My Surrender

by Connie Brockway

  Douglas’s shirt did not conceal the thick, bloodied pad on his left breast. “I…I wasn’t…” His hand shook with a terrible palsy as he spoke and his face contorted. “Please. You have to know that I couldn’t…I did not…”

  “I know,” Dand rasped, sickened. “You did not break faith. I am sure you were entirely noble, my friend. True to the end. No one would ever doubt it—”

  “Time to pay the warden a little visit, monsieur,” the guard who had led Douglas back to the cell announced dolefully.

  “Yes,” Dand said. “I expect it is.”

  Culholland Square, Mayfair

  August 4, 1806

  “What do you mean, she’s gone?”

  Handsome and fit as a young Greek god, Curtis was also no fool. For all his picturesque athleticism he recognized that he was no match for the angry man facing him across the threshold. The first bloody streaks of twilight pricked Monsieur Rousse’s amber eyes with a devilish glow, causing the young footman to back up a step.

  “She left early this morning, sir,” he gulped. “A carriage came and the driver loaded her luggage—”

  “Luggage?” Monsieur Rousse leapt on the word.

  “Yes, sir. A great pile of luggage.” Curtis glanced worriedly around at the nearby residences. So far he didn’t see any interested maids looking through their sidelights, nor had any passersby paused to see what new disaster their unwanted neighbor had visited on their once respectable enclave.

  Curtis liked Miss Nash. He would not want to see her prey to even greater scandal than she already was and this man, despite his hitherto easygoing nature, had been the instrument of her downfall. That he had the nerve to look as if he had every right to be here, demanding to know where she was and with whom, almost made Curtis want to test his mettle. Almost.

  Instead, he asked, “Won’t you come in, sir? Perhaps one of the maids knows more than I.”

  “Yes.” Monsieur Rousse strode through the door as Curtis stood aside. “Fetch the maid Lizette.”

  “I am sorry, sir. I cannot. Lizette is accompanying Miss Nash.”

  The Frenchman froze. His face grew very still, very calm. His composure alarmed Curtis even more than his former anger. It was the eyes, Curtis thought, trying not to meet that black gaze. Humor, fierce black humor with the promise of violence, blossomed in their dark depths.

  “So she lied,” he said, his lips twisting in a terrible smile.

  He swung around and descended the steps in a single bound, striding down the street with his greatcoat billowing behind him as his parting words were caught by the wind and sent back to the footman. “Who would have guessed it of the adorable little minx?”

  And Curtis thought he had never heard foul language sound so damning as Rousse’s endearment.

  She had lain in his arms, let him drink the sounds of passion from her lips, shared her body with him over and over again during the course of one night seared more deeply in his soul than the brand marking his chest. And all the while she had been lying, knowing that she would be leaving, going to St. Lyon in the morning. Knowing that when he came back for her he would find her house empty, as she must have known he would because, by God, they had made love, and a lover did not relinquish his adored to another, and he was that lover. By God, he should be proud of the wench, she had read him so very, very well.

  That had been yesterday morning, barely twenty-four hours ago. He had accomplished much in that short time, but not nearly enough. Not yet.

  Well, darling, my dearest, he thought with a terrible smile as the hired hack careered through the streets, as expertly as you played me, you do not know quite everything about me. I might yet surprise you.

  The carriage slowed as it threaded its way into the dockyards, where workers loaded and unloaded the sloops and merchant vessels still transporting cargo and sailors spilled from the subterranean doors of gin shops and taverns, taking their fill of pleasure before boarding ships or celebrating having survived another dangerous voyage. They were all dangerous journeys, these days.

  The embargos and blockades Napoleon had set against England had slowed the traffic in and out of the London docks, but there were still captains with confidence in the fleetness of their ships and their own formidable seafaring skills willing to risk unfriendly waters for the right price, or the right prize. It was with one such man Dand Ross had arranged a meeting.

  There was still much to consider. His plans were collapsing. Unless his network of colleagues was informed of his new strategy, things could take a terrible turn. There were important messages to be composed and sent, agreements to be reached, and all must be accomplished by the time the tide went out and he left.

