“It is nothing, I assure you.” She raised a hand to her forehead as heat flushed through her. Perhaps she was becoming ill, after all.
Chase grunted and brushed past her. She heard his bare feet treading across the stones until they stopped, and he let out a long sigh. “She told me she was not ill. She told me to return to the sea, to my duties in the Royal Navy, that she would recover in due time.”
Dominique raised her gaze. Chase stood with his back to her, staring out the kitchen window, his tall frame a dark, brawny silhouette against the light seeping in from outside. He clenched his fists at his sides as taut ropes of tension stretched out from him.
Dominique remained quiet, examining the raw emotions pouring forth from a man who normally shielded them well.
He snorted and glanced her way. “She was quite ill, you know. But she knew how much I loved the sea.” He flattened his lips and faced the window again. “By the time I returned, it was too late. She died three weeks later.”
Overcome with sorrow, Dominique eased beside him. “It was not your fault.”
“Of course it was. I should have been here.” He gripped the wooden counter.
“You could not have stopped the disease.” Dominique touched his arm. “She did not want you to watch her suffer. I can understand that. Can’t you?”
“No,” he barked, startling Dominique. “It was my own selfishness that drove me away. I knew in my heart I should have stayed, but I wanted to return to the sea.” He squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. “Did I love the sea more than my own wife? What sort of man does that make me?”
“We are all fallen creatures, Admiral.” Dominique thought of her own shame—of the traitorous task she must perform the following night. “Only by God’s grace can we hope to become any better.”
Chase snorted. “Yes, your wonderful God. If I am so flawed and therefore to be excused, where was He when Melody was dying?” His blazing eyes snapped to hers. The stubble on his chin shifted as he tightened his jaw, and he reminded Dominique of a bull about to charge.
Fighting a rising fear of his anger, Dominique nonetheless placed her hand gently upon his as she said a silent prayer. “He was here with Melody the whole time.”
Chase’s already stormy eyes began to spark with fury, and Dominique tried to jerk her hand away, but he smothered it between his. His warm fingers began to caress hers. She glanced up at him curiously and found that a softness had replaced his angry gaze.
“You have her same kind heart, her goodness, her charity.”
She blinked and looked out the window, anywhere but at those chocolate brown eyes that now gazed so adoringly at her. Did he see her as only a replica of Melody? “I am nothing like her.”
“True. In many ways.” He leaned toward her ear and said quietly, “In many pleasing ways.”
Every nerve in Dominique sparked to life. She swallowed and tried to still her frantic heart while she glanced about the room, at the stove, the cupboard, anywhere but his broad shoulders and the strong chest peeking from behind his open shirt. He reached up and placed a finger under her chin, directing her gaze to his. Once there, she found there was nothing else in the world she would rather look upon.
The candlelight flickered over the tips of his mahogany hair, setting it ablaze about his shoulders with fiery streaks of red.
“It pleases me to see you.” His deep voice floated over her, stealing its way through the stony resolve she had so carefully erected around her heart.
Outside, the clomp and rattle of a carriage sounded, along with the rustle of leaves picked up by the wind as if warning her that danger was near.
She should heed the warning and flee from the room, but instead she remained. Chase brushed a finger over her cheek. Dominique closed her eyes, relishing his touch—Just for this one moment—soaking the sensations into her memory where she would never forget them. Oh, how she longed to simply fall into his arms, tell him everything, and allow him to make it all go away, to save Marcel, to save her, to love her.
But she couldn’t.
“No.” Dominique snapped her eyes open. “I beg you. Please do not.” Though she had tried to deny what her heart had told her every time she looked in Chase’s eyes—that this extraordinary man actually cared for her—she could no longer whisk away the truth. Instead of thrilling her, however, the revelation only made her heart sink further into despair.
He dropped his hand from her cheek, the loss dousing Dominique in an icy bath.
