Temptation and the Artist, page 11
“You didn’t know, did you?” Philippe was definitely amused now. “But how charming! He was in France during the war, Aline, and there could only be one reason for that, one possibility that allowed him to stay among his country’s enemies. He was paid by Bonaparte—for which I must applaud him, of course, though I doubt you do. He was even in Paris during the Hundred Days when the emperor was free, probably right up to Waterloo. Were you not, monsieur?”
“Yes, and after Waterloo, too,” Stephen said, astonishing her further. His hand brushed against her, caught her fingers and she clung. Whatever he was about to say, she trusted him implicitly. “I traveled about Europe for several years, dodging the armies, painting where I could. Mostly in Italy, actually. Not the best time to see anywhere, really, ravaged by decades of war, but I learned a huge amount. And then I stopped off in Paris on my way home, and so I was indeed there during the Hundred Days.”
“And if you do not hand me that pistol,” Philippe said in suddenly freezing tones, “I will make known to everyone in your country that you were a traitor and a spy.”
“I was not.”
“My dear fellow, that will hardly matter when your commissions dry up and you are reduced to penury. You will be quite the pariah. Unless you give me the pistol, in which case I am inclined to forget what I know.”
“But you have already misunderstood what you know,” Stephen said gently. “And your so-called revelation will surprise no one. I daresay it will surprise you, however, to hear what I learned during the Hundred Days. That on the emperor’s return, you accused your neighbor—a Monsieur Duclos, I believe?—of continued violence in the cause of the Bourbon king, that you had him arrested and summarily executed, just so that you could increase your landholding. One could call it patriotic except it wasn’t remotely true, was it? Duclos was an inoffensive old man, whose family had been farming those few acres and keeping their noses out of politics for generations. The accusation was purely malicious, but he still died, and I very much doubt your friends and neighbors will approve of that.”
“Jesu, how do you know it was us?” Gaston blurted.
Philippe scowled at him.
“Duclos,” Aline whispered on a rush of memory and shame and grief. “You had M. Duclos executed? Dear God, for a few paltry acres…”
“How did I know?” Stephen repeated. “I couldn’t quite remember myself why I knew your name, and then I recalled. It was on certain documents that passed through my hands. During the Hundred Days.”
He moved the pistol’s aim from Gaston to Philippe. “So, here is what will happen, gentlemen. You will leave the inn now, and travel through the night to Harwich, where you will take a ship for France. You will never trouble the princess or Basil again. And you will vacate Basil’s estate exactly when she requires you to. If you do not comply, if you are ever even seen in the British Isles again, I will make sure certain documents are placed before the current French authorities. And now, monsieur, you should be on your way.”
Chapter Eleven
As soon as the door closed behind the Monteignes, Aline sagged against Stephen, reaching blindly for Basil with her other hand, and hugging him convulsively.
“My brave boy,” she whispered and tried to laugh up at Stephen and the stolidly watching Mr. Flowers. “All my brave boys! My formal thanks for the rescue, gentlemen.”
“You seemed to have matters well under control,” Stephen said with unmistakable pride. Was that his lips brushing against her hair?
“We might have had more problems actually getting out of the inn,” Aline admitted. “And now we don’t need to because you sent them away instead. I can’t believe I trusted them with Basil only a few months ago.”
“Desperation makes people greedy,” Stephen offered.
“I’ll make sure they actually go,” Flowers growled, heading for the door.
“And order supper,” Aline called after him. “You and Stephen must be starving.”
But as Mr. Flowers left, the innkeeper, his wife, and one of the maids leapt back from the door. They had clearly been trying to listen, to work out if it was safe to enter. They parted like the Red Sea for Flowers, and Stephen said, “Some clean water and bandages in here if you please.”
Aline, who had dealt with much worse alone, found it rather lovely to be cossetted and cared for. Stephen led her to a seat at the table, pushing crockery aside to make space for the bowl of water and the box of bandages and salves brought by the maid. Then, he knelt at her feet and began to clean her hands and wrists. His lips tightened as his fingertips brushed over the rope marks on her wrist. He was thorough and gentle, and for the first time since she had been attacked outside Renwick’s Hotel, she felt like weeping.
“Will Mama be well?” Basil asked shakily.
“Of course, I will,” she exclaimed, though he seemed to need to hear it from Stephen.
“Yes, she will be fine,” Stephen said. “Her wrists and hands will be sore and stingy for a little, but nothing is deep. Now, tell me everything.”
Halfway through Aline and Basil’s joint account of their adventure, which had the added bonus of making it all seem fun to Basil now he was safe, Mr. Flowers returned.
“They’ve gone as if all the fiends of hell are after them. By a piece of good luck, William and Dennis drove up and spilled out of the carriage, looking furious and menacing, and supervised their departure.”