  With a sound of impatience, he banged on the hack ceiling, calling for the driver to halt. He opened the door and swung to the ground before the carriage had stopped. He tossed the driver his fare and in the same motion gestured at one of the linkboys that hung about the taverns looking to run errands.

  “Which one is the Mudlark?” he asked.

  The boy pointed at a small sloop with freshly painted black sides. A pair of sailors were rubbing the sheen from the paint with handfuls of sand. A wise captain, Dand thought appreciatively, did not chance the moon’s light bestowing a bright kiss on his helm.

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew a thick envelope. He stared at it, wavering, fighting the impetus that thundered for his attention.

  He did not want this. He did not need this. He had vital matters to attend to.

  When all was said and done, when images of Charlotte spent with passion, or tense and arching as he pushed into her, or wide-eyed with surprised pleasure, or drugged with postcoital lethargy filled his mind and the scent of her still clinging to his body conspired to ensnare his reason and ambush his intent, there was still the past to be reckoned with, still enemies to be found, still a place to be reclaimed in the world.

  Still an old debt to pay.

  He handed the letter to the boy with a few quick instructions. Then he pressed a shiny coin into the lad’s grimy paw and a hissed a grim threat into a filthy little ear, because he knew boys. He knew what treachery they were capable of, and he knew exactly what words to say to make them pay attention. The boy gulped and bobbed his head emphatically, and Dand Ross headed down the gangplank toward the Mudlark.

  18

  The Great North Road and Scotland

  August 4 to August 9, 1806

  THE JOURNEY NORTH to St. Lyon’s Scottish castle was long and tedious, despite the luxurious appointments of the chaise St. Lyon had sent. Charlotte was miserable. Only the intermittent distraction provided by her maid made the trip endurable. As for Lizette, she seemed perfectly content with their situation, flirting with the muscular young outriders St. Lyon had hired to protect them from highwaymen, or chattering blithely on without stop when she wasn’t.

  The soft padded leather seats and tasseled velvet curtains at the windows evidently impressed the luxury-loving maid. She took full advantage of the little tufted footrests, the down-filled pillows, and cashmere lap rugs. Charlotte could almost hear Lizette’s thoughts, they were so clearly reflected in her content expression: If this was coming down in the world, then a fall from grace might not be altogether undesirable.

  Under normal circumstances, Charlotte would have found her maid’s pragmatism amusing, but now, here, My Surrender she was too preoccupied to pay much heed to Lizette. And when eventually Lizette realized Charlotte was attending very little of what she said, she demonstrated a truly wonderful ability to sleep under almost any conditions, leaving Charlotte alone with her thoughts. And uncomfortable ones they were, too…

  The thing was…she could not stop remembering. The night she had shared with Dand filled her mind and played havoc with her resolve. She told herself that by leaving without telling him her intentions she had not so much deceived Dand as spared them both a difficult good-bye. Her stubborn heart would not believe it.

  She stared out the windo
w at the passing scenery, but each mile only led her further into a maze of self-doubt. How had he felt when he returned that evening to find her gone? But then, what would he have done had she told him that St. Lyon’s carriage would take her the next morning rather than a day later? What did she expect of him?

  That he would demand she marry him and to hell with St. Lyon, the letter, and all of Great Britain? Dand? He’d held true to his course through torture, betrayal, changing fortunes, and great personal loss. Why would he change now? Because he’d taken her maidenhead? She allowed herself a small, sad smile. He hadn’t said he loved her.

  Aye, he’d adored her with his body and that most eloquently. So eloquently, in fact, that she could not believe he did not feel something for her, something more than desire. But then, what did she know of lovemaking? she asked herself. Perhaps it was always so.

  But she did not believe that, either. And she clung stubbornly to her belief that a man and a woman could not share such potent pleasure without the emotions, both of their emotions, being engaged. Because if she had told him she was leaving for St. Lyon’s castle within a few hours and he had done nothing to prevent it or at the very least try to persuade her not to, her heart would have broken. No, far better not to test his feelings for her. At least this way she could believe what she wanted, what she needed to believe.

