She raised her gaze to his. Her fingers fidgeted with his shirt. “That was why I did not accept James’s offer,” she said simply. “I knew it was the sensible thing to do, but I did not want to leave you because I love you.”
“You should have told me,” Ethan said.
She moved a little. “And expose my heart to hurt—again?” she said. “I thank you, but no.”
“I can’t offer to marry you,” Ethan said.
He saw the bright light of happiness in her face extinguished like a fire stamped out. Her body stiffened a little. She pulled away from him.
“Of course not,” she said. “Of course you cannot. I am a divorced woman, notorious, disgraced.” She sat up and started to pick up the remains of the picnic, tidying it up with quick, jerky movements.
Ethan caught her hand, cursing himself for his clumsy words.
“Lottie—” He took her chin in his hand, raising her face to his. Her eyes were dull and determinedly blank. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean—”
She tried to pull herself away from him. “I understand.”
“No,” Ethan said. “No, you do not. Lottie, listen to me. I want to marry you more than anything in the world.”
Now she looked even more shocked. “Why?” she said. “When you sought me out three months ago you wanted the most notorious woman in London to be your mistress. The last thing you wanted was a wife.”
“My ambitions have changed,” Ethan said. “Lottie, I want to marry you because you are my match, my love and my heart. You complete me. Anything less than marriage would never be enough.”
A spark of amusement, of joy, had crept back into her eyes, making them shine like stars. “Why, Ethan,” she teased, “you are a true romantic. It must be your Irish heritage. I did not think you had it in you. So why…” She tilted her head, looked at him quizzically. “Why can you not wed me if you feel like that?”
“Because I have nothing to offer you in all honor,” Ethan said. “I am a prisoner of war and even if I escape I shall remain a wanted man, hunted throughout the kingdom. It would be shameful of me to ask you to share that, to risk all to be with me. And then there are things I have to do. You know that I have plans. Arland—” He stopped. He wanted to confide in her very much, to trust her with his plans and his secrets. Already she knew a great deal. But now she solved his dilemma by pressing her fingers to his lips.
“Don’t tell me,” she whispered, “and then I can be neither tempted to betray your secrets nor be forced to do so.”
He trusted her not to tell, and he would kill anyone who tried to compel her to betray him but he kissed her fingers.
“It is extraordinary that you think I am your match when you have so many principles and I so few,” Lottie said. “Your scruples do credit to a man of honor, but I assure you they are quite unnecessary with me. I am a woman with absolutely no shred of reputation or good character left—” She stopped as Ethan leaned forward and kissed her.
“You are my woman of bad character,” he whispered, “and if I wish to treat you with the greatest respect in the world you will oblige me by accepting it.”
He felt her lips curve into a smile against his.
“Since I am your woman of bad character,” she whispered back, “I shall do my ultimate to persuade you to overlook your scruples and to take me with you, and to marry me, too.” She drew back, resting a hand against his chest. “I do not see,” she added, “that you are entirely ineligible. You may be a prisoner of war, but you are rich and titled. And I think I would like to be Lady St. Severin. At my age one cannot turn down the opportunity of a comfortably wealthy old age.”
“In that case,” Ethan said, “perhaps we should celebrate our betrothal.” He started to undo the tiny pearl buttons of her riding habit.
She smiled. “Not so honorable after all,” she said. Then, as the buttons gave and he slid a hand inside her bodice she sighed, lying back.
“I do believe,” she said, “that I am so reformed these days that you are the one wicked sin left to me, Ethan, darling.”
THERE WAS THE WARMTH of the sun on her naked skin. She could smell the scents of summer, of hot grass and flowers, and then Ethan was kissing her and she forgot where she was, forgot everything and gave herself up to his embrace.
They had made love many times before, with lust, with anger, even with gentleness. It had been sweet and it had been sensual and it had been fiery and heated. All of those things she had known before, the excitement of discovery, the wickedness of the flagrantly erotic. She had thought that she had nothing left to learn and nowhere else to go. She had been wrong.
There was love in the way that Ethan touched her now, love in each sweep of his hand against her skin, love in the reverence with which he kissed her.
“I love you,” he said, as he pressed his lips to the hot hollow of her throat. He tangled his hands in her hair and kissed the vulnerable curve below her ear with exquisite tenderness. “I love you…” His lips moved against her skin, a breath, a torment.
She caught his face in her hands and brought it down to hers, kissing him urgently, fiercely, tearing at his clothes, reckless. For a moment she felt scared, as though if she did not capture this feeling now she would lose it and be cheated again, giving herself to a man only to feel lost and empty afterward. But it was not like that this time. Ethan drew back, steadying her and stilling her hands.
“We have all the time in the world,” he said softly. “I will never leave you, Lottie. I swear it.”
He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, tasting her, dipping his head to graze his tongue across her nipple, to suck and to bite, so that heat flared through her and set her shivering with need. She felt lost, afraid to surrender the last corner of her heart to him, but there was no escape. His touch was so sure, claiming her heart and soul as his alone. She trembled to possess him as much as she wanted to be possessed.
