Swept Away

by Marsha Canham

  “We will be stopping before we reach open water to set Captain Landover and his men ashore. I was thinking...perhaps you might want to disembark with him.”

  Her cheeks darkened with a violent flush. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, for one thing, we have just stolen a navy prize out of a British port and they will not take kindly to the insult. For another, I have no idea what manner of welcome might await us in Torbay. The Bellerophon is a warship, after all, and I’m sure her captain keeps her guns primed in anticipation of any trouble.”

  “ So you are telling me I will be in the way?”

  “No, you are not in the way at all. I am only thinking of your safety. And no, I have no intentions of arguing with you--I have learned the folly of even hoping to win such an engagement. If you want to stay, I will not mention it again.”

  “I want to stay,” she said softly.

  He smiled just long enough to darken the blush in her cheeks then looked for something to occupy his hands. He took up the pot of tea, poured some in the mugs, then added a healthy dollop of rum to both.

  “Here, this will warm you.”

  She took the mug, but did not drink. There was something else troubling him, she could see it in his eyes--or rather, in the way his eyes kept avoiding hers.

  “You must be relieved to know that Lord Barrimore believes you.”

  “It is a first step,” he agreed.

  “And you have your ship back. It is very...” she cast around the cabin, searching for the right word, but how did one describe a vessel bristling with guns and swarthy men with no teeth? “Bold. A very bold ship, indeed. And I am glad your memories are coming back.”

  He looked down at his cup a moment, then reached out and spilled the contents through the open gallery window. Walking back to the table, he refilled it with straight rum.

  “I recall you telling me once you liked me better when I had no memory.”

  “I was upset.”

  “You were damned upset,” he corrected her, grinning weakly over a large mouthful of rum. “And accused me of treating you like a common trull.”

  “We were on a public street and you flung me over your shoulder like a sack of grain.”

  He looked down at his cup again. “My point is, I haven’t exactly been honing my manners these last few years. I haven’t done much of anything other than raise hell and play at war.”

  “I hardly think--”

  He held up a hand. “Let me finish. Please. I am trying like hell to do the right thing here, but if you keep interrupting me, I may never get it out. You see, I am remembering. I am remembering that I have done some things I am not too proud of, things I would rather not have to confess at all, and probably wouldn’t if it suddenly did not seem so damned important to do so. What I am trying to say, I guess, is that there seems to be more than just a little bit of truth behind some of the charges against me. Enough, in fact, that it gave Wessex something to hold over me, to make me agree to ‘volunteer’ my services to the crown.”

  “Lord Barrimore told me as much in the coach ride from London.”

  The dark, bottomless brown eyes gazed at her without wavering. “Did he now? What else did he tell you?”

  “Not much. Just that he probably knew more about you than you would ever deign to tell me, and that not all of it was pleasant.”

  “A polite way of putting it. But then Barrimore is a polite fellow. I may even have to reassess my opinion of him, for he likely could have told you stories that would have made you run screaming back to your family.”

  It was Annaleah’s turn to bow her head. “I am not sure why you are telling me this now.”

  “Either am I,” he conceded in a murmur. “You liked it better when I had no memory...well, I liked it better when I had no conscience. When everything was just a big blank void and my prime concern was how to get you naked and into my bed.”

  “And now? What concerns you now?”

  “My freedom. My ship. My men. A family I have selfishly ignored these past few years, responsibilities I have neglected or simply refused to acknowledge.” He set his empty cup on the table. “Have you no desire to see your family again?”

  She gave a little shrug and looked up again. “I was thinking I would like to see Anthony. Of all, he is most likely to hear me out and believe, possibly, that I did not set out to deliberately destroy my life.”

  Her voice faded to a whisper as Emory came and stood in front of her.

  For a full minute he did nothing but look at her. Mouth, eyes, the curve of her cheek, the fine reddish-brown wisps of hair at her temples that had coiled tightly in the dampness--all came under such intense scrutiny it was as if he did not trust the recent capriciousness of his memory to recall every detail. In the end, the terrible tautness in his jaw relented and he brushed the pad of his thumb across Anna’s lower lip.

  “Whereas I have been thinking...when this is over, of course...I would like to visit your aunt Florence again in the hopes she might see me in a better light, to know I have not become quite the black-hearted scoundrel the naysayers have made of me--or at least see that there is some hope for redemption. I was also hoping...” his thumb stroked from her lip to her cheek, and she was surprised--shocked--to feel that his hand was trembling. “I was hoping if you were not otherwise engaged for the rest of your life, Miss Fairchilde, you might let me court you properly.”

  Her eyes swam behind a silvery haze for a moment, then cleared. “Court me properly?”

  “I am even prepared to promise there will be no touching this time. Not even a chaste kiss to the back of the hand; not until we are well and truly married.”

  “Married?” The word was barely a whisper of breath, uttered through a wave of weakness that rippled all the way down to her toes.

  “Yes,” he said with a hint of a bemused smile. “That is what two people in love usually do -- is it not?”

