* * * *
Amélie soaked in rose-scented water in Napoleon’s tub, luxuriating in the size of it. Toweling off, she dressed and joined him at the study table where Saint-Denis served them dinner.
“From now on we must lock up our food supplies. That old cabinet in the butler’s pantry has a hasp, we just need to put a lock on it.” She took a bite of braised beef, stringy and tough—her father prepared meat better. Another thought upset her more. “I wish the count and his entourage would move to Jamestown to await a ship. I know I insisted on your confrontation, and it was necessary, but this dismissal may make him desperate.”
“Much of the guilt does point to Montholon.” Napoleon stroked his hand along her arm, ignoring his food. “Bertrand reminded me about his embezzling of army pay under the first Bourbon Restoration, and that he was never brought to court-martial for such a serious crime. His stepfather is close to the Count d’Artois, the king’s nefarious younger brother.” He grimaced. “I suspected Artois of planning assassination attempts on my life.”
“At least we found out in time.” Amélie pulled his hand to her breast. “I realize the count’s attention meant much to you. Is there anything I can do to make this easier?”
“Having you with me makes many things easier.” He smiled tenderly, caressing her breast. “What a monumental blunder trusting him. Perhaps I thought having an actual blue blood with me would be a bridge for my return to power.”
“The count acted indispensable when you needed support.” Amélie removed Napoleon’s hand from her tingling nipple and kissed his fingers. “Try to eat something.”
“He might have poisoned Cipriani. My poor, loyal Cipriani. He must have been suspicious, too close to the truth.” Napoleon poured himself half a glass of Madeira and filled the other half with water as was his habit. “The Royalists are behind this, of course.”
She watched him sip the wine, but was that even safe? “Cipriani had managed the food, another excellent reason to have…removed him. I know this is extremely painful for you.”
“To think I promised this aristo a significant reward in my will.” He chuckled dryly, swirling the wine. “Imagine, offering personal wealth to the rogue plotting your death.”
With a shiver, Amélie nudged her plate aside, her appetite gone. She sipped her Madeira, concentrating on the rich flavor that held no aftertaste.
Napoleon pushed his chair beside hers and squeezed his arm around her. “Don’t worry. I’ve already told Marchand to take over the household food management.” He kissed her mouth. “I’ve too long succumbed to the ennui of this island.”
“Let’s forget food and sit on the sofa.” She kissed back, her lips lingering. She’d initiate their ardor. Slowly blowing out the table candles, she clasped his hand and they moved over to the lumpy cushions.
“Maybe you’re the only person I can depend on.” He lifted her hair and kissed her nape, holding her thick locks to his face as if the scent intoxicated him. “No woman ever gave herself to me so selflessly. This cold, barren place is now inviting and warm, as you are.”
“You often read my thoughts—it’s unnerving.” She laughed and ran her fingers along his thighs. His tender expression melted into that sensual yearning that fueled her ache for his touch.
“Can you read mine...now?” He unfastened her dress, his hands roving over her, his lips hot on her bare shoulder. “I’ve been accused of being abrupt in my amours, but not when I felt genuine passion.”
Amélie quivered with his kisses. Her breath quickened at his face full of desire, his mouth eager for hers. They tossed their clothes aside. She stretched out on the cushions and pulled him down on her naked flesh. Napoleon entered her slow and steady and she fit her body around his, like a flower clutching its stamen. She moaned.
* * * *
A warm February rain beat down on their bleak patch of earth, turning the courtyard to red mud. Amélie darted into the kitchen, a basket with five turnips in her grasp.
“Here, Chef Gascon. These are the last in the garden, but they’re rather puny.” She swiped back her wet hair and put the basket down on the table.
“I’ll try to do something with them, before we wash away. The stores are low again, so anything will do.” Gascon didn’t look at her as he made this blasé comment. He shuffled around the kitchen, absently wiping a rag across the greasy stove.
Amélie stepped in crumbs, then rinsed mud from her hands in a bucket of water floating with ants. The table was sticky with dough. She hated to see the kitchen in such deterioration. Her father would have been mortified.
