette,' he said again, savouring her name. Then slowly, so slowly she was not even sure of his intention, his face moved closer to hers, his lips hovered a few inches from her own. She waited, head tilted up to his. He touched her mouth with his, a butterfly touch, and drew back slightly, a question in his eyes. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted it desperately. She opened her mouth slightly, passing the tip of her tongue across her lips. It was more than he could stand. He began kissing her in earnest, her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her throat and finally her mouth.
She clung to him, savouring the shiver of excitement that ran through her from the top of her head down to her toes, now being lifted almost off the ground. And in the pit of her stomach, something stirred, a frisson of elation, of anticipation, of danger, of exquisite joy. She did not care what he called himself, it was enough that he was here with her. Her hands went up behind his head, holding him to her.
He stopped at last and drew back, watching her. Her eyes were almost fever bright, her cheeks were flushed and her hair had tumbled down about her shoulders in a silvery cascade. She ought to have been affronted, but she was not; her head was tilted back, the white arch of her neck inviting more. He could not let it go on, he had to defuse the situation somehow.
`How did I measure up to the impressive Mr Devonshire?' he asked, his smile pulling at the scar on his cheek.
She felt crushed and ashamed and angry too. 'There is no comparison,' she said flatly, resuming her sitting position back against the wall. 'He would not have kissed me like that.'
`Not even if you asked for it?'
`I did not!' she flared.
`No? Not in words, perhaps, but it was there in your eyes. Your eyes will always give you away, ma chèrie.'
She was silent, angrily pummelling her bag to make a pillow. Then she lay down and closed her eyes. If they were shut, then he could not read the longing in them, could he? He had awakened her womanhood in a way that no one else had. That was why she had clothed him in the mantle of Philip, she decided, to make him more acceptable, more English. But Philip, the Englishman, or Philippe, the French Captain, she knew it was the same man. Had fate been making fun of her, and the reality was not in England but here, in France?
He sat down beside her and covered her with his blanket. 'I am sorry, that was unpardonable of me. Perhaps I am jealous.'
`Jealous?' Her eyes flew open again. 'Of whom?'
`Why, the gentleman in London.'
He was flirting with her, playing a game. She laughed to cover her confusion. 'That is absurd. Mr Devonshire has another love, he told me so.'
`He did?' he queried, puzzled. How had she come by that idea? 'How ungallante of him.'
`Oh, it was my fault, I was quizzing him. He said he was in love but could not marry, even though Papa encouraged him to offer for me.'
`Did he? Make an offer, I mean.'
`No, which proves he had another attachment. Unless, of course, he found me unattractive.'
`Never that,' he said. 'You are beautiful, he would have had to be blind not to see it.'
`Oh, what is the point of talking about it? It is all in the past. I must learn to live in the present and the present is here, with you.'
`And I am second best, is that what you mean?'
`No, no, I did not mean that. I meant...' She stopped. What had she meant? That she knew there was only one man? If she said that, he would only deny it again. 'Oh, when it comes to flirting, you are a master, aren't you?'
`It takes two to do that.'
`Oh, we are back to that are we? Now who is being ungallante?'
`I am sorry,' he said softly. 'That was unforgivable.'
`I am glad you realise it.'
It seemed there was no more to be said. He lay down a foot or so away with his back to her and pulled his cloak about him, pretending to sleep. She hitched herself up against the wall to look down at him. He was right; it did take two and she had wanted him to kiss her. 'Captain,' she said. 'I am sorry too.'
He turned to face her, propping himself on one elbow. `Don't be. I should have known better than to take advantage of you. I ought to be the strong one.'
`Oh, you are! Immensely strong. And brave. Look how you rescued me.'
`You rescued yourself. It was very resourceful of you.'
`But it was you who thought to scatter the horses.'
`You untied them, so it was easy. Now, go to sleep.'
`Will you sleep?'
`Of course.'
`But you have given me your blanket. Won't you be cold?'
`No.'
`But you would be warmer under the blanket.' She lifted it to allow him to move closer and share it. He put his arm about her and she lay down with her head on his shoulder. It was disgraceful behaviour for a well-bred young lady, but she could not see that the rules of convention were valid in this situation. Besides, she was not a well-bred young lady, she was a love-child, which was a much pleasanter term than bastard. She could hear his steady heartbeat against her ear, could feel his warm breath on her forehead and felt secure. It was a feeling she had not experienced since her childhood when she had always been protected and cossetted by her papa.
`Am I really such a wanton?' she murmured.
`No, of course not, but you certainly know how to tempt a man.'
`Must I apologise for that too?'
`No, I was trying to find an excuse for my bad behaviour.'
`I think it would be much better if we could always be honest with each other,' she said, remembering that she had not been entirely honest either. He did not know the true story of her birth. That was still an insurmountable obstacle. And so was James. But she did not want to think about him. It would spoil the moment and she wanted to savour it.
