by Lucy Ashford
Ellie could see that Luke was gazing into the fire again now, as if this room, this house didn’t exist. As if he was far, far away with the army in France.
‘This French prisoner,’ Luke went on, ‘had been wrongly captured. They’d thought he was Napoleon’s man. He wasn’t. He was on our side, involved in encouraging rebellion against Napoleon in the south-west of France with a band of soldiers led by my brother. This prisoner—my brother’s friend—was called Jacques.’
‘Oh, Luke. Monsieur Jacques. I met him here, didn’t I?’
Luke nodded. ‘You met him, yes. And that winter night in Spain, Jacques told me how in the autumn my brother and several others—including Jacques—had carried out a dangerous mission for their London masters, delivering English guns and English ammunition to the resistance groups fighting Napoleon around La Rochelle. It was—supposedly—a prelude to English troops arriving. Anthony’s orders were to make the deliveries, gather information, then go to the harbour at La Rochelle after midnight, to wait there for an English navy ship that would take him and his comrades, called Les Braves, back to London, to make their report. The ship never arrived. They’d been abandoned by their English masters.’
A betrayal. Just as Monique had said. ‘Why?’ Ellie whispered.
She saw Luke was flexing his right hand in its glove. ‘My guess is,’ he said evenly, ‘that the government decided my brother and his friends were of no use any more. They’d served their purpose. They’d done what they were told to do—they’d supplied Napoleon’s enemies, England’s allies, with arms. As for the scheme to send over British troops next, to increase the pressure on Napoleon’s army—’ He shrugged. ‘Everyone knows that the various ministers are always falling out—the heads of the Home Office and the Foreign Office, the Admiralty and the chiefs of the army. And perhaps someone decided the scheme was too expensive. Whatever the reason, it appears that the plans were cancelled. Buried. Which meant that my brother and his friends were doomed. Not only was their usefulness over, but they knew too much—which meant, as far as certain English politicians were concerned, that Les Braves were better off dead.’
Ellie made a low sound of horror.
‘And so,’ Luke went on, ‘as I’ve said, the navy boat that was meant to pick them up from La Rochelle never arrived. My brother ordered his companions to split up and head inland, but some persisted in waiting by the harbour, still believing they would be rescued. Instead, they were captured by the enemy and shot.
‘Jacques told me how he and my brother were separated in flight. Jacques knew that the English army had crossed the Pyrenees by then, into French territory, so he walked for days to reach the English camp where I was. He foolishly believed that if he told the English officers what had happened, how Anthony and his companions had been betrayed, then they might send men to look for my brother and other survivors. Jacques, in his naivety—’ he gave a bitter laugh ‘—even hoped there might be some kind of retribution for the way Les Braves had been betrayed. Instead, Jacques was herded up with all the other French prisoners. As if he was one of England’s enemies.’
Luke seemed to Ellie for a moment to be lost in thought. At last he spoke again. ‘That night, I went to protest about Jacques’s captivity to my commanding officer. But he announced that Jacques’s fate was none of my business—I think he’d got wind of some War Office intrigue in the background, of some dirty business that needed to be kept secret. He told me that Jacques was to be kept where he was, and I guessed that one night soon Jacques would be found dead, to keep him from talking to anyone else. So I went back to him that night. I gave him money and I set him free—on condition that he try to find my brother.
‘By then, I had resolved to resign my commission and to join Jacques in the hunt for Anthony. But within a week of Jacques escaping, an outbreak of typhus fever swept the camp and, along with hundreds of others, I was laid low. Many men died that winter—but not me. I had something to live for. I was going to survive, whatever it cost me, because I had one purpose in my life.’
‘To find your brother,’ Ellie said softly.
Luke had seen how the sympathy shadowed her face as he told his story. He nodded. ‘To find my brother. To get justice for my brother. To uncover the men—the proud, powerful Englishmen in London—who had betrayed him and his comrades. By February I was just about able to travel, but was no longer considered fit to fight and was sent home. And I realised, when I got to this house, that Jacques had been trying to get in touch with me—to tell me that as yet, he’d found no proof that my brother was dead.
‘Before long, Jacques arrived here—he’d acquired a fishing vessel and a loyal crew. I travelled to the French coast and back with Jacques, again and again. I sold up the remaining treasures of this house, to fund the search and pay for information, and together Jacques and I and his crew roamed all along the coast around La Rochelle and into the hinterland, searching for news of Anthony and Les Braves, hearing also how the British army had defeated Napoleon’s generals at Toulouse and Napoleon had abdicated. Summer came—Jacques and I continued our hunt, but I was careless. I was captured by some French renegades who were still loyal to Napoleon. They thought I was merely a smuggler and let me go—after cutting two of my fingers off.’
Ellie let out a low gasp. ‘Why?’
He gave her a bitter smile. ‘I thought you might have known, since it’s a traditional punishment the French like to inflict on their English enemies. Long ago, the battle of Agincourt was won largely thanks to the English archers, and in subsequent battles of that era, the French, if they took any English prisoners, cut off the first two fingers of their right hands, to make sure they would never use longbows again.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she breathed.
