Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  “A much more reliable motive than blind loyalty and patriotism,” Fouché said without irony. “I, also, am a mercenary of a kind, but I pursue power rather than money.”

  “The two tend to march hand in hand,” Dominic said and they both laughed, joined for a brief moment in the bond of recognition.

  Fouché left soon after, and Dominic spent half an hour conferring with Silas who had remained, stolidly awake, in the kitchen, well aware that the events of the evening presaged an immediate alteration in the present arrangements. Silas received his instructions to close up the house, settle the lease and follow monsieur, together with the men who made up the household staff in Vienna, to Leghorn as soon as they could. There they would join up with Danseuse and her crew and await further instruction. The sailor then went off to fetch the carriage and rouse one of the hands to act as coachman during the Delacroix’s journey to Leghorn.

  Dominic went upstairs to face the unfriendly task of waking Genevieve from far too short a sleep. His resolution faltered when he held a candle over the bed and examined the figure far gone in the sleep of wine-aided exhaustion. She was going to feel abominable when she came to, and a long carriage ride, jolting over bumpy ill-paved roads to the coast of Italy would hardly aid recovery. Traveling day and night, they could accomplish the distance in two and a half days, barring accidents and supposing they could always find good horses in the mountainous wilderness. But did Genevieve have sufficient stamina to travel in that way, even if she were feeling her best?

  He could always leave her to follow in Silas’s charge. But, no, that would inhibit the men, slow them down, and he could not afford their arrival to be delayed. Then he smiled to himself, imagining what she would say if she could hear his cogitations. His sprite had committed herself to this venture without reservation, and she would not tolerate being left behind, and would certainly object most vociferously to the merest suggestion that she would not be able to keep up. She had the strength of youth and health on her side. He would do what he could to cushion the ordeal until her natural reserves reasserted themselves, but until they did, Mademoiselle Genevieve was going to have to endure—and not necessarily in silence, he thought with a rueful grimace, setting the candle down beside the bed. But he could afford to leave her sleeping for awhile longer, until he himself was changed and packed. Silas could pack for Genevieve, and he would wake her at the last possible moment.

  It was in the dark hour before dawn that Dominic decided he could wait no longer. The portmanteau was stowed on the roof of the carriage that waited at the front door. He was warmly dressed in britches, boots, and jacket, a heavy topcoat tossed over a chair, ready and waiting. He had selected a velvet riding habit for Genevieve, silk lined for added warmth; with boots, cloak, and muff she should not suffer from the elements, at least.

  Genevieve fought the hand on her shoulder, the inexorable, quiet repetition of her name. She tried to burrow beneath the pillows, to shut out the painful gleam from a lamp held close above, but there was no escape. With the return of consciousness came, as inextricable partners, nausea tugging at her belly, a drumbeat at her temples, sawdust in her mouth. Groaning, she rolled onto her back. “For pity’s sake, go away and let me sleep.”

  “You have to get up now,” Dominic said firmly, pulling back the bedcovers. “When you are dressed you shall have some coffee.”

  Her stomach heaved at the very thought. She could not, for the moment, imagine why Dominic should be doing this dreadful thing to her. With another groan, Genevieve turned onto her side, away from the light, curling her limbs, aching in every joint, into a tight ball.

  Dominic’s lips twitched in spite of his sympathy for a plight that he remembered only too well from his own youth. Slipping his arms beneath her, he lifted her bodily off the bed and set her on her feet where she swayed wretchedly, shaking her head in mute refusal to cooperate. “You do not wish me to leave you behind, do you, Genevieve?”

  “Behind where?” The tawny eyes stretched open with clearly painful effort.

  “Behind here,” he said briskly, pulling her nightgown over her head. “I am going to Leghorn. Are you coming?”

  “I think I am going to be sick,” she moaned, shivering as the air brushed her bare skin.

  “Oh, God,” Dominic muttered. “You are even worse than I thought. Just how much champagne did you have?”

  At the very word, Genevieve stumbled over to the commode where she hung retching in supreme misery, but without relief.

  Dominic went to the door. “Silas, I need some of your kill or cure concoction!” Genevieve staggered back to the bed, crawling beneath the covers.