“Forgive me. I will not flatter myself to think you return my affections.” He turned to leave but spun back around with a sigh. He took her hand in his. “Tell me you have no feelings for me, that you find my company as odious as you have declared, and I promise to leave you be.”
And Dominique could tell from the stern look in his eyes that he meant it. Now all she had to do was say the words—fallacious as they were. Better to hurt him now than give him hope, even for a day.
Sorrow burned in Dominique’s throat, closing it so tight she could barely breathe. She gazed into his eyes and knew what this unveiling of his heart cost him—how long it had been encased in bitterness over Melody’s death. How could she deny what every ounce of her screamed to proclaim? She lowered her gaze and opened her mouth to offer him a twisted tale of lies, but no words came forth.
At her silence, a chuckle bounded from deep within Chase. With the tip of his finger, he lifted her chin, and before she realized what was happening, his lips were upon hers.
The world around Dominique dissolved. Chase pulled her against him with the intensity of a man long deprived of love, and Dominique sank into him, returning his kiss with equal fervor. She could not stop herself. It was as if she were under some spell, a spell she hoped never to come out of. Inhaling the spicy scent of him, she snuggled deeper in his strong arms—arms that embraced her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. Oh Lord, what am I doing?
Then he withdrew, gently brushed the hair from her face, and cupped her chin before placing tender kiss upon tender kiss across her lips. Dominique could not move. Her heart danced wildly in her chest. She must come to her senses.
She jerked her face aside and tugged from his grasp. “I must go.” Turning, she charged across the room, bumping into the table.
“There you go again, flitting off like the frightened sparrow you are.” Chase groaned behind her.
She halted. Yes, she was a frightened little sparrow, frightened for Marcel, frightened for her own life, but most of all frightened of the love she felt for this man and the power he had over her. She faced him. “C’est facile d’être courageux quand vous n’avez rien à perdre.”
He flattened his lips with a snort. “I quite agree. It is easy to be brave when you have nothing to lose. But on the contrary, I have come to realize I have much to lose.”
Sacre bleu. He understood her French?
“Yes, I am fluent in French, mademoiselle.” He bowed then moved toward her. “I love you, Dominique. Can you not see that?”
Dominique threw her hands to her face and shook her head. No, she did not want to see that, did not want to hear that.
“Forgive me.” Turning, she clutched the edges of her robe and dashed from the room.
CHAPTER 22
Ignoring the trembling that made her legs feel like soggy biscuits, Dominique clutched her valise to her chest as she rounded the corner onto Broad Street. The small case held all her worldly belongings, all that she had first arrived with at the Randal home and all she now left with—all save her heart. She knew that part of her would forever remain behind with the admiral and his son.
Oh Lord, please be with them. Please help them understand.
Just thinking of the pain her betrayal would cause them nearly tore her in half. William had now lost two mothers. And Chase … Would he ever be able to love again?
Dominique swiped at the tears streaming down her face, trying to stop the deluge that had begun the moment she closed
the door to the Randal home and walked away. A brisk wind picked up, swirling leaves at her feet and sending a chill over her damp face.
A carriage approached, raucous laughter pouring from its windows, and Dominique dashed into the shadows of a shoemaker’s shop. In the distance, a charlie cried. His deep voice echoed across the dark streets, sounding more like a horn than a human. “Twelve o’clock. Fair weather now, but a storm brews in the east!”
A storm, indeed. The most frightful storm Dominique would ever encounter. She leaned against the cold brick wall and closed her eyes. No matter how hard she tried to quiet her erratic breathing, it only grew more rapid, as if it were competing with the uncontrollable quiver that consumed the rest of her. The putrid stench of horse manure and rotten food pinched her nose as she heard the clip-clop of the carriage retreating down the street. She tightened her grip on her valise. The documents crackled within—the documents that would save Marcel. Sighing, she shook her head. In what kind of world did simple papers determine whether a man lived or died?
The rough brick scratched her glove as she shoved from the wall and stepped out from the shadows. She now must focus on her meeting with the Frenchman and put behind her the pain of leaving Chase and young William. A full moon winked at her from behind a barrage of dark clouds forming overhead.
