“I’m Drake.” Leaning forward, he extended a hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Luc.”
An irrepressible smile moved over the boy’s lips, clearly flattered to be treated in such an adult fashion. “You too, sir,” he said as he took Drake’s hand to shake.
“Now that we’ve been properly introduced, we are no longer strangers.”
Luc thought that bit of logic over for a minute, then relaxed as if they’d known each other for a lifetime. “The house isn’t far. Do you want to come and see Sebastianne now?”
“Yes,” Drake said darkly. “I would like that.”
Leading the way, the boy began to chatter with great animation about his family. Listening attentively, Drake followed.
Chapter 27
Turning away from the outdoor well, Sebastianne picked up the rope handle of the wet wooden bucket and made her way into the house, taking care not to spill the freshly drawn water inside. Part of it she would use to prepare that evening’s meal, the other portion for cleaning up as she went.
She had the house to herself for the afternoon. The boys were outside playing until dinner since it was impossible to keep them cooped up inside, as much as she wished she might. As for Papa, he was in his workroom as usual, poring over stacks of books and journals as he contemplated his next theorem.
She was glad her family was content and blissfully unaware of the latest devil’s bargain she’d struck and the danger hanging over them all. There was nothing they could do, and worrying Papa and the boys would gain them nothing but anxious days, and nights of lost sleep. The gamble had been hers to take and the fear a burden she rightly carried on her own.
As for her own worry, she did her best to push it aside, especially around the others. In the days since her encounter with Vacheau, she’d heard nothing. Then again, she supposed his silence was only to be expected considering the magnitude of her demands.
He must still be seething, she mused with a pinch of inner satisfaction.
Nevertheless, she could take no real pleasure from the knowledge nor find solace, not even in sleep. When it was done, and her family was safe and free, only then would she be able to let down her barriers, only then would she have time to mourn for all she’d been through, for all she had lost.
And who.
I shall not think of him, she told herself sternly, ignoring the ironic fact that she thought of him every day, every hour, and often every minute too.
Setting down the water bucket, she went to check the loaves of bread dough she’d tucked into a draftless corner to rise. Satisfied with their progress, she took up the linen towel full of unshelled green peas that had been a gift that morning from Madame Breton. Sebastianne had returned her neighbor’s generosity with an invitation to join the family for supper this Sunday, which Madame had happily accepted.
The rare treat of fresh peas, however, would be just for her and the boys and Papa. A boiled chicken, potatoes, and freshly baked bread with butter would complete the meal. Taking a seat at the wide kitchen table, she began shelling peas into an earthenware bowl.
One minute slid into two, then three, as she worked with quiet efficiency. Her head was bent over her task, her mind wandering to places it shouldn’t go, when the drumming of running feet broke the stillness.
“Wipe your shoes on the mat,” she called without looking up, recognizing her brother’s footfalls. The boys were forever tracking all manner of dirt and debris into the house, particularly when they returned from playing outside. She waged a constant battle to keep the house clean and neat.
“Do I need to wipe my shoes as well?” a deep, hauntingly familiar voice inquired.
Her head came up, peas flying out of their shell to scatter wildly across the floor. Heat rushed through her veins, and her heart gave a single, painful thump.
It cannot be, she thought, not believing her eyes as she drank in the sight of him.
Drake.
He was everything she remembered and more, his presence filling the small room with an energy that made all the rest seem insignificant. He looked as if he’d been traveling hard, his plain tan jacket, white shirt and trousers far from aristocratic. He was less precisely groomed than she was used to seeing him, his chestnut hair tousled around his head, a day’s growth of beard darkening the angular line of his jaw. Yet he was unbearably handsome in a way that made her ache, his face so dear she longed to rush up and into his arms.
Instead, she sat frozen, unable to move or speak.
He met her stunned gaze, his own eyes burning like emerald fire. “Hello, Anne,” he said in perfect, mellifluous French. “Or should I say Sebastianne.”
Blood drained from her face, her skin turning cold, her fingers numb.
Mon Dieu, he knows. And he’s found me. But how?
Luc chose that moment to dive down to collect the wayward peas, scooping up a handful to toss back into the bowl. With a kind of absurd distraction, she decided there was no harm done since the vegetables would be washed before being cooked.
“Look who I met on the path,” her brother chimed in happy, innocent tones. “Your friend, Monsieur Drake, has come to visit us.”
She forced a smile. “Yes, so I see.”
How had he come to meet her brother and what had he been saying to the boy? Monsieur Drake indeed!
“Luc, I haven’t had a chance to check the coop for eggs this afternoon. Would you take the basket and collect what the hens have laid?”
Luc appeared momentarily mutinous, as if he knew he’d miss some interesting bits of conversation if he departed. But he was a kind, generous child at heart and never liked to gainsay her, even when it went against his wishes.
“Mais oui, bien sûr,” he said before crossing to pick up the egg basket. As he headed for the door, he paused, turning toward Drake. “You will still be here when I return, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes,” Drake said.
“We shall see,” Sebastianne said at the same moment.
