by Jane Feather
He rose from the table. “I wish to send Genevieve back to my ship, sir. I will join you directly.” Receiving a nod of permission, he strolled across the room, catching up with Genevieve as she was about to walk into the garden on the arm of Lord John Russell. “Ma chère, may I borrow you for a minute?” He smiled amiably at Lord John, who hastened to return Madame Delacroix to her husband.
“What is it?” Genevieve looked up at him curiously as he drew her back into the dining room inhabited only by servants clearing away the debris.
“You must return to Danseuse, sprite.” He spoke in low-voiced, rapid English, which would not be understood by the Italian and French servants. “I will remain here with the emperor and will accompany him to the harbor when he embarks this evening.”
“Why may I not do so, also?”
“If there is to be any awkwardness, I do not wish you to be part of it. Silas will take you down to the port now, and he will leave you on Danseuse since he is going to take command of the Saint-Esprit tonight.”
“It is really to happen tonight?” The tawny eyes shone. “Even with a bright moon?”
“A dark night would be preferable, I grant you,” Dominic said. “But the wind is fair, Campbell is absent, the ships are ready.” He shrugged. “Tomorrow, there may be no moon, and no breeze, either. So we take what chance we have.”
“Are the troops embarked?”
“I hope that is happening discreetly at the moment. The guests here are about to be taken on an expedition to Capo di Stella to view Bonaparte’s sporting estate. It will keep them well out of the way of Port-Ferrajo for this afternoon and evening. None of the emperor’s subjects on the island will raise a murmur if they see anything untoward.”
“Then there should be no awkwardness,” Genevieve pointed out with customary logic. “I would much prefer to remain here with you and take part in all the excitement.”
The privateer’s eyes narrowed. “You have not forgotten, I trust, that when you sail with me, Mademoiselle Latour, you are under authority.”
Genevieve flushed at this soft-spoken reminder, all too reminiscent of the old days. She had forgotten that the master of Danseuse was master of all who sailed in her.
Nothing had occurred in recent days to remind her of that fact. “Please?” she implored, changing her tactic to one that might work with the new, frequently persuadable Dominic.
However, the new Dominic appeared not to be a permanent visitor. “No,” he replied in flat denial. “I want you out of the way.”
“So that you won’t have to worry about me?”
“Exactly so.”
“But I will—”
“Genevieve!”
Defeated, she shrugged in resignation. She was not going to win, so there was little point in marring their accord with pointless argument. “I will go and pack up our things, then.”
“Silas has already done so. He is waiting for you in the bedchamber. As soon as the expedition to Capo di Stella has departed, you will leave for the harbor.” Suddenly, he smiled and pinched her cheek. “Do not look so disconsolate, sprite. There will be plenty for you to see.”
“But I do not like to be put out of the way like some troublesome responsibility,” she grumbled. “I am not your responsibility.”
It was a measure of the strength in his new resolutions that Dominic merely said patiently, “While you sail with me, you are. On land, I accept that we are equal partners, but on my ship no one is my equal. Now, Bonaparte is waiting for me, and I do not relish having to blame my delay on an argumentative miss who does not know when to take no for an answer.”
“No, I can quite see that that would not add to your consequence in the least,” said Genevieve with a sweetly mischievous smile. “Are you sure you do not care to come with me? I can think of many more exciting ways of spending the afternoon than closeted with Napoleon or watching the covert embarkation of his army.”
“You are a minx,” Dominic stated with a degree of satisfaction. “As it happens, so can I. But thinking of such things will ruin my powers of concentration. Now, be off with you. You may spend the remainder of the afternoon planning my entertainment when I do join you.” He touched the tip of her nose in brief farewell and strode to the door. There, he stopped and turned thoughtfully. “Oh, and sprite, use your imagination to do your planning.” Then he was gone, leaving Genevieve chuckling, unmistakable prickles of desirous anticipation lifting her skin.