`Of course it would,' he said, wishing it could be so. `Go to sleep, now. When it grows dusk we must move on again.'
`There is too much buzzing in my head, questions, puzzles, uncertainties, keeping me awake. 'Tell me about the comte and comtesse.'
`The comte was a wise and good man,' he said slowly. `He did not deserve to die in that dreadful fashion. He was prepared to adopt the new ways, to share his wealth, but simply because he had a title, he was one of the hated aristos. Someone denounced him. The whole family was arrested and taken to Paris for trial. It was a travesty, as most trials were in those days. They were sentenced to death, the comte, comtesse, their son Antoine and even the baby.'
`That was me?'
`Yes, you.'
`How did I escape?'
`I know only what I heard from others who were there. I was only ten years old myself at the time, you understand?'
`Yes, go on.'
He smiled to himself. The opportunity was heaven-sent. Now he could tell the true story without her knowing that it was his lordship himself who had told him. 'You were all being transported in a tumbril, which was how they took the convicts from the prison to the guillotine; it was meant to humiliate them. The comte and his son, who was the same age as me, stood together in the front of the cart, with the comtesse behind them, holding her baby daughter in her arms. There were huge crowds, all pressing in and shouting and being held at bay
by the prison escort. An English gentleman pushed his way through so that he was walking alongside. He asked your mother to give the child to him and he would take care of her. She handed you over. Of course, it was only rumour and most people did not believe it could have happened that way, but the fact of the matter is that the records show only three executions that morning, not four.'
`Do you believe it?'
`The evidence is in front of my eyes, Juliette. I do not doubt who you are.'
`What was my mother like?'
`Beautiful. Everyone loved her.' The more he told her, the more she realised that he was who he said he was. But accepting that opened up a whole new set of questions about Philip Devonshire. It was no good asking him because he would never answer them.
`Are you sure she did not know the Englishman? Could she have met him before that day? After all, it is a strange thing to do to give your child away to a stranger.'
`But they were all about to die. It gave you a chance of life, where before there was none.'
`I thought...' She stopped. How could she tell him what Lady Martindale had told her? He would be disgusted.
`What did you think?' he asked softly. 'Did you think you were the child of the Englishman?'
She turned startled eyes on. him. 'What made you say that?'
`This is where all the questions are leading, isn't it?'
`Then do you know?'
`I have no proof, of course,' he said, picking his words with care. 'But you know you are the image of your grandmother, the comte's own mother, the one whose portrait the lieutenant copied. It was a famous portrait, everyone was talking about it because it was such a good likeness. You, my dear Juliette, are a Caronne and anyone who tries to tell you differently is either lying or mistaken.'
`Oh.' Why hadn't she thought of that herself? It meant Lord Martindale was not her natural father, but a very brave and benevolent man. As a child she had loved him with an unswerving devotion and believed in his goodness; she should have remembered that instead of condemning him. By running away, she had hurt him dreadfully and subjected him to unfair gossip. 'I wonder, will he ever forgive me?'
`The comte?'
`I was thinking of Lord Martindale. But yes, the comte too, if he can look down and see me now.'
`I am sure they both do.' He paused, then went on. `Do you wish to return to England?'
`I thought I did. I longed for it. But now, I am not sure. Except, of course, I should like to see Papa again.'
Lying in his arms, in the gloom of an animal shelter, with a keen December wind blowing in through the cracks, she realised that it did not matter who she was or what his name was. What mattered was that they loved one another.
`It is difficult to explain,' she said. 'But since I have been in France, I have learned that things are not always black and white, that people are not always what they seem. It is the same sort of thing as you were saying about honour and shame. Friend and foe cannot be decided by national boundaries. On this side of the road, everyone is my friend and on the other, there are only enemies and I must hate them. James, for instance, is no ordinary English aristocrat, might even be my enemy, I have no way of knowing. And you...'
`Me?' He affected surprise.
`I believe you are...' Whoever he was and whatever he was, made no difference. She would go along with his game of make believe until she discovered why he played it. 'You are my friend.'
`Good. Promise me, that whatever happens, you will always believe that.'
`Why? What is going to happen?'
`Nothing bad, I hope, but one can never tell. Now we have talked enough. Go to sleep.'
She slept, while he lay awake, wondering how much longer he could keep up the pretence. He had been a fool to suggest dancing and an even bigger fool to kiss her, but who could resist such temptation? There were times when he was sure she had seen through him, when she hinted that she knew him, but others when she appeared to accept what he said. She would not have talked to him about Philip Devonshire if she had truly believed he was the same man. How angry she would be when she finally learned the truth! But he would not be there when she did; he could not return to England. He had to obey his orders and that meant exile from the land he had thought of as home, ever since, as a confused ten-year-old, he and his mother had landed at Dover with Viscount Martindale. He had better try and keep his distance in future.