Drake arched a brow at her remark.
Apparently satisfied by Drake’s response, Luc hurried from the house. The instant he was gone, Sebastianne wished she hadn’t asked him to go, suddenly aware just how alone she was with Drake. At least she was seated, since she didn’t think her legs would have held her upright.
“Why are you here?” she whispered. “H-How did you find me?”
Drake crossed his arms. “I believe we both know the answer to your first question, but we’ll leave that for the moment. As for finding you, I had your mother’s help.”
Her lips parted. “Ma mère, but she’s . . . how?”
“You oughtn’t to have told me your family was from Ambleside. I paid a visit and had a most illuminating conversation with one of the residents there, a Miss Pruitt.”
Sebastianne frowned and shook her head.
“Don’t remember her? Well, she remembers you and your family. Apparently she and your mother exchanged a few letters, one of which mentioned the name of this village. After that, it was simply a matter of following the trail.”
Mon Dieu, undone by Maman from beyond the grave.
Then what he’d said truly sank in, along with the knowledge that he was in France, where he shouldn’t be, where his very presence put him in jeopardy.
Abruptly, she came to her feet, wringing her hands together. “You ought not to have come, Drake. Our countries are at war, in case you haven’t noticed. What if you’re caught?”
“Oh, I won’t be caught,” he said roughly. “As for my presence, I’ve come to take you back.”
Her pulse leapt, and for one crazy instant she imagined him braving capture as he crossed France because he missed her and wanted her, because he couldn’t stand the loss of their being apart.
But those were her emotions. That was how she felt, not he.
Drake had come here
for one reason and one reason alone.
Revenge.
Reaching out, he grabbed her arms and drew her near, his voice lowering to a harsh murmur. “How could you have done it? How could you have stolen from me? Lied and betrayed me? Did you think I’d do nothing after what you did? Did you imagine I’d just let you go. If you knew me at all, you’d have realized that I’d never rest. That I would hunt you to the ends of the earth and back.”
But that was exactly what she’d thought. That he would let her go, that he would have no choice because he wouldn’t be able to find her, would have no clue as to her real identity. So why had she been so foolish as to give him that clue? On some subconscious level had she given him the knowledge he needed in order to track her down on purpose? Had some secret part of her wanted him to find her no matter where it might lead.
“You don’t understand, Drake. I had no choice but to betray you,” she pleaded.
“No choice? That’s rich. You’re a liar and a spy, and I’m going to see to it that justice is served.”
“Please, let me explain.”
“Explain what? That you used and deceived me? That everything about you is a lie, even your name. Mrs. Greenway,” he sneered.
“I couldn’t tell you who I really was. I wasn’t allowed.”
“Not allowed? By whom? Your husband? Are you even a widow or was that a lie too?”
She blanched again. “Yes, I’m a widow and don’t bring him into this.”
“Why not, when you had no difficulty putting his name aside when it was convenient? What is your real name anyway, since Greenway came from your mother?”
“Dumont,” she murmured. “I am Madame Dumont.”
“Well, Madame Dumont, the time of reckoning is upon you.”
Her ribs squeezed with a pain that was both sorrow and regret. “That day has been upon me from the moment I left this cottage last spring. My fate was written from that time on. Now, please let me go, Drake. There are things I need to tell you.”
“What things? More lies? More manipulations?” He pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against the hard warmth of his chest. “I’ve had enough of those.” Reaching up, he laid a palm against her face and locked his gaze on hers. “Was any of it real? Or was your seduction strictly for your cause and nothing more?”
“No,” she said, trembling in his grasp. “I never meant for us to become lovers. It just . . . happened.”
His eyelids grew heavy, his gaze moving to her mouth as if he wanted to kiss her. Her blood beat faster, love and longing rising inside her in spite of all the lies and enmity between them.
He bent his head.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing with my sister?” demanded an angry voice.
Sebastianne startled and looked across the room to find Julien standing just inside the doorway, his hands clenched at this sides. Drake loosened his hold but did not release her as he too turned to gaze at her brother.
“I asked you a question, monsieur,” Julien stated in a voice that was far more adult than his thirteen years. “I demand to know why you are in our home and what you are about, molesting my sister.”
Sebastianne leaned closer to Drake. “Please say nothing,” she whispered. “He isn’t involved and doesn’t know where I’ve been or what I’ve done. I beg you not to tell him or Luc. They’re only boys.”
Their gazes met again, Sebastianne pleading silently for his forbearance. Perceptible only to her, Drake gave a faint nod of agreement. Slowly he loosened his grip.
Exhaling in relief, she stepped away, then forced a smile. “Julien, what are you thinking to say such things? You have misread the situation entirely. This gentleman is a friend, and he and I were merely exchanging a greeting.”
Julien stared, looking less than convinced.
“Come and say hello,” she encouraged. “And put away that cross look since it is far from welcoming. Julien, let me introduce you to my friend, Lor—that is . . . I mean—”
“Byron’s the name,” Drake interrupted, easily covering up her near use of his title. “Drake Byron.”