  “Well, yes but--”

  He sighed and his hand slipped down to cradle her neck. “You asked me once before and I was reluctant then to give you a proper answer. The timing is hardly better now, but...I want you to know that I do love you, Annaleah Fairchilde. Far more than is sensible for a man of my jaded reputation to admit. I don’t know when it happened , or how it happened; I just found myself wanting to be a better person because of you. Because you trusted me. Because you believed me. Because you kept looking at me with those big blue eyes and telling me nothing else mattered. Well...I have discovered it does matter. It matters very much.”

  A small, bewildered gasp was all she could manage as his mouth pressed gently down over hers. It was hardly his best effort, for his lips remained closed and his eyes open. But it was enough. It was more than enough.

  When she could speak again--and it was difficult with her heart lodged in her throat, pounding like a jungle drum--she did so with a fat tear sparkling in the corner of her eye.

  “If that is what you want, I will certainly hold you to your promise to conduct a chaste and proper courtship. But in the meantime...”

  “Yes? In the meantime?”

  “Could you please,” she whispered, “Please just kiss me.”

  His relief escaped on a sigh as he bent to oblige, his lips parted, his breath warm where it blended with hers. The kiss was slow and wet and deep, a vast improvement over the last. Vast enough she was not even aware he had unfastened the buttons on her jacket and shirt until she felt the heat of his fingers caressing bared flesh.

  “I did say after we reached Widdicombe House,” he reminded her.

  “You did,” she agreed with trembling eagerness. “Yes, you did. And until then I shall be most happy to lie in your bed, naked or otherwise.”

  He kissed her again, the heat of his mouth rivalling the heat that was pouring through her body. She kept her arms by her side while he peeled her jacket and shirt away, then she was reaching up, pulling herself closer, gasping as his hands moved to her waist, her thighs. Her breeches w
ere skinned down her hips, her shoes kicked across the floor and she could see no point in hiding behind any shy flutters of modesty when he found her wet and wanting.

  The berth was narrow, built like a shelf sunk into the wall. The desk was closer, larger, and, with an impatient sweep of his arm, he cleared the surface of paper and writing implements, heedless of the ink that sprayed across the floor. He eased her down, gleaming and soft in her nudity, and his mouth broke roughly away, abandoning her for as long as it took him to fall on his knees before her. His hands skimmed up her thighs parting them while his lips, his tongue pushed hungrily into the soft, dark vee.

  The shock jolted her like the touch of a spark to powder and the explosion was instantaneous. Each spearing thrust of his tongue caused her body to arch up against him, to tighten with spasms that quaked through to the tips of her toes. And each time she quivered and strained against him, he worked her harder, brought her higher, until she was nearly blinded by the brilliance of her frenzy.

  When she was still breathless and orgasmic, he straightened and tore away his own clothes. He lifted her legs and draped them over his shoulders then thrust himself so deep inside she had to reach out and grip the edges of the desk to keep from flying clean out of her skin. The pleasure was fierce, almost excruciating in it’s intensity and he gauged the force of each stroke on the strength of her cries. He watched her face, watched the wildness come and go through a series of clutching implosions, all the while whispering words of encouragement, some in French, some in Spanish, some in a guttural language she had never heard before but was as rhythmic and primitive as the passion raging through her.

  When his entire body was rock hard and glistening with sweat, he surrendered with a hoarse, ragged groan. He knew he could not have held back much longer. It was like thrusting into velvet, into silk, and he felt his body stretch and burst, stretch and burst, filling her with the heated rush of his ecstasy. Their cries, their mouths came together and they continued to rock with the waning waves of pleasure. They rocked and strained and arched to chase after every last drop of his strength and when the fury passed and the heat melted away, she collapsed beneath him, her body going limp in his arms, unable to do much more than let him ease her gently back onto the desktop.

  “Sweet gracious God,” she gasped. “Sweet gracious God.”

  Emory’s body was still rife with tremors, the blood was still reckless in his veins as he lifted his head from the curve of her shoulder. He was about to respond with something equally witty and profound, but a soft click from the shadows behind them made him turn and glance over his shoulder. His lips drew back in a snarl and he was set to soundly curse whoever had dared come into his cabin without permission, but no one was there. The door was closed. Nothing looked disturbed, nor were there any footsteps beating a hasty or embarrassed retreat along the companionway.

  A cool, slender hand crept up to his cheek and dragged his head back around. When he saw the luminous look of wonder in her eyes, he forgot about whatever had distracted him and focussed all his thoughts and energies on the soft pink mouth that waited for him.

  CHAPTER 25

  The letter Emory had stolen off Napoleon’s desk that last night in Aix was from his younger brother Jerome. It had been delivered to Bonaparte earlier that afternoon by a harried courier who had ridden so hard and so relentlessly, his horse had toppled over and died an instant after he dismounted. Emory recalled he had been surprised to see the dispatch later, lying openly on the desk with the other papers, and at the first opportunity he had slipped it into his pocket, assuming it had to be of some monumental importance. He had read it on board the Intrepid and nearly tossed it into the fire in disgust, for the risk he had taken in stealing it had been enormous only to discover it contained mostly references to family matters. It discussed the health of their mother, Madame Mère, and the stir it had caused in the village after Napoleon had visited Malmaison to say farewell to her and his two illegitimate sons. There was also mention of his four year old heir, l’Aiglon--the little eagle, and the possibility of him being released into his grandmother’s care. There was some agitated discussion about money and pensions and the fact that while some fools might trust the promises of the allied armies to let Madame Mère live out her days in peace, the sooner they were all on board a ship to America, the better. Arrangements were being made, permissions to leave France were being negotiated. They would naturally look forward to Colonel Duroc joining them in due course. All was well. Duroc had already departed for the coast and would likely arrive in advance of this letter. A great deal of gold had been paid to le Renard to guarantee his safe passage, not only in Aix, but in England.