An hour later, Silas handed her into a barouche at the front steps of the palace and swung up to take the reins of the eagerly pawing mare. The palace was protected from prying eyes on the landward side by a high wall, but once beyond this they found themselves on the broad, well-paved roads of Napoleon’s kingdom, roads that he had spent the last nine months bringing up to his high specifications. Down in the town, the barracks of the Imperial Guard seemed quieter than usual, but it was the only indication that matters were not all that they seemed on the island.
Danseuse swung at anchor in the harbor, just one of the flotilla of five large vessels positioned in the port roads for sailing. Genevieve sprang nimbly into a waiting dinghy at the quayside, much experience of this exercise overcoming the disadvantages of her cambric gown and petticoats, and they were rowed to the dainty white frigate. There Silas left her and went on to the Saint-Esprit, a merchantman purchased by Dominic in Leghorn and manned by a skeleton crew of his own sailors. Genevieve went below to change the elegant gown suited to an imperial palace for a dimity print of simple cut. Plain sandals replaced the kid slippers; silk stockings were abandoned in favor of bare legs. The silver-gold hair was tied back with one of Dominic’s kerchiefs. Thus dressed for action, she went up to the quarterdeck, taking up her accustomed position against the taffrail from where she could watch the activity in the harbor as well as what went on in the waist of Danseuse.
Her presence on board the frigate was now so accepted that even the bosun treated her with a casual deference indicative of his recognition of her place—a place that the frigate’s master had made clear was in no way to interfere with the smooth running of the vessel and the work of its crew. If Genevieve needed anything, be it food, coffee, or hot water, and Silas was not available or was too busy being a sailor to assume his other role as valet, it would not occur to her to ask someone to fetch it for her. She saw to her own needs and crept around the galley doing her best to appear invisible. This consideration had not gone unnoticed or unappreciated.
As she leaned over the rail examining the vessels in the harbor, it gradually became apparent that an unusual amount of activity was taking place. Napoleon’s own brig, the Inconstant, had been painted with black port lids to resemble an English brig, and small craft plied the harbor bearing final supplies of biscuit, rice, vegetables, cheese, salt beef, drink rations, and fresh water. With Neil Campbell off the island, there was no one to question what the island’s sovereign chose to do. He was no prisoner, had given no parole, had his own army and navy to do with as he wished. Only if he left Elba could the patrolling French and British ships prevent his escape. But they would have to catch him first. Genevieve shook her head in wonder. Dominic seemed perfectly confident that they would be able to evade the blockade. Napoleon, himself, was supremely confident of success—a confidence based on his absolute conviction that his destiny was to free France once again from Bourbon repression, to reestablish his empire. But it seemed to the watcher on Danseuse’s quarterdeck that the chances of evasion were slim. The only thing in their favor was that the planned escape had been surrounded by such impenetrable secrecy that no alert had gone out. Napoleon had prepared his fleet for escape while blandly discussing road-building, hospital arrangements, and a new form of budget for Elba for 1815.
He was as wily, as brilliantly devious as that old fox Fouché, Genevieve thought with a tiny smile of admiration. She knew that Dominic had fallen under the Napoleonic spell, and she understood why, even thought that if she had been permitted to sit in on the pl
anning discussions she, too, would have been in thrall. As it was, she saw only the continuation of the adventure that had begun on the night of her aborted betrothal—the shared adventure that brought her closer to the man who was both the circumference of her life and its center. Without whom—But that was an impermissible thought, one that had no place in present reality. Her only hope was that she would somehow slip into the fabric of his life, and discussions of the future would not arise—it would simply happen.
A loud hail off Danseuse’s port bow took her to the landside of the frigate. A cutter, loaded to the gunwales with men in the uniform of gendarmes, rocked on the harbor swell below the stern ladder. The bosun bellowed orders and the cutter threw up a rope to be held by a grinning sailor, drawing the smaller vessel snug against the frigate’s stern. Clumsily, the gendarmes swarmed up the precarious rope ladder, hampered by their dress swords. The sun glinted off the shining silver buttons, the gold braid of epaulettes, and the bright belt buckles.