He shrugged. ‘I’ve got used to it. After that, Jacques brought me home. He tried to tell me—in a polite way—that since I could no longer fire a pistol or wield a sword, I was as well staying here, in England. He was right, of course. The estate badly needed my attention—I’d been wrong to neglect it for so long. And besides, Jacques reminded me there were still things I could do.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘For instance, I could turn my attention to Lord Franklin Grayfield.’
She met his gaze without flinching. ‘I know, now, that he works for the government.’
Luke nodded. ‘Indeed. Lord Franklin is actually very highly placed, as an unofficial adviser to the Foreign Office. He’s highly skilled in languages and diplomacy. He’s entrusted with many vital and secret matters by government ministers—and during our last leave together, in the summer of 1813, Anthony told me that he suspected Lord Franklin knew everything about the planned venture to La Rochelle in September. I went to confront Lord Franklin in London, three months ago—but his lordship ordered his footmen to march me out of the house and told me that if I didn’t stop investigating the betrayal, he would ruin me.’
He heaved in a breath. ‘All in all, I had very little to lose—so of course, I didn’t give up. That’s why Lord Franklin hates me.’
‘Do you think he sent the soldiers tonight?’
‘It’s possible. He could easily have sent them orders from London, to visit this house as a warning that I’m still being watched. To remind me that I should keep quiet about matters that don’t concern me.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I should take heed. Perhaps there is absolutely nothing I can do—’
Ellie broke in. ‘But perhaps there is, Luke! I told you. I got into Lord Franklin’s library today and I found letters in there. In particular, I found a letter to Lord Franklin about a British landing, from someone high up in government, telling him that the Les Braves expedition was to go ahead. There was probably more—so much more—and I could get it for you. You must let me help you!’
He’d gone very still. ‘So it’s there. But it’s far too dangerous. God above, I’ve already put you through too much. I can’t—I wo
n’t ask you to do any more.’
‘You don’t have to ask me, because I’m offering. Please, Luke! And while you think about it, let me tell you the truth about my father.’
‘Ellie,’ he said quietly, ‘have you thought properly about this? Doesn’t it occur to you that I could be completely the wrong person for you to confide in?’
She lifted her face to his and he found her so poignantly brave, yet at the same time so vulnerable, that he felt his heart ache for her. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you,’ she answered, ‘that at this moment I feel you’re perhaps the only person in the world that I can trust?’
* * *
And that was it, Luke thought. Just those few, quiet words—and he was unarmed. He could no more turn her away than he could strike her or hurt her. She was more beautiful than he’d believed possible; heat was pooling in his loins, and a new, unbidden danger was lurking now. His desire to take her into his arms and never, ever let her go.
She trusted him. He balled his left hand into a fist, to remind himself to keep well away from her. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘about your father.’
And she told him. He poured them both wine, then sat again and listened, marvelling that this delicate girl-woman should have endured so much. He listened, as she spoke in her low, musical voice; not looking at him but gazing into the fire, as if by staring at the flames she could resurrect everything she’d stored away in her heart.
‘What most people don’t realise,’ she began softly, ‘is that even after the Revolution, life in France was truly terrible for the ordinary people. They couldn’t find work. They starved. But Napoleon promised to get trade and commerce moving again. He offered people the precious gift of hope.’
She drew a deep breath. ‘Napoleon employed my father to design roads. Roads were a vital part of the Emperor’s plan, you see, to make France prosperous for all her people, and that was my father’s desire, too. But gradually my father grew to realise that Napoleon no longer wanted those roads for the good of France, but for his armies. Napoleon wanted to conquer the world. And poverty grew in France again, because the war drained the country of men and money.
‘When my mother died—’ Ellie’s voice broke, just a little ‘—my father tried to offer his resignation, but Napoleon refused to accept it. In fact, Napoleon was offended and angry, which meant that my father and I had to flee the country. I was seventeen and we were pursued, because I think Napoleon feared my father might try to sell his skills to a rival power.’
‘Did your father ever consider that?’
‘Never.’ She shook her head firmly. ‘He was no traitor. He decided we’d head for Le Havre first—he hoped to meet up with some relatives of my father’s, but they no longer lived there. Then we realised our pursuers were on our trail again, and we had to head north...’ Briefly she pressed her hand to her forehead, and again Luke felt a surge of pity when he saw the flash of vulnerability in her eyes, so quickly hidden.
‘Many times,’ she went on steadily, ‘we were nearly caught by the Emperor’s men. At last, we reached Brussels, and there we thought we were safe. But my father never really recovered from the hardships of our travelling. He caught a fever and became gravely ill.’
She was staring into the flames of the fire again. Luke spoke at last. ‘Lord Franklin,’ he said. ‘Where does he come into it?’
She looked at him. ‘He found me,’ she said, ‘last summer. He told me that he was in Brussels because, with the war being over, he was able at last to fulfil his dream of making a tour of all of Europe’s museums and galleries. You know that he collects art?’
‘I do,’ answered Luke calmly. ‘His passion for art is, I believe, genuine. But I also know that it provides an extremely useful cover for his other activity—working for the government.’