Oh Lord, give me the strength Rev. Newton read to me of from Your Word. Help me to save my brother.
As she turned back onto the street, a gust of wind slapped her, its inquisitive hands plucking at the hood of her cloak. Thunder growled in the distance, and Dominique wondered if God were answering her. If He was, He sounded angry. A chill tightened across her skin, and she clutched her cloak about her neck and peered into the darkness. Tall black buildings loomed on each side of the street like spectators in some kind of heinous play or perhaps trolls requiring payment or a secret password before they would let her by. The faint sound of an eerie melody, no doubt from some bawdy tavern, snaked around the dark corners, grating her nerves.
Everything within her told her to turn and run back to the safety of the Randal house—the safety of the admiral’s arms—but she kept her feet in place and swallowed hard against the terror and foreboding that threatened to keep her from her task. She must find somewhere to hide the documents before she reached the Strand. Pressing forward, she skirted the corner of Chandois Street and spotted a massive tree. Its roots spread across the ground like an old woman’s bony fingers. After darting a glance around her to ensure nobody was about, Dominique opened her valise, withdrew the documents she had rolled and tied with a string, and knelt down to the roots. She stuffed the scroll into a knothole at the base of the tree, then covered the edge with rocks and loose branches.
The plan had come to her earlier that day. She must have some leverage—especially with such unscrupulous sorts as these men of Napoleon’s.
Oh Lord, am I dong the right thing? She glanced up at the dark, fuming clouds. No answer. Just a chill that shot like an icicle through her heart and the distant rumblings of a storm—a storm that threatened to swallow her and Marcel alive. Where are You, Lord? Why do I not feel You? Why am I still so frightened?
Spinning around, she clenched her jaw, trying to compose herself. How could she face the Frenchman in such a state? She must appear strong, in control, or all would be lost. She marched forward, bracing herself against the increasing wind but hoping it would help to dry her eyes. She turned down Andrews Street.
And froze.
Beneath the overhang of a large mill stood the mysterious man in black. She had once believed he was an angel. Now, in light of her fear and heartache, she couldn’t be sure of anything.
He stepped out from the building. Though a street lantern hung on its post above him, the features of his face were still lost to her beneath his wide hat.
“Who are you?” she yelled above the rising wind.
He tipped his hat in her direction but said nothing, and despite the power that radiated from him like an invisible shield, she found once again that she feared him not.
Grabbing her skirts in one hand, she dashed past him.
Chase snapped the brandy toward the back of his mouth, felt the burning trail down his throat, then tossed the glass into the fireplace. It shattered against the back bricks and then over the coals, the droplets of liquor igniting small pockets of flames. He rubbed the back of his neck, frustration bubbling within him like some vile brew. Perhaps it was the rising storm outside his chamber window, the wind from which sent a loose window pane chattering in a chaotic frenzy; perhaps it was that he hadn’t seen Miss Dawson since the prior night—the night when they had kissed—or perhaps he was just losing his mind, as he’d assumed all along.
Stomping around his bedpost, he grabbed another bottle of brandy, lifted it to his lips, then slammed it down again on his desk. No amount of alcohol could deaden the pain of Dominique’s rejection. Lord knew, he had tried. But had she really rejected him? He rubbed the scar above his right cheek and plodded across the Turkish carpet centered on the floor. Nothing made sense anymore. In the kitchen that night, she had responded to his touch, his kiss. He had felt her desire, her affection, seen it in those glowing amber eyes.
And she had not denied her feelings. But she had not voiced them, either.
Was it him? Was he too harsh, too cold, too forceful? Did he frighten her? What kept her from him? Why, when he had finally opened his heart to another, did she flee from him like a skittish sparrow?
Stopping, he glanced up at the haunting shapes the candlelight formed on the ceiling. God, if You’re there, please help me.