“Two hours at sea and they’ll be throwing up their guts,” the helmsman said at Genevieve’s shoulder. He was grinning broadly in wicked anticipation of the new arrivals’ discomfiture. “Much good those smart uniforms’ll be to them, then.”
Genevieve, who had only once experienced the hellish misery of seasickness during a violent storm in the Bay of Biscay, shot her companion a reproachful look, but he simply chuckled, quite unrepentant, and she couldn’t prevent a responding grin. Watching the general ineptitude of the new arrivals as they tried to adjust to the moving decks, cramped quarters, and the general absence of creature comforts, she sympathized with the bosun who had been charged with seeing to their disposal and comfort. Dominic, once he came aboard, would have no wish to be bothered with complaints from either side, and any sufficiently hardy prospective objecter would receive short shrift. And the bosun, in such an event, would receive the sharp edge of the master’s unpolished tongue.
One or two curious glances came her way as she stood watching the proceedings, but she kept herself apart on the quarterdeck until sunset brought a bevy of cutters dancing across the harbor from the quay. The leading cutter went to Inconstant, and the emperor embarked amid twittering pipes; the second came to Danseuse. Dominic, with no ceremony whatsoever, swung himself up the ladder and onto the deck. He was accompanied by two civilians who looked as unsure of their footing as had the gendarmes and somewhat put out at the lack of ceremony that had greeted their arrival.
The three of them arrived on the quarterdeck, and Genevieve felt laughter well deep in her bosom at the passengers’ startled expressions as they were introduced to the bare-legged, windswept, so-called Madame Delacroix. They were the mayor of Porto-Ferrajo and his deputy, men clearly accustomed to ritual and reverence and the place of women in the scheme of things—that place was not on the quarterdeck of a frigate about to embark on a glorious enterprise.
“Where are they to sleep?” Genevieve whispered when the mayor and his deputy moved to the rail to look at the rest of the flotilla.
“In Silas’s cabin,” Dominic said. “There are two bunks in there. We sail within the hour so there is no time to cook dinner. See what you can find in the stores that might not offend their palates, will you?”
“Yes, monsieur,” Genevieve responded in fair imitation of Silas, knuckling her forehead.
“You are asking for trouble,” Dominic observed conversationally.
Genevieve shook her head. “Not trouble … but something else, certainly. You did promise, after all.” Her eyes narrowed suggestively and the privateer chuckled.
“You’re a shameless wanton, Genevieve Latour. Somehow or other within the next few hours, I have to negotiate an escape for the most carefully watched man in Europe, and all you can think of is seduction.”
“It might clear your mind,” she murmured, moving wickedly against him, blithely ignoring the presence of the others on the quarterdeck.
“Get below then.” Dominic brought her mischievous teasing to an abrupt halt as he cupped her elbow and propelled her to the ladder descending to the maindeck. “We don’t have much time.”
“Be serious!” she choked, her feet skimming over the deck under the speed of her encouraged progress.
“Oh, but I am,” he said with a bland smile. “Never more so. You began this, as I recall.”
“But you have to sail the ship!” Laughter mingled with undeniable excitement at this outrageous proposal as she was hustled down the companionway and into the master cabin.
“So hurry up then.” Dominic sat on the bed and pulled off his boots and stockings, stood to remove his britches, tossed coat and shirt over a chair, and flung himself on the bed, regarding Genevieve with frank speculation. This surprising turn of events had thrown her so off balance that her fingers fumbled clumsily with the buttons and hooks of her gown, and her eyes kept sliding to the naked figure on the bed—naked and mightily aroused.
“You are quite mad,” she breathed, shaking her head free of the folds of her gown. “Supposing someone wants you?”