‘Of course,’ she breathed. ‘Of course. And he offered to take me to London—I would have preferred to stay in Brussels, but my father knew he was dying and made me swear to accept Lord Franklin’s offer of protection. I had to keep my promise. Do you understand?’
Luke nodded. Once this passionate girl gave you her word, he thought, she would never willingly break it. And once she gave you her heart—oh, her heart would indeed be worth possessing.
He realised she was still speaking. ‘Lord Franklin,’ she went on, ‘took me to London. But in London, as I told you, I guessed—I was certain—that my room had been searched. Lord Franklin denied everything, of course—he told me I had an over-vivid imagination, and he banished me here. As I’ve also told you, I’ve since found out that he lied about being my mother’s relative—why, I don’t know.’
‘From what you’ve told me,’ Luke said, ‘I think it quite probable that Lord Franklin took you into his care, in the full knowledge that your father worked for Napoleon—and in the strong hope that you might have vital information about the Emperor.’
‘What information?’
‘The names of Napoleon’s supporters? Of his contacts?’
‘But I know nothing.’
He saw that she was white with tiredness. ‘I understand that. Listen, Ellie, we’ll have to talk further about this. I’ll need to give it some thought, but we’ll do it at some other time, because you must be exhausted.’
He thought he saw her shoulders slump a little. ‘But, Luke—’
‘I believe,’ he cut in, ‘that Mrs Bartlett has prepared a room for you.’ He was already picking up a candlestick. ‘It’s almost one in the morning, and it won’t be possible, I’m sure you realise, to get you back into Bircham Hall at this hour. In the meantime, you’ll perhaps be able to get a few hours’ sleep here—’
He broke off abruptly. He’d been about to light the candle from the fire using his injured hand, but somehow he dropped the pewter candlestick and it clattered heavily on the hearthstone. Even as he bent to pick it up, Ellie saw him clamping down, hard, on his self-disgust. And suddenly, she found herself brimming over with emotion. His crippled hand. How he hated it. How he hated—himself.
He was trying to light the candle again. She went over to him and touched his arm. ‘Luke.’
He swung round. ‘What is it?’ he said almost harshly.
She felt her heart breaking for this proud, wounded man, punishing himself so. ‘I wish we hadn’t met like this,’ she said quietly. ‘I wish everything had been different.’ She reached up to touch his face, letting her fingers flutter oh so lightly over the bruise on his cheek, and Luke thought he saw the brightness of unshed tears in her eyes. Then she let her fingertips drift down to his lips.
‘Ellie.’ He almost bit out her name. ‘This is no good. You’re doing yourself no favours.’
‘You are good for me,’ she said softly. ‘You’re a good man, Luke. I feel safe with you.’
Then you shouldn’t, he wanted to urge her. In God’s name, you shouldn’t.
But he was lost, utterly vanquished by what he saw in her eyes. He wove his fingers in her hair and pulled her face to his, gazing at her for precious, precious moments, and he thought he heard her whisper his name, just at the moment he touched his mouth to hers.
And he kissed her.
He clasped her close, breathing in her scent, her sweetness. She wrapped her slender arms around him, pressing herself against him. After that... After that there was no time for regret, only for the calamitous onslaught of passionate desire. As the longing thudded through his body, as he tasted her sweet mouth with his tongue and heard her let out a soft moan in her throat, he groaned and pulled her closer, feeling the slenderness of her waist as she kissed him back—and as he lifted his left hand to feel her breasts through the cloth of her grey gown, he was aware of her shuddering with need, drawing closer to him.
He knew he could have lifted her in his arms and carried her up to his bed, and made love to her in full. She was ready for him, her nipples were ta
ut with desire; he could feel the soft curves of her lower body as she instinctively sought to press herself against his pulsing hardness, and whether she knew it or not, with every gesture of her innocent yet seductive body she was begging for him.
God help her, she was utterly desirable—and utterly vulnerable. Nineteen years old, an orphan and a friendless refugee. And he guessed that she’d guarded herself so fiercely in the past that she’d never even allowed a man to touch her before.
Until she met him, Luke Danbury. And now she was urging him with every breath in her body to make love to her. Now she was offering herself to him completely. She’d said that she trusted him.
That was why, with one of the greatest efforts of his life, Luke forced himself to drag his lips from hers, and pulled away.
Her lips were swollen, her green eyes were dark with need. Her lovely thick hair fell in voluptuous disarray around her face and shoulders. And his own fiercely aroused body was still thudding with longing for her. He gritted his teeth. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. It was a mistake.’
And she stepped back as if he’d struck her. You fool, he told himself. You utter, careless fool.
Chapter Nineteen
Luke led her upstairs to a tiny bedroom where a fire burned in the grate. Ellie felt blinded with emotion. He hardly spoke to her again. Hardly even looked at her. What had happened? What had she done? Was it her fault?
‘I think,’ he said flatly as he stood by the door, ‘that you’ll find everything you need in here. I’ll see that you’re woken before dawn, and my men can get you home. I hope you get some sleep.’