While it was true that aristocrats weren’t hunted or as reviled as they had been during the years of the Terror, they were still unusual in France. Even their father, who had come from noble blood, no longer used his title, going by plain Monsieur Calvière now.
Walking forward, Drake held out a hand. “It is good to meet you. Sebastianne has spoken often of you and your family.”
Julien did not take his hand. “She hasn’t spoken of you. Who are you? Where did you meet my sister?”
“Paris,” Sebastianne said quickly. “Monsieur Byron was in the city this spring while I was there helping poor Cousin Paulette. He was most kind to us. We even went to a balloon ascension one afternoon.”
She glanced at Drake and caught the trace of amusement in his eyes at her embellishment of the truth.
Julien’s fists relaxed slightly, an expression of begrudging interest on his face. “You didn’t tell me you’d seen balloons,” he said half-accusingly to Sebastianne. “I should love to see one fly.”
“A friend of mine owns a balloon,” Drake said. “Perhaps someday you will have a chance to take a ride.”
Julien’s features turned rhapsodic, as if such an experience would be a dream come true.
“Well, that will be a while since trips to Paris don’t grow on trees,” Sebastianne said. “In the meantime, why do you not wash up, and I shall make you some tea and a snack.”
“I’m back with the eggs,” Luc announced, entering the house like a small burst of wind. “Did I hear you say something about a snack? I’d like one too. I’m starving.”
“Wash up too then, and I’ll make you something light that won’t ruin supper,” she told him.
“Jam sandwiches?” he asked hopefully.
She smiled and took the basket of eggs from his grasp. “That might be arranged.”
“Make some for Monsieur Drake as well,” Luc declared with a smile. “Are you not famished from your travels, sir?”
Suddenly Drake did look a bit road weary. “I could do with a repast, if your sister would be so kind.”
“Did I hear you mention food?” a new voice said, her father coming through the rear door that led to his workshop in the backyard. “It’s been ages since breakfast.”
Sebastianne turned in time to watch him register Drake’s presence.
“And who might you be, monsieur?” her father said, tipping his iron grey head to one side in curious inquiry. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”
“This is Monsieur Drake,” Luc piped helpfully.
“Not Drake,” Julien corrected in a superior tone. “Monsieur Byron. Drake is his first name.”
Luc shot him a nasty look and opened his mouth to argue.
But their father spoke first, his gaze fixed on the other man. “Byron? Drake Byron?”
“Yes, sir,” Drake said.
“The mathematician and inventor?” Her father shot out his hands, clasping one of Drake’s in his own for a resounding shake. “I am Auguste Calvière, and it is an honor to have such an esteemed mind in my home.”
“Calvière?” Drake said. “The theorist? My God, I should have realized as soon as I saw the name. Of course, it all makes sense now.”
Her father smiled again. “Does it? Well, good, good. But come, we must talk. Sebastianne, that tea, if you please.” Taking Drake by the elbow, he steered him toward the table. “So tell me, sir, whatever are you doing here? There’s a war on, or have you not heard?”
Chapter 28
Nearly an a hour later, with their light repast finished, Sebastianne sent the boys off to do a few chores, while her father drifted back to his workshop with promises from Drake that he would join him there soon. Clearing a forgotten plate and cup from the table, D
rake joined Sebastianne where she stood across the room washing dishes in a bucket of hot, soap water.
He handed her the china. “How long has he been this way?” he asked in quiet English.
She rubbed a cloth over a plate, not pretending to misunderstand. “Since Maman passed,” she replied, also in English. “Although it’s been a gradual change. In most respects Papa is quite lucid, in others he’s . . . well, he likes to live in his own world. The real one, I think, is simply too hard for him to face, especially this past year.”
Drake took a moment to consider her words. “He was brilliant in his day. I remember reading his work at university.”
She shot him a look, then turned to dunk the plate in clean water. “He’s still brilliant, just not as focused as he used to be. He’s working on prime-number theory at the moment. It would be a great kindness if you would consult with him a bit. It would . . . it would make him happy.”
“Prime-number theory? It sounds as if you speak with some familiarity.”
She shrugged and washed a cup. “Papa taught me what he could, and I understand a fair amount of mathematics. But I’m no theoretical mathematician. I haven’t the patience for it or the singular turn of mind.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that what it is? My family calls it drifting off and not paying attention.”
“But you are paying attention, just not to them.”
She smiled, and he smiled back.
His chest tightened, nerve endings humming with sudden awareness. She looked so lovely, even in a faded, brown cotton dress with her hair pinned haphazardly around her face. If he let himself, he could drown in her whiskey-colored eyes, die for a taste of her sweet, strawberry pink lips.
His brows drew into a scowl, and he glanced away. How could he still want her after everything she’d done? How could he stand here laughing and talking as though everything were fine? As though she hadn’t lied and betrayed him and ripped out his heart?
“I wondered how you knew,” he said gruffly.
Her hands paused in the water. “Knew?”
The Bed and the Bachelor Page 26