“I thought someone did,” he returned with a lazy smile. “Isn’t that why we’re here? I’m always willing to oblige, as you should know.”
Genevieve giggled in soft excitement. He was lying on the bed offering himself to her as if she were some female pasha with a male harem. Naked, she stepped over to the bed and stood looking down at him, her eyes drinking in the lean, bronzed, virile length of him.
“It is all yours, madame,” he said with a wicked grin, linking his hands behind his head. “Help yourself.”
Genevieve nodded, her tongue running slowly over her lips. Kneeling on the bed beside him, she began to touch him, exploring his body as if it were virgin territory. He lay absolutely still as her hands flattened over the ridged muscles of his belly, pressed hard along the sinewy thighs, absolutely still until she took the hard root of his manhood between her palms and began to create a gentle friction that increased in power, finally breaching the barriers of his control. Dominic moaned on a soft exhalation, and Genevieve smiled with satisfaction as she swung herself over his supine frame, guiding herself onto the impaling shaft.
The azure eyes glowed up at her, but he kept his hands behind his head and left it to Genevieve to call her own tune. She was clearly finding his total passivity as pleasurable as he did himself. Then the charmed circle was abruptly shattered by a loud knock at the door. “Monsieur?” came the bosun’s voice. Genevieve stilled, her eyes widened in alarm. But Dominic merely smiled reassuringly. “Ten minutes,” he called in the voice that none of his sailors would question even if the ship were going down.
“Don’t stop,” he said coolly. “You only have ten minutes of my time. I am much in demand it would seem.”
That made her laugh and she bent her head to kiss him, plundering his mouth as he had so often done hers while her lower body moved with increasing speed to bring them both to a laughing, loving, shared finale.
Dominic gave her bottom a brisk little pat and put her from him. “I hope that will satisfy your near insatiable appetite for a few more hours because now I really do have a ship to sail.” Swinging off the bed with undiminished energy, he dressed rapidly while Genevieve, as languid as she always was after lovemaking, lay and watched him. “Come along now, sprite, you have some guests to feed, remember.”
“In here or on deck?” She sat up with a sigh and a leisurely stretch.
“In here, I do not wish them underfoot. You can play hostess, can you not? I will have to eat on deck.”
“Oh, Dominic, no,” wailed Genevieve, horrified at the prospect. “Can they not sup alone? It is pure chance that I am here, after all. On any other ship, they would not expect to be entertained.”
“But you are here,” he pointed out. “And you will pull your weight just like any other member of my crew, won’t you, my Genevieve?”
The straight nose wrinkled in distaste. “I suppose so. You want me to keep them out of the way so that you don’t have
to be bothered with them, isn’t that it?”
He smiled an affirmative. “Clever girl. Just turn on that devastating charm and with any luck we’ll be in the open sea before they decide to come up and see what’s happening.” A short, hard kiss and he had gone, leaving her to dress and tidy the cabin, before examining the cabin stores and concocting a relatively appetizing supper.
She went on deck when they weighed anchor, keeping her usual discreet distance from Dominic and the helmsman. The two civilians, however, crowded around the wheel gesticulating excitedly as the other vessels got under way, and the Inconstant, with its imperial passenger, set a course alongside Danseuse. Genevieve could feel Dominic’s irritation surging in waves across the deck as his passengers bobbed in front of him, obscuring his view and questioning incessantly.
“Messieurs, I must ask you to go below,” he said at last with careful control. “I am trying to set a course that the entire flotilla may follow, and I cannot do it when you are babbling in my ear.”
The mayor snorted and demanded an apology for this offensive statement. He received instead a brisk order to remove himself from the quarterdeck forthwith and to reappear only on invitation. Recognizing, albeit reluctantly, that it was time to play her part, Genevieve stepped forward with soothing smile and offers of wine and supper. The two, face saved by this invitation, allowed themselves to be escorted from the deck, and Dominic and the helmsman heaved sighs of relief.