“Eh bien, Amélie, so you finally surrendered?” Saint-Denis entered through the door, one eyebrow cocked. He shook the rain from his coat sleeves and black hair.
“None of your brazen mouth,” Amélie warned, only half serious, drying her hands over the stove. Ali still had to have his amusements no matter how her status rose.
“You looked so content at dinner last night. Oh, yes, quite the fatted calf.” He fixed her with his mischievous glare.
“We shouldn’t discuss such things.” Chef Gascon, his flabby face wobbling, banged pots around, clanking them onto hooks. “Where is that Clarice? She’s been of little help to me.” He groaned. “Hopefully the soldiers will bring some mackerel tomorrow, to stretch our resources. Ah, me, this rain makes my bones stiff. I’ll be back for dinner.” He met Amélie’s eyes briefly, and traipsed from the kitchen.
“You embarrassed the man. He obviously doesn’t approve of my ‘surrender.’” Amélie picked up the bucket, opened the door, and sloshed the water into the courtyard. She set it just outside to catch fresh rainwater. Then she reached high and checked her herbs hanging from the rafters. “I’ve heard you find the Bertrand’s new governess, Miss Mary Hall, quite the belle. Is this true?”
“Such a pretty, bright new face.” Ali’s broad grin revealed a crooked tooth on the left side he must have taken great pains to hide in the past. “Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m certain the whole island knows about me. Though I was falsely accused long ago.” Amélie put vinegar in a bowl with a splash of rainwater and scrubbed down the kitchen table and stovetop—spicy over musty. “Which flag should display from Alarm House stating the cook’s daughter has officially taken up residence in the imperial bed?” She squished the cloth and blinked away the idea of what her father would have said to this.
“Now I surrender, your ribald tongue cuts me to ribbons. Are you taking lessons from Clarice?” Saint-Denis threw up his hands in mock supplication. “Do you have any mint left to make tea? Jules has an upset stomach. He’s very irritated, now that His Majesty is sending him and the Montholons off.”
“The issue is between Napoleon and the Count de Montholon.” She scrubbed hard on a mildew spot on the wall, trying to redirect her anxiety.
“I thought nothing of it at the time, but Jules wasn’t in his quarters the night of your attack. Clarice asked me if I’d seen him. She said she’d looked all over Longwood. She was sniffing him out for a beau. They’ve had a liaison now.” Ali shoved his hands in his waistcoat pockets and hung his head for a moment. “Jules is a rogue. I’d stay away from him.”
“I wish you had spoken up. Please, keep a watch on Jules until they leave.” Amélie strangled every drop of moisture from the rag. Jules fingers around her throat? He must be the culprit. His and the Montholons’ removal couldn’t be swift enough for her. Now that Napoleon revealed their suspicions, she feared what the scoundrels might be forced to do.
Chapter Thirty-Four
It is my fate that I should be betrayed again and again by the horrible ingratitude of the people to whom I have shown the most kindness—N.B.
Amélie’s apprehension drained from her body when Count Bertrand handed Napoleon the papers of official release for the Montholons.
“Lowe pretended to give me a difficult time, but now it’s finally arranged, Your Majesty,” Bertrand said, his smile satisfied.
Napoleon didn’t even glance at them and dismissed the grand marshal from his study.
“I wonder if Governor Lowe is curious about why you’re sending such close companions away. I’m glad they’ve cowered in their quarters these past days.” Amélie spread her mother’s doily on top of Napoleon’s bookcase. She’d transferred her personal items into his chamber. Since their intimacy, she slept in his bed. A few of the servants winked, while others wouldn’t meet her eyes, as she carried possessions back and forth. Amélie, full of love and sensual gratification, felt proud of her position. “I’ll have to keep some things in the library. There isn’t enough room.” She bent and put her arms around Napoleon as he sat at his writing desk. “I hope there’s a ship for Europe in port now.”