  “I think I am going to die,” she said. “I had better die here.”

  “You are not going to die. You may sleep in the carriage and by this evening you will feel yourself again. Silas has something which will stop the nausea, although it won’t help your head, I am afraid.” Silas appeared at that moment with a tray on which reposed a large glass of evil-smelling liquid. This he set down beside the bed, casting a comprehensive eye over the bed’s occupant.

  “Only thing for a hangover is to sleep it off,” he commented, moving back to the door.

  “That is not helpful, Silas, since it is not an option available at the moment,” Dominic returned, picking up the glass. “Come on, Genevieve. Drink this.” Sitting on the bed beside her, he hauled her up against his shoulder and held the noxious potion to her lips. “I promise you, it will make you feel a little better. And if you drink it down all at once, it will not taste so bad.” He smiled reassuringly as he coaxed her.

  Genevieve, who had never before experienced anything as horrible as her present condition and, indeed, was so rarely even mildly under the weather that her tolerance for ill health was almost nonexistent, looked at him in pathetic appeal, her nose wrinkling in disgust. Then, reasoning that it could not possibly make her worse and she could think of no reason why Dominic would want to do her further injury, she took the glass, closed her eyes and tossed the contents down her throat. She prayed for instant death, shuddering and gagging as the liquid, as bitter as any gall or wormwood, burned its way down her gullet, corroded in her already rebellious stomach. Her eyes streamed, her mouth opening and closing like that of a landed fish as she fought for air. Then the miracle occurred. The seething in her belly subsided, the acid burning faded, and she realized that she was not going to vomit.

  “It’s a harsh remedy, I know,” Dominic comforted, rubbing her back gently. “I would not recommend it except in dire emergency, but we must be on the road before dawn.”

  Genevieve nodded with what she hoped was energetic concurrence, but the movement increased the drumbeat in her head and she winced, deciding to move only with the greatest care. Gingerly, she swung her legs over the bed and sat on the edge, reaching for her stockings. Bending her head caused the tom-tom again so she struggled to bring her feet to her hands, rather than the other way around.

  Dominic could not help smiling as he observed this valiant attempt to circumvent her ailments. Her lips were set in a grim line of determination, her eyes kept open by invisible glue. “I think you had better let me help you,” he said. “Lie down again.” When she fell back with a moan of relief, he raised her legs to draw on her stockings, smoothing the thin silk over her calves and thighs, tying the garters carefully. Genevieve gave a little sigh and he looked at her sharply. Surely she was not capable of arousal in her present state. He, on the other hand, most definitely was. It seemed a long time since they had last made love with the gaiety and freedom of the past and that slight body was infinitely desirable. The soft rose-tipped mounds of her breasts, perfectly formed against the narrow rib cage where the ivory satin skin stretched taut; the delicate bloom of her navel, a tight whorl in the flat belly that would dance beneath his stroking tongue; the silken silver triangle at the apex of those long thighs that he would slowly draw aside to reveal the eagerly welcoming softness of her center—

  With
a slight shock, he realized that while he had been standing in rapt contemplation of the garden of pleasure laid out before him, the owner of the garden seemed to have fallen asleep again and dawn hung on the horizon. Picking up her pantalettes, he rolled the legs and slipped them over her feet, drawing them up her body. “Make a bridge, sprite,” he instructed, slipping a flat palm beneath the warm buttocks and lifting her. She was not too lost to the world to hear and oblige, and her body stayed arched while he pulled the undergarment to her waist. The rest was relatively easy, and within twenty minutes he had her bundled up in her cloak and muff and installed in a corner of the carriage.

  The next sixty hours Genevieve would remember with a shudder for the rest of her life. They stopped only to change horses and eat. For most of the first day, she slept fitfully, cradled against Dominic’s shoulder, oblivious of the cramping discomfort this caused him. Sometime during that night, the toxic effects of the champagne finally wore off, which was not that much of a blessing since it left her wakeful and abominably conscious of the acute discomfort of the jolting vehicle. The inns where they made their brief halts were primitive roadside establishments, obviously unaccustomed to much traffic from outside the immediate rural neighborhood. Requests for water for washing were greeted with incomprehension; the food offered, Genevieve, at least, found to be a universally inedible mixture of greasy broth, gristle and unpeeled vegetables. The horses, in general, looked as if they were on their last journey before they found their way into the soup, and their progress along the steep, rough tracks that passed as roads was labored and slow.