  Even if Dand had consigned the rest of the world to the devil for love of her, could she really purchase her happiness with the blood of young soldiers? She feared, greatly feared, that she could and this, more than anything else, convinced her that she must do this thing, alone, while she still had the…the guts. So that if the final die was cast and no other choice presented itself, she would become St. Lyon’s mistress.

  Such were the thoughts that pursued Charlotte in ever-tightening circles of joy and despair, growing impatient as one day unfolded into the next. By the fifth day Charlotte was cursing St. Lyon’s tender regard for her comfort. If she had been a budding Cyprian, she would have probably appreciated his care. But though she promised the driver there would be no retribution should he dispense with their leisurely gait and move more swiftly, the grizzled old Frenchman remained obstinately determined to abide by his master’s wishes that the journey not tax the lady’s strength. So they plodded along, starting late and stopping early at the coaching inns St. Lyon had decided were suitable as with each mile Charlotte grew more tense.

  As they traveled, the landscape gradually became as bleak as her thoughts. The cultivated fields awash with summer green that surrounded London became a rolling countryside patchworked with orchards and fieldstone fences. These gave way to the moors where the land grew steadily rougher, the inclines steeper, and the sky bent closer. Pine replaced maple and birch, and hay fields gave way to high flower-spangled meadows and finally slate-covered tors naked except for a thin blanket of gray-green gorse and wine-tinted bracken. The towns grew farther apart and smaller, too, the houses more tightly clustered, as though to present a united front against the vastness beyond their borders.

  Finally, near noon of the sixth day, the carriage left the main road and followed a rutted lane up a low, bare hill. There, the driver stopped and called for her to enjoy the prospect. Eagerly, both Charlotte and Lizette poked their heads out of the windows. Lizette sucked in a breath of dismay. Charlotte empathized. She imagined Lizette thinking that “falling” was not so desirable after all, if one was forced to live in a place like this. So remote. So stark. So unattractive.

  A mile away in the center of a broad valley stood St. Lyon’s castle. It rose straight up from the sheer side of a rocky shelf overlooking a broad, fast-moving river. Even from here she could appreciate the massive weight of the castle, the thick vines swarming the base of steel-colored stone. Narrow windows punctuated only the most upper stories. Nothing short of a catapult would breech those walls and the only egress Charlotte could see was a steeply pitched drive that led up to a massive wooden gate guarded by twin towers.

  A fortress indeed. Charlotte sat back in the carriage and the driver clucked to the horses. No way in without the permission of the owner and no way out but by the same means. The open moors that surrounded the castle provided no place for concealment. The only bridge within sight spanned the river directly opposite the castle and thus within full view of the windows looking down from the very top of the crenulated guard towers. Around these twin towers the ivy crawled thicker and more abundantly, their leafy fingers almost reaching the dark casements.

  They drove across the bridge and up the steep drive to the massive gates, which swung open at their arrival. Once inside, amazingly, magnificently, the forbidding aspect disappeared in the interior courtyard. Rather than the bleak cobbled quadrant of most castles, St. Lyon had developed inside a charming garden. Yew hedges clipped in fanciful shapes clustered in the corners while beds of blue and white flowers—the colors of the Bourbon kings, Charlotte realized—lined the well-raked gravel drive. In the center a marble fountain splashed amid a tangle of ivy and waiting beside this, his aquiline face relaxed into a welcoming expression, stood Maurice, Comte St. Lyon. Her soon-to-be lover.

  Charlotte studied him thoughtfully. He was handsome if one preferred black curls over chestnut brown hair, or heavy Gallic features over square masculine ones, or a slender athleticism over a rangy grace. Or a wet-lipped mouth over a mouth as firm and masterful as its owner’s hands were. Which she didn’t.

  She dug her nails deeply into the tender flesh of her palms, fighting a sudden surge of panic. St. Lyon must not suspect that she had come for any reason other than to inspect him as her potential protector. He must believe that she had no other designs on him and certainly no other reason for being here. The driver pulled the carriage to a halt and scrambled down to pull open the door and retrieve the block from inside.