“I’m afraid there are some unfortunate developments.” Napoleon sounded far too solemn, and didn’t turn to look at her. He wiped his quill on his breeches, a bad habit from his days of glory when he had unlimited access to clothes to replace the ones he ruined.
“What do you mean?” She fingered his frayed collar, wary.
“Montholon says he can’t make the next sailing. Albine is ill and needs complete bed rest. He’s called for the army surgeon to look at her.”
“You’re not teasing me, are you?” Her strained remark didn’t wring a smile from him. “We have to remove those people from here. The countess wanted to leave for some time. Why would she change her mind?”
“It’s hardly her fault, Amée, and it won’t be long. Probably two more days and they can move to Jamestown.” He patted her arm. “I gave permission to let the doctor examine her.”
She straightened, digging her fingers into his shoulders a little. “I can’t help but wonder if she’s faking on purpose.”
“You don’t think she is in on any of this? If so, she most likely has been duped by her husband.” Napoleon played with his inkstand, acting too cavalier.
“After my recital, she seemed terribly anxious for me to walk off alone.” Amélie stepped away from him and gripped her elbows, not happy that he defended his past mistress. “Don’t you think it’s a threat to have these people under the same roof?”
“They’ll move to Jamestown when the doctor says she’s better, je te promets.” Napoleon stood, his expression weary. “Lunch will be here any moment. Let’s sit and relax.”
“This is a convenient solution to being sent away. I worry about your safety.” Amélie shivered, though kept her voice even. Jules still lurking around the premises—her own safety.
“We’re taking every precaution to ensure our food isn’t tampered with.” He walked close and caressed her cheek.
“The Montholons are expert manipulators.” Amélie turned away and almost chewed on her thumbnail. “Taking all this precaution isn’t foolproof if you allow the rats to run free in the garden.”
“I’m exasperated with arguing.” Napoleon threw up his hands. “I haven’t had any adverse symptoms in some time. Will there never be an end? I bear enough hostility from my situation on this island alone.”
“Mon Dieu, are you still under her spell?” She stared askance at him, all her fears bunching up again inside. “You’ve let them influence you. I can’t believe it.”
“Your lack of sympathy for an ailing woman is fueled by your unfounded hatred for her.” His anger startled her. For a moment she beheld the emperor who must have intimidated his foes back in Europe. “They will be gone in another day or so. Why keep adding to the problem?”
Amélie stalked from the room for the library, wounded by his accusation. The unrelenting tension had taken its toll. He’d never directed anger at her before and she feared his attachment to the Montholons. She locked the door and stewed over this latest obstacle.
Just prior to dusk, restless, she went out to her neglected garden and weeded and pruned: her old routine for alleviating frustration. In the kitchen she stirred up a bowl of soapsuds then sprinkled the foamy mixture over the vegetables to repel pests. She should splash some over the Montholons’ sheets.
“Your father would be very disappointed, Amélie.” Madame Cloubert suddenly hovered over her like a tree rat. “You wasted little time after that good man’s death. This place has become even more scandalous. My husband is appalled.”
“My father is in a better place than this, Madame.” Amélie’s voice cracked. She plopped down the bowl, crouched, and dug her fingers deeper into the earth as if she’d stop her world from spinning. “He understood my wishes.”
“If you become with child, what will you do then? Have you thought that out?” Madame Cloubert poked down with her long nose as if pecking for evidence.
“Then I’ll have a child.” Tears formed in Amélie’s downcast eyes. Her and Napoleon’s baby? Even illegitimate, she longed for that. If they all weren’t soon poisoned. Dislodging a clump of weeds, she splattered mud across her arms. A caterpillar wriggled by her hand.
“I’m concerned about you with no guidance. You’re heading for ruin. You should have left the island after the funeral.” The harridan sprang upright and crossed her skinny arms over her flat chest. “What idiocy has His Majesty convinced you of? Ha! He can never marry you.”
“I do appreciate your concern.” Amélie squirmed with disgust that she couldn’t find solace in her own garden—and that Madame spoke the cruel truth. Pests came in many forms. “Women need to be stronger and direct their own lives. Even if it means—for one spectacular reason—following your heart and not your head.” Amélie sighed and dragged herself up. “Excuse me, Madame, I think I’m finished here.”