  Dominic remained completely unperturbed by these inconveniences, and when his companion snapped and complained and on more than one occasion wept with the cold, dirty misery of it all, he soothed and patted her as if she were a fretful child. Such treatment had the desired effect, leaving Genevieve guiltily anxious to make amends so that she forced a smile and sat up, trying to take an interest in the wild mountainous countryside through which they were passing.

  Late in the afternoon of the third day, the carriage crested a hill and the port of Leghorn lay below with the deep blue sea stretching to the coast of France. As they descended to the white-washed town, Genevieve made out the unmistakable, dainty shape of Danseuse swinging at anchor in the lee of the sea wall, and her heart lifted. Danseuse was the only home she had now, and never had she needed the comfort and security of home more than at this moment.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “So, Madame Delacroix, how do you find my little kingdom?” The exiled emperor waved an expansive hand around the garden terrace of the Mulini palace at Porto-Ferrajo, the gesture encompassing the beautifully landscaped gardens leading to the walled palace and the blue expanse of the bay below.

  “Exquisite, sir.” Genevieve returned the publicly correct response to a question that she, unlike the majority of her fellow guests, knew to be mere form. The exiled emperor was singularly uninterested in this little domain—little being the operative word. Bonaparte’s eyes twinkled at her tactful circumspection. A large party of visitors was gathered on the terrace complimenting the ruler of Elba on the beauty and order of his realm as they examined the view from the strategically placed terrace—a view that allowed no vessel to enter the port unseen. They came from England, from France and from Italy curious to see and to talk to the amazing man who had dominated all but a tiny corner of Europe through conquest or alliance and who now, in exile, was chatty and amiable, talking freely of his career, defending his policies, extolling his virtues. But to those visitors like Dominic Delacroix bearing the correct introductions, he talked of other matters as Madame Delacroix was well aware.

  Genevieve had not been a participant in the late night discussions in the small functional office that resembled a field tent, but Dominic had been a faithful reporter when he rejoined her in the opulently appointed guest chamber. One should not be fooled into thinking that this little fat man with his chubby face and expressive eyes had truly settled into the government and defense of his new kingdom, into maintaining a tiny army and navy, into the building and furnishing of his various palaces and country estates. He was as ambitious at forty-six as ever he had been as a young lieutenant, and the ambition was fed by the boredom and frustration of one suddenly deprived of absolute power and public reverence.

  “I understand Sir Neil Campbell has sailed to the mainland,” Genevieve now remarked casually, keeping pace with her host as he took a turn about the terrace, pausing occasionally to examine the flotilla of ships anchored in the bay through the field glasses held by an accompanying servant.

  Bonaparte smiled. “He wished to consult a doctor at Florence about his eyesight, madame.”

  “I had hoped to meet him,” Genevieve said casually.

  “I do not expect him to return for ten days or so.” The sovereign of Elba shrugged his plump shoulders. “But, of course, we should be delighted if you and Monsieur Delacroix would remain with us as our guests until then.”

  “You are most kind, sir.” Genevieve smiled at the assembled company, all of whom had heard this seemingly casual conversation, most of whom believed that their host and those of his guests who chose would be here when Campbell returned.

  “The pleasure is all mine. Shall we go up to the house for luncheon? It grows a little chilly. Do you not think the wind is freshening, Delacroix?”

  The privateer raised his head, eyes narrowed into the wind, which ruffled the nut-brown hair. Genevieve felt that now familiar thrill as she watched him covertly. She loved the way he stood when he was concentrating on the elements with which he was so at home, head thrown back, the bronzed skin of his face drawn taught across the firm jawline, the relaxed contours of his mouth, the planes of his face highlighted by a finger-ray of sun.

  “I would expect no more than a gentle breeze from the south, sir,” he replied after due consideration. “A clear night with a good moon, though.”