He lowered himself over her, spreading her open for him. The sun was blocked out, his face a shadow now against the light. And then he was inside her and her heart tumbled over and over and she ran her hands down his back to feel the play of his muscles as he moved within her.
“Look at me, Lottie… I love you…” His breathing was uneven. “I will always love you.”
Lottie opened her eyes and smiled and arched up to meet the irresistible thrust of his body. The sunlight shimmered, scattering brightness through every last dark fearful corner of her soul. The spiral of light spun brighter and brighter, banishing all the bitterness of the past. Excitement pulsed through her, and helpless pleasure sweeter than anything she had known, exploding inside her, smashing her defenses, spinning through her, glorious, dazzling. Lust fused with love for all time.
It was some time before her shattered senses became aware of all the little things: the stalks of grass pricking her skin because they had rolled right off the rug; the buzz of the bees gorging on the honey because they had left the pot open; and the heat of the sun on her nakedness, which had passed the sensual and moved to the downright uncomfortable.
“I am burning!” Lottie said. “Literally.”
She pulled Ethan to his feet and dragged him down to the stream. It was cooler here in the shadows. The water rippled over smooth brown stones and gurgled through pools and under the bowed branches of the willow. For a while they splashed and played in the water, then lay on the bank in the sun to dry off before making love again. Finally they dressed haphazardly, packed up the picnic and wandered back to the horses, hand in hand.
“This is very different from the first time I was betrothed,” Lottie said. “Gregory gave me an enormous ruby ring that was too big for my hand and did not even kiss me.” She smiled at Ethan. “I think that I prefer your style of proposal.”
Outside Priory Cottage she stood on tiptoe to kiss Ethan. He put an arm about her waist.
“Be ready to go tonight,” he whispered. “I will come for you after dark.” He released her and smiled that earthshaking smile. “
No more than one bag, Lottie.”
Lottie saw the love in his eyes and her heart turned over. She stood by the gate for a long time after he had gone and then she went inside to pack.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“MADAM!” Margery came into the bedchamber just as Lottie was folding the last of her gowns up and placing it in the third portmanteau. “You’re leaving,” the maid said flatly, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“Yes,” Lottie said. “I go with Lord St. Severin tonight.” She picked the maid up and whirled her about the room, regardless of Margery’s pleas to be put down. “We are to be wed, Margery!” she said. “I am to be Lady St. Severin!”
“And a good job, too,” the maid said stringently, “given that you have been behaving as good as married these two months past.”
“I have not!” Lottie said, stung. “I have been behaving like a mistress, not a wife, Margery. No wife sleeps with her husband. It is too, too bourgeois.”
“Fiddlesticks!” Margery said. “You’ll have to stop talking like a London lady now, ma’am,” she added, “and simply admit you love your husband.”
“Oh, very well,” Lottie said, sighing. “I suppose I shall.”
She looked more closely at the maid. Margery was fidgeting, her face full of unhappiness rather than pleasure. Lottie felt a swift rush of compassion. It was all very well to be so caught up in her own good news, she thought, but Margery could not be expected to share her joy. There was no chance that the maid could come with them. She would be left behind with no work in a town where jobs were scarce and poverty an ever-present threat.
“I am sorry,” she said, putting out a hand to touch Margery’s hunched shoulders. “I will write you a glowing reference, of course, although such words of praise from me may well do you more harm than good with the local matrons. And I will leave you money to tide you over for a good long time—” She stopped, a brush of fear touching her heart, for Margery had shaken her head, a little motion of denial that nevertheless spoke louder than any words.
“It isn’t that, ma’am,” the maid said a little awkwardly. She got to her feet, smoothing her palms down her apron. “You’ve been the best mistress to me a maid could ever ask for, ma’am. At the beginning,” she gulped, “you told me that you were no lady, but it weren’t the truth, ma’am. I worked for Lady Goodlake for over two years and she never once thanked me. I don’t think she even knew who I was. But you, ma’am, for all your fancy London sayings you’re a lady through and through.”
“Margery!” Lottie said, feeling ridiculously affected. “You’ll make me cry.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Margery said. She dived a hand into the pocket of her apron. “I think you should see this, ma’am. My brother gave it to me.” She was pulling out a rather dog-eared piece of paper. “He works as tap man at The Bull, ma’am. Like as not he shouldn’t have interfered, but curiosity killed the cat, they say, and once he had got it out he couldn’t put it back—” She stopped.
“Margery,” Lottie said, frowning. “I don’t understand—”
The maid pushed the paper at her and Lottie took it a little gingerly. It was dirty and stained.
“It was in the bung of one of the beer kegs,” the maid said in a rush. “It’s in a funny foreign language, mind, so I knew it must be something to do with the prisoners, ma’am, and I didn’t know what to do. I don’t want John to get into trouble so I came to you.”
“Of course,” Lottie said automatically. “Don’t worry, Margery. I’m sure we can sort it out.” She took the paper. It felt smooth, as though it had passed through many hands.
Margery dropped a hasty curtsy. “I’ll be in the kitchen, ma’am, if you need me,” she said.