“Attends. Tell me why you now lock up the staples. What is happening? Aren’t the rest of us entitled to know?” Madame Cloubert’s gaze darted around the courtyard. Her shabby dress flapped about her bony frame—a flag on a pole.
Amélie couldn’t upset the household any further. She pressed the woman’s shoulder, leaving a smudge of mud. “No, not yet. Again, good evening.”
Later, she immersed herself in a warm chamomile bath in Napoleon’s tub, he nowhere around. She soaped her flesh and rallied herself for the emerging battle. She still felt odd in his quarters, behaving as mistress in more ways than one.
Afterwards, she sat on the sofa in the study, her well-worn book on gardening in her lap. He entered a short time later. She pretended not to notice and struggled not to glance up from her reading.
* * * *
Napoleon poured two glasses of brandy at the sideboard. He’d allowed his impatience over not hearing from Europe to infect his relationship with Amée. By his calculations, he should have received word by now. He must remain positive that O’Sullivan wouldn’t have a change of heart toward aiding his escape.
“We’re all under a tremendous strain.” He sat beside her and waved the snifter under her nose. “I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier. You didn’t deserve that. Can you forgive a sour-tempered man who loves you?”
She met his gaze with her large brown eyes, a sad smile. “I’m frightened about what might happen because of my love for you.” She accepted the glass.
He slipped his arm around her. Her hair smelled fresh. “Bertrand is negotiating for our unwelcome tenants to rent a suitable lodging. The boarding house is full of soldiers and their wives because of a flea infestation at Deadwood. In the meantime we’ll be vigilant.”
Amélie took a sip of brandy. “Can I ask for one more promise?”
“Please do.” Napoleon kissed her earlobe, tasting the sweetness of her cleaned skin.
“Don’t let the Montholons ingratiate themselves with you again.”
“I haven’t. Never allow those people to come between us. What we have is too precious.” He sipped the burning brandy and nestled her against h
im. After denying pleasures of the flesh for months once he tired of Albine, Napoleon felt the stirrings constantly with Amée. He never cared for clever women—they made him uncomfortable—but she seemed a perfect blend of honesty and intelligence. He trailed a finger across her cheek, her loving face. He hoped he wouldn’t yet get her with child, not with impending events.
“I’d never allow anyone to come between us.” She set down her glass and snuggled her head on his shoulder. “I’m not very experienced. I’m still learning how to behave like a refined woman.”
“Just don’t grow cynical or jaded.” Napoleon kissed the top of her head. Tilting up her face, he kissed her lips, tart and sticky with brandy. “I’ll teach you refinement, as long as you only practice with me.”
Amélie gazed up, her damp honey-colored hair curling around her cheeks, and smiled. “How can I resist, when just your touch seduces me?”
Napoleon kissed her again. If he was forced to languish on this island, could he remain happy? Stay content with her long-term? With the British breathing down his neck, dictating his every move? He reached into her robe and caressed her soft breast, and knew he definitely could not.
* * * *
A horrible retching sounded from the bathroom. Amélie hurried in and found Napoleon bent over the tub, shivering. She banged on the duty chamber door. “Marchand, fetch a doctor! Napoleon is ill. He’s vomiting, shaking. Please do something! Rapidement!”
“I’ll run to Deadwood for the surgeon.” The chief valet jerked into his frock coat and sprinted out as Ali rushed in.
The valet helped Napoleon from the bathroom to his bed, where he collapsed, his face like pasty dough. Tremors racked his body and Ali wrapped him in blankets. Amélie blinked back tears. She heated a hot water bottle and placed the warmth under his feet.
“What has the emperor eaten?” Ali asked.
“Everything I have. A light supper last night, breakfast this morning.” She stood by the bed holding Napoleon’s cold hand. Had the Montholons, or Jules, managed their goal, and now she’d lose him, their future together? She kissed his hand and choked down a sob.
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