It was only the second time he had addressed the Almighty in three years—three years, two weeks, and four days, to be exact, the day Melody had died—so when only silence responded, he was not surprised. Even if God existed, Chase doubted his prayers would be heard. Chase certainly would not accommodate such insubordination and insolence aboard his ship. Why would the Creator of the universe be any less demanding?
A pounding on his door startled him from his musings and brought a much-welcomed interruption, no matter the cause. Tonight, to be left alone with his demons was proving to be unbearable.
Midshipman Franklin stood outside his chamber, his eyes alight with excitement, the heels of his boots tapping the floor in anticipation. He saluted.
Alarm shot through Chase. “Yes, Franklin, what is it?”
“The governess has left, Admiral.”
“Left? Whatever do you mean?”
“You told me to tell you if anyone in your employ left the house. And she did, sir, just a few minutes ago, alone.”
Chase felt his stomach tighten. He had forgotten his additional orders to Franklin. He still had a spy to catch, after all, a duty he had obviously neglected in light of his overwhelming involvement with Miss Dawson. Cursing his negligence, he grabbed his coat, tossed it over his shoulders, buckled on his belt, and took his sword and pistol—just in case.
What in God’s name was the woman doing out so late at night, and alone? Terror choked his throat, a familiar terror, the terror of losing someone he loved. Or worse. A terror that his sister had been right all along and he had been played for a fool.
“Lead the way, Franklin.”
Dominique rounded the final corner onto Cecil Street. One final glance over her shoulder told her the man—or angel—still followed her. Lord, I wish I knew for certain if he was Yours. Or am I just dreaming that You are indeed watching over me?
A gust of wind blew her hood from her head, tousling her hair over her face. She smelled the Thames long before she heard the lap of its rancid waters. Not far from shore, a small, single-masted ship lolled in the high tide, ghostly light winking at her from one of its windows.
She halted before the tavern and examined the name painted on a sign above the door: The Last Stop. Dominique sighed. Indeed. Her last stop. Her last chance to save Marcel. Off-key fiddle music scraped against her ears, and she forced her chattering t
eeth to be still, thankful that her tears had ceased. Perhaps she had no more to shed. Or maybe they had succumbed to the horror that now forced all her blood in a mad dash to her head.
If she could trust the Frenchman’s word, then Marcel was inside this tavern. That thought alone sufficed to give her the strength to proceed up the stairs.
A blast of cheap liquor, vomit, and sweat slammed into her as she opened the door. Salacious grins widened upon filthy faces from every dark corner as her eyes adjusted to the glare of lantern light and candlelight scattered throughout the room. The music stopped, and Dominique’s heart along with it.
“Well, call me a cuckolded squid if that ain’t a lady.” A slurred voice slithered over her from her right. “Lookin’ for a real man, perchance, milady?“
Dominique dared a glance in the direction of the voice as the other men in the room joined in a deep guffaw.
Nothing but formless dark shapes appeared before her eyes, like specters from hell. The flickering lights began to spin around her. Dominique coughed, searching for a breath of fresh air. She scanned the room, peering into the same dark corner where the Frenchman had been before. A buxom red-haired woman sat upon a man’s lap, laughing so hard her bosom shook like enormous bowls of jelly. The man was far too scrawny to either hold the large woman or be the Frenchman.
Dominique felt the blood that had pooled in her head turn to ice. Had he changed his mind? Was her brother already lost? Oh God. Her stomach cramped, nearly toppling her. She gripped the valise with both hands until her fingers ached.
A man emerged from the shadows, kicking aside a chair with a curse. He focused his red-rimmed, lifeless eyes upon her. The top of his balding head gleamed as he passed beneath a lantern. What remained of his brown hair dangled to his shoulders like dried seaweed.
She tried to move her feet, tried to turn and run, but every muscle within her froze as if in protest that her body had reached its limit of terror for the evening.
So this was it. She would die here and never know what happened to Marcel or the admiral or sweet William.
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