Chapter Ten
When Juliette woke, it was dark. He was already up and had fetched water and risked a fire to boil it, so that she could wash. It was another sign of his thoughtfulness, the way he anticipated her needs, but she had long-since ceased to think of him as a coarse soldier. The young men she had met and danced with in London paled into insignificance beside him.
Even her feelings for Philip Devonshire, she told herself, were no more than the immature longings of a schoolgirl. She had grown up. She had ceased trying to compare the two men. It was as if, losing the first, a kindly Providence had produced a second, alike and yet very different. Philippe was his own man, stronger and yet gentler. Scar and bushy beard, beetle brows and quick temper were infinitely preferable to smooth cheeks and an even smoother tongue. 'I do believe that, under all that hair, you are a gentleman,' she told him.
`Why, thank you, my lady,' he said, executing a mock bow and making her laugh. The sound of her laughter lifted his own spirits and once again he found himself admiring her fortitude. He must not let anything happen to her and the only way of doing that was to part with her. And the prospect of that was breaking his heart.
`Why are you looking so sad?' she asked.
`I am not sad, chèrie,' he said, forcing himself to smile. `But we have a long ride ahead of us and cannot afford to dally.'
They ate and drank and left the hut to spend another night in the saddle. They stopped occasionally to rest the horses, but when dawn came, he did not suggest taking shelter as he had done the night before, but plodded on, along the river bank towards Hautvigne.
She wondered if he meant to leave her there after all and what her cousins would say about that. Even knowing she had every right to be there, she did not want to go back, but then they passed through Hautvigne, ignoring the track up to the chateau, and took the road to Toulouse. It was strange, but now she was almost sure she was totally French, she felt more English than ever; however their slow, steady progress southwards seemed to preclude a return to England. The strange thing was that she did not care. She was free of her bonds, free of the hostile atmosphere at the chateau, free of the constraints that had been forced on her by her place in London society, free to be herself, to love whom she chose. And that was the man who rode beside her. It was easy to forget the wider implications of a war she hardly understood, when she was riding beside him through the quiet countryside that had not changed in hundreds of years. There were acres of vineyards, boulder-strewn hillsides dotted with sheep, small towns and even smaller villages, people going about their daily work, children playing, none of whom spared them more than a cursory glance. It was like a waking dream, this steady plod, without destination or meaning.
In late afternoon, when she felt she could go no further, they reached Toulouse and he pulled up at an inn and dismounted. 'We'll rest here,' he said as he came to help her down. She was so stiff and saddle-sore, she could hardly stand. 'Oh, ma pauvre,' he said, putting his arm about her and helping her indoors, leaving the ostler to see to the horses. 'I am a hard taskmaster, am I not?'
She smiled weakly. 'Dreadful.'
He settled her on a sofa then went to arrange accommodation and food. He was gone less than two minutes, but she was almost asleep when he returned. He picked her up and carried her upstairs behind the innkeeper, passed through a sitting room into a bedchamber and put her on the bed. She was half aware of someone pulling off her boots and covering her and then a blissful slumber claimed her.
`Sleep, my little one,' he murmured softly. 'Sleep while you can.'
He returned to t
he sitting room and the innkeeper brought food and wine, but he did not wake Juliette. Rest was more important for her than sustenance at the moment because they still had a very long way to go and he meant to be on the road again at dawn the next morning. They could make better progress during daylight hours and, with luck, Clavier and his motley crew were far enough behind not to be a threat. In any case, there was something else he could do as an extra safeguard. He rose and went into the next room. Juliette was sound asleep, her glossy hair cascading over the pillow, one hand flung out, her lips slightly parted. He bent and kissed her forehead. 'Sleep on, my love. I shall not be long.'
He left her and went downstairs, where he instructed the innkeeper to tell her he would be back for supper. On no account was he to allow her to leave. Then he strode off in search of the British agent he knew to be in the town. It was contrary to his orders to contact him except in an emergency, but as far as Philippe was concerned, this was an emergency.
It took him longer than he expected to find his contact. Emile - it was a false name and the only one by which he was known in France - was a very elusive man, which was why he was such a good agent, but he found him just as dusk fell, drinking with his cronies in one of the taverns in a back street.
Philippe was introduced as an old friend, a hero of Salamanca, and was soon made welcome and plied with wine and cognac. It was several hours before they could detach themselves and the moon was riding high by the time they left, staggering down the street, apparently the worse for drink. Once out of sight of their erstwhile companions, Philippe lost no time in telling Emile just what he wanted. If Michel Clavier put in an appearance in the area, he must be dealt with in any way Emile saw fit and if James Martindale showed his face, he must be securely held where he could do no more harm. `I'll deal with him when I come back,' he said.
`When will that be?'
He shrugged. 'A week, maybe more. I have to deliver something to the British lines. Do you know where they are?'