  All was well. The phrase had been underlined twice for emphasis. To the best of his recollection, Emory did not remember seeing a Colonel Duroc any time that last day or evening, but there were so many officers coming and going, he could not have hoped to identify them all even if he had not suffered a blow to his head. And who the hell was Le Renard? It was obviously a code name but although Emory had poured through every dispatch, letter, and document he had locked away in the strongbox, there was no mention of any foxes. No wolfs, hawks, or herons either for that matter.

  After leaving the fog-bound harbour of Gravesend he read and reread the letter until his eyes ached. For the two days they were under full sail, he picked it apart word by word until he knew it by heart, hoping that somewhere in the rows of florid script there would be a clue as to how Napoleon Bonaparte planned to escape his captors. That there was a plan in motion, he had no doubt. That the letter provided some sort of key, he was also certain else why had Cipriani beaten him half to death in order to get it back? Why had he not just killed him, wrapped chains around his ankles and dumped his body in the Gironde?

  Who was Colonel Duroc? And who the bloody hell was the Fox? Was he responsible for the forged dispatches, and was he also involved in this new scheme to save the emperor from exile?

  Emory had studied the letter from every angle trying to detect a hidden code, but nothing leaped out and smacked him in the face. The clues were there, he knew they were there, he just could not see them. His French was excellent, but there were always slight nuances that affected the meaning or intent of a phrase so he had Annaleah read the letter aloud in an effort to jog some elusive memory free. But she proved to be more of a hindrance than a help when he found himself watching the way her mouth moved around the words, the way the wings of her eyebrows drew together in concentration, the way the candlelight shone through the cambric of her shirt and outlined the full shape of her breasts. More than half the time they started out in very serious discussions about codes and translations, they ended up naked in a tangle of damp linens.

  Barrimore read the letter, but claimed his French was strictly upper class. He knew of no one in Whitehall who might choose the name Fox or le Renard or any derivative thereof to conduct secretive missions with the French but he assured Emory, upon returning to London, he would leave no stone unturned to unearth the traitor’s identity. For Emory’s part, he did not think that would be necessary. He suspected whoever the traitor was, he would be in Torbay when they arrived.

  “Duroc,” Emory muttered. “Who the devil is Colonel Duroc and why does the name sound so blasted familiar?”

  “Possibly because you have said it a thousand times,” Annaleah suggested, “even in your sleep. And this despite my very best efforts to distract you.”

  She was distracting him now, for she was seated in his lap, a cool white thigh on either side of his own. The ghost watch had been tolling four bells when she had wakened and seen him sitting at his desk, the letter and the papers with his scribblings spread out in front of him. She had padded barefoot across the cabin without him even looking up, though he had certainly noticed when she slipped naked onto his lap and curled herself against the warmth of his body.

  He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled faintly of rum from having
bathed in the only container available: a sawed-off barrel Diego had improvised from stores. Her skin smelled of woman, soft and warm, and of the two hours he had spent making slow, sweet love to her earlier.

  “I feel as though we are still sailing in a fog,” he murmured. “We can’t see what is ahead of us, we don’t even know what to look for.”

  She sighed again and nestled deeper into the curve of his shoulder. “Perhaps the plan has been foiled already. I cannot see how any plot to remove him from the Bellerophon could possibly succeed. You saw for yourself, the ship is in the middle of the harbor surrounded by a ring of boats filled with soldiers. No one can sneak aboard without being seen; no one can sneak off. When we left there were a hundred small boats in the bay day and night. There must be two or three times as many now, and even supposing a man could find a way to slip over the side, someone would be bound to see him in the water.”

  “Napoleon cannot swim. He is deathly afraid if his bathwater is too deep.”

  “Well, then, the only other choice is a raid from the sea, but that seems hardly likely. It would take an armada to steal him away from the British navy, and that would be an outright act of war. One would then have to ask why in heaven’s name he surrendered in the first place.”

  Emory leaned his head back against the padded leather headrest of the chair and absently stroked his hand through her hair. “That is another question I’ve been asking myself: Why did he seem so unconcerned when he announced his intentions to go peacefully into custody? He acted far too casual for a man facing possible execution.”

  Anna wriggled a little closer and slipped her hand down between their bodies. “Perhaps he knew Parliament would not condone the use of the axe. Perhaps he assumed the obvious: That they could not cold-bloodedly murder a man who had thrown himself upon their mercy.”

  “After Elba, he vowed he would never endure prison again. General Montholon even feared he might take his own life after Waterloo.”