  Was a bright night to their advantage? Genevieve wondered. Bonaparte seemed quite unaffected by Dominic’s statement and, indeed, the two of them were chatting quite inconsequentially as they returned to the palace as if they had not a trouble in the world. But surely a moonless night would be better for slipping through the blockade? It did seem ridiculous that she should be so ignorant after all the time she had spent aboard Danseuse. She was constantly asking questions, which both Dominic and Silas always found time to answer, but there seemed so much to learn about this sailing business.

  Coming up beside Dominic where he walked with the emperor, she surreptitiously slipped her hand into his. He looked down at her and smiled, his fingers closing over hers, and she felt a little tingle of warmth enliven her skin. Since that last night in Vienna, Dominic seemed to have changed toward her. He had exacted from her the promise that she would never again act unilaterally in a business that concerned him, that she would never again doubt him when her comfort and safety were in question. He had made no promises in return, but she felt an almost indefinable aura of protection emanating in her direction, a gentleness that she had not previously associated with the privateer except when it was a part of lovemaking. She did not know quite what it meant, but she did know that it seemed to increase her happiness a hundredfold. Once or twice, thoughts of the future intruded on this dreamy warmth, but they were easily postponed. The present contained too much of activity, too many promises of excitement, and there had been no suggestion that she should be left out of either.

  Dominic, throughout the innumerable courses of an overly lavish lunch, found himself observing her every few minutes. It was as if he had to reassure himself that all was well with her, that she was entertained by her company, her plate filled and her glass rarely emptied. He smiled to himself at the latter thought. He did not really need to worry about that. Genevieve, like the majority of the intelligent, learned from her mistakes and showed no inclination to subject herself again to the torments of intoxication. She was obviously particularly susceptible, he
reflected, but that was hardly surprising with such a tiny frame, and he had hammered the point home fairly forcibly once she had recovered sufficiently to hear it.

  As usual, she was entertaining and being entertained by a group of zealously admiring gentlemen, but now that natural flirtatiousness no longer troubled him—now that he knew she had been incapable of pursuing flirtation to its ultimate conclusion. He still shuddered when he thought of the abominable strain she had endured on those evenings when he had been sitting drowning his thoughts in brandy, too unimaginative to reflect on the personality that he ought to have known could never have followed through with that ingenuously made, unthinking scheme. She had been trying so damnably hard to be what she thought he expected her to be in order not to fail him as partner-in-adventure. And that was still how she saw their relationship.

  The turquoise eyes darkened on the thought. He knew she did not love him yet, but he did not know if she could be brought to do so. Not by an abrupt declaration on his part, that was for sure. She was too young, too inexperienced in the ways of the wider world to be able to absorb such a volte-face without panic and disbelief. So, he had chosen to play a slow courting game and, to his amazement, was finding it most pleasurable. There had been no courting with Rosemarie—love had hit them with the blunt force of an avalanche—and wooing was an irrelevancy with the Angeliques of the world for whom an open purse was the only incentive. But in the gentling, the pampering, the loving indulgence of that tiger-eyed sprite, Dominic Delacroix had discovered a new realm of pleasure. Of course, she had behaved impeccably since they had left Vienna, and his good resolutions had not been strained in the least.

  “We will adjourn to my office, Monsieur Delacroix.” Napoleon Bonaparte spoke with the soft decisive voice that still commanded instant respect, and Dominic shook himself free of his reverie, returning to the important matters at hand. He was about to undertake the riskiest mission of his career, one where the greatest stakes were hazarded for its participants, and he could not afford to blunt the tiniest edge of clarity and expertise. No matter that he had already been paid; that once Napoleon was free of the blockade the privateer would have succeeded in his appointed task regardless of what destiny lay in store for Bonaparte; Dominic Delacroix found himself drawn to that destiny, his pride somehow inextricably at stake. And the privateer’s pride was worth more to him than any purse. The Emperor Napoleon was returning to France, to a people clamoring for him to unseat the Bourbon and restore the glory of an empire headed by France, and Dominic Delacroix, in the short days of his acquaintance with Napoleon Bonaparte, had been touched by the grandeur of the man and his destiny. The essential pragmatist had been won to a cause.