  Her foot had barely touched the step before St. Lyon was by her side, taking her gloved hand and assisting her to alight. Once she had emerged, he did not relinquish her hand but instead stepped back, his gaze sweeping over her from dusty kid shoes to what she feared was a sadly crumpled gown and wilted little bonnet.

  Drat! A woman in search of a new lover would have stopped en route to repair her looks. She met his assessing gaze with a raised brow and a merry smile.

  “I could not abide the thought of spending a moment in some rattletrap hovel when I knew a much more convivial greeting awaited me here, St. Lyon. I hope I do not disappoint you too much?”

  His dark face lit appreciatively. “How could a lady as delightful as yourself disappoint anyone, Miss Nash?”

  “As well spoken as ever, Comte.” She dimpled in a manner she had once overheard a gentleman describe as delectable.

  St. Lyon’s hand tightened perceptibly before he released hers. “Let me express my unmitigated delight in welcoming you to my abode.”

  “Your pleasure in receiving me can be no greater than mine at having arrived, I assure you,” she said, twinkling for all she was worth.

  “You are, as ever, deliciously candid.” He looked beyond her shoulder to where Lizette was being handed out of the carriage by a strapping footman. “Ah, you have brought your maid. I am, for your sake, most glad. The servants here are not used to tending a lady.”

  He was overdoing it, Charlotte thought, though she continued to smile. All these references to assure her that in his eyes, if not the world’s, she still deserved the title “lady.” He bowed and stepped aside, ushering her forward. “I will have my housekeeper, Madame Paule, show you to your rooms and then, perhaps you will do me the honor of joining me in my salon prior to dining?”

  Already a closeted conversation? Through a sheer act of will she kept the lightness in her voice and a smile on her lips. “And what time would that be, Comte?”

  “We dine at nine o’clock. Shall I have a footman come for you at, say, eight-thirty?”

  “That will be fine,” she answered and nodded for Lizette.

  He motioned toward the staff standin
g behind them, a quartet of footmen and a small, compactly made woman with a dark, almost masculine, face. She stepped forward and bobbed a quick curtsy, murmuring, “If you will follow me, ma’am?” before leading Charlotte and Lizette through an open doorway into the castle.

  Inside, the impression that St. Lyon had transported a fashionable St. James mansion into the wilds of the Scottish Highlands continued. Though only a few high windows allowed in the afternoon sun, no expense had been spared in filling the great hall with light. Candles and lamps, sconces and mirrors lit even the darkest corner, setting to glow the gilt frames of the massive paintings that lined the freshly plastered walls, glinting in the silver candelabras and urns overflowing with exotic hothouse-raised fruits and flowers and adding luster to the exotic silk tapestries covering the walls. Beneath her feet, a thick Oriental carpet muted the sound of her heels as she followed the housekeeper toward the great staircase rising before them.

  Silently, Madame Paule led them upstairs. At the top, they followed the minstrel’s gallery that overlooked the great hall to its far end and turned, entering a corridor. Tall windows overlooking the moors pierced the left wall while the right wall contained an equal number of closed doors. The housekeeper continued to the end where she stopped and, pushing open a door on noiseless hinges, stepped aside to allow Charlotte to pass ahead of her.

  It was a western room, and as such filled with soft afternoon light that set the crimson damask-clad walls glowing. Vases the height of a child filled with towering peacock feathers and gilt palm fronds flanked the central panel of windows. Sumptuous, Charlotte thought. One might even say decadent.

  A gold-filigreed black marble mantle dressed the fireplace next to an old-fashioned bed raised on a dais, the heavy crimson velvet curtains surrounding it embroidered with stylized hinds and hares in gold and royal blue. Dozens of soft pillows crowded the head of the bed and lay invitingly on a divan covered in royal blue brocade. A large ebony table inlaid with mother of pearl filled the near corner, its surface overflowing with crystal perfume bottles, jars of salves and creams, pots of delicately dried petals and powders, and a full set of ivory-backed brushes and combs.