After Margery had gone out Lottie unfolded the letter and scanned it carefully. It was not in French, as she had expected. Margery’s funny foreign language was Latin and it was also in code.
“Hodie mihi, cras tibi…” “Today to me, tomorrow to you…”
“Si post fata venit gloria non propero…” “If glory comes after death, I’m not in a hurry…”
Lottie frowned. She had seen these words somewhere before, glanced at them on a gravestone perhaps. She looked out of the window at the spire of St. Andrew’s church piercing the blue of the sky. She grabbed her bonnet and spencer and the letter, and hurried from the door.
A half hour later, sitting chilled and hunched in the parlor, she wished that she had not remembered, wished that she did not have such a talent for languages, and wished that she had not, like Margery’s brother John, had such an unhealthy curiosity. Her tea was cooling in a cup and on a piece of paper before her lay the code, transposed in all its chilling detail:
“At Millbay Prison there is a tunnel of over five hundred yards leading out into the fields. The prisoners will overcome the guard and escape….”
“At Forton Prison they have cut a hole in the wall….”
“At Stapleton they have forged documents to enable the prisoners to effect an escape….”
The list went on and on. The prisons at Norman Cross, at Greenlaw and at Perth all had escape plans by road or river, overcoming the guards, taking their weapons, escaping en masse. And at the bottom of the page:
“The night of 14th September 1813…”
Tomorrow night. Lottie shivered, drawing her shawl more closely about her shoulders as a long, long shudder crept down her spine. At last she could see the full grandeur of Ethan’s plan. She had always known that he had planned something far bigger than his own escape and that of Arland, but lately she had not wanted to know. She loved Ethan. She wanted to run away with him. That was all that had mattered.
Not anymore. Now she could see that this was no small-scale plot to free Arland. It was an enormous conspiracy, magnificent in its scale, terrifying in its scope. Sixty thousand prisoners, French, American, Danish, Spanish, Irish, all nationalities would unite to rise up against the British on their own soil. No longer did Mrs. Ormond’s panicked fluttering seem like a bat squeak in the dark. Her deepest fears would come to pass. All the prisoners would escape and overrun the country and people would fight and suffer and die as a result. The government would fall. The war would be lost. Hundreds, thousands, of her countrymen and women would be killed. It was no wonder that the British authorities had been watching Ethan so closely. This was what Theo and his colleagues had been waiting for.
She had to tell him. She had to take the letter to Theo and betray Ethan’s plot.
She should not hesitate. This was treason. It was lethally dangerous. Yet still she sat staring into the fire, trying to feel its warmth, and she thought of all that she had heard, of the hell of the prison hulks with their torture and starvation and disease, of gaols like Whitemoor with their ragged prisoners, filthy and emaciated, the brutality of the guards, the cuts and bruises on Arland’s face. She had seen the way that officers were treated in a parole town, seen the civilized face of captivity, not its violent, cruel underbelly.
She swallowed hard. It was not fair to expect someone like her to bear the burden for such a heavy moral decision, she thought bitterly. She was not equipped for it. Normally she only had to choose between red or green silk, not weigh the lives of her countrymen and her patriotic duty against justice and her overwhelming love for one man.
Intolerable choices…
She let the letter fall from her hand to the carpet. She knew what she had to do. She had to betray Ethan for the greater good. Not for money but for principle this time. It was the greatest irony that she admired and respected Ethan so much for his passion and his devotion to his principles. She loved him because of his certainty and his fierce loyalty to his cause and to the people he believed in. And now, finally, she had to sacrifice her self-interest and her love and try to find some of that deeply buried principle within herself because if she did not, her countrymen would die in their thousands. In the end it really was as simple as that.
She wrapped her arms about her. Only a few hou
rs ago she had thought to be secure in Ethan’s love. The world was a cold place without the strength of that love to draw upon. No doubt Theo would reward her for her loyalty to her country. She would not starve now. But life after love was going to be very empty.
She stood up and walked slowly over to her escritoire, dipped her quill in the inkpot, and started to compose a letter to Theo. When she had finished she sent Margery with instructions to find a post boy to take the letter directly to her brother, without delay. Then she sat down to compose a note to Ethan. She knew that she had to warn him, and give him the chance to escape. She would foil his conspiracy but the one thing she could not bear to do was to give him up to arrest and execution.
But what to say, when her heart was breaking?
I have betrayed you one last time. I love you, but it was not enough. I had to put my duty to my country first….
It sounded so pompous, so unlike her.
I found the principles I thought I lacked and unfortunately I discovered them at the most inconvenient moment….
There really was nothing that she could say, so she scribbled a few stark words of warning and left it at that. The last thing Ethan would want from her was words of regret or, God forbid, protestations of love.
Two hours later she was still sitting there, feeling stiff and cold, and twilight was starting to fall outside. Theo would have her message by now. He would be on his way. And so would Ethan. She prayed fiercely that he would be able to escape the net and take Arland to freedom.
The letter detailing the escape plans had slid from the table in a slight draft from the door. Lottie bent slowly, like an old woman, to pick it up from the floor. It fluttered, skipping out of her reach. She grabbed it and straightened up just as someone stepped into the room.
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