Stephen grinned. So did Basil.
“They send their good wishes, ma’am. And are relieved to know you and Basil are safe.”
“Spoiling for a fight, were they?” Stephen asked.
“I wouldn’t have been able to hold them back if I hadn’t assured them you were both safe.”
“They are good men,” Aline said warmly. “And you, Mr. Flowers, are an incomparable tutor.
“Do you want to know what happened to us, too?” Basil said eagerly, and so the rest of the tale was told, while more wine was opened, and the table re-covered with food. And then Stephen and Mr. Flowers told their story, too, and Stephen showed her the note purporting to come from her.
She stared at it. “But that’s… Why in the world…? How did they even know…?”
“My father, apparently,” Stephen said ruefully. “They’d clearly spoken to him, for they said he’d told them I was in France. He must have also told them you were my reason for staying at Renwick’s.”
“Monteigne must have thought it a good way of reducing the number of your protectors,” Mr. Flowers said.
“Did you believe it?” Aline asked Stephen curiously.
“For a little,” he admitted. “Until my brain kicked in and I realized the abrupt little note didn’t sound like you at all. So, I went down to your rooms and found everyone in an uproar over your and Basil’s abduction.”
“Dennis discovered the direction of their carriage,” Mr. Flowers said, “and we concluded they were making for Harwich. We sent William and Dennis to follow in the carriage, in case they found you on the way, while Dornan and I came on horseback.”
“Calton’s horses,” Dornan explained. “I hope he doesn’t need them in a hurry.”
“We almost went straight past this inn,” Mr. Flowers said. “But decided to ask in passing before riding on. And the staff were so wary of the foreign gents and the lady who ate in her traveling cloak as if she didn’t want her skirts to touch their furniture, that we knew you were here. Offered to sort you all out.”
Aline smiled wryly. “I shall be sure never to wear the wretched cloak inside the inn again.”
“Oh, they all know you were under duress,” Mr. Flowers assured her. “The innkeeper’s wife is as furious as the rest of us and will probably board you for nothing. Talking of boarding…”
“We have two bedrooms,” Basil piped up. “I was supposed to stay with the nasty uncles, and Mama was to sleep with her wrists bound behind her back!”
“Well, we certainly won’t have that,” Aline said stoutly. “You can sleep in my room now.”
“Could I not stay with Mr. Flowers and Mr. Dornan?” Basil asked. “That would be a better end to a manly adventure!”
“True,” Aline said, trying not to feel hurt.
Stephen refilled her wine glass. “We should have brought your maid along with Dennis and William.”
“I can do without her for a night or two.”
There was admiration in Stephen’s eyes. Her independence, her past, her use of a dagger that most ladies would scream at the sight of, none of that appalled him. With a fresh surge of longing, she wondered if he saw beneath those things, to her yearning for peace and security and love.
*
Stephen was appalled. By the injuries she had sustained to free herself, by the awful possibilities of what might have happened. It brought her sheer capability and the dangers she had overcome in her past into sharp focus. He was proud, admiring, fascinated—and terrified.
While Basil slept peacefully in the truckle bed, Stephen and Flowers sat on the window seat of their bedchamber, sharing a last glass of brandy and talking desultorily.
“If only she had waited for us,” Stephen said into the silence, trying to make sense of his thought, “she would not have hurt herself.”
“I don’t think we could have come much faster, without the risk of missing them.” Flowers glanced at him. “Was that your point?”
“No, my point is that she hurt herself.”
“The scars will fade,” Flowers said deliberately, “if that is your concern.”
Stephen shifted restlessly. “Scars fade,” he repeated. “They don’t all go away… Though perhaps they cease to hurt.”
Flowers sipped his brandy. He seemed to know Stephen was not still talking about physical wounds. “She looked at you very oddly when Monteigne revealed you were in Paris.”
“I was not betraying my country,” Stephen said mildly.
“I know that. So does she. But you knew what the Monteignes had done. She did not. Is that not worthy of more explanation than the reasons she did not sit back and wait to be rescued by people she had no idea were coming?”
Stephen stared at him. “Dear God, I’m not criticizing her, Flowers. I fear for her!”
Flowers shrugged. “It comes with the territory.”
“What territory?” Stephen scowled.
“Besottedness,” Flowers replied. “It seems to me you should be deciding whether you want to live with that or without it.”
Stephen closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the windowpane.
“I see,” Flowers said. “Then I have two things to say to you. Firstly, if you ever hurt a hair on her head or betray her in the smallest way, I will break your legs. Secondly, what the hell are you doing here with me?”
Stephen’s eyes flew open, his breath catching on sudden, devastating clarity. With a sound between a laugh and a growl, he sprung to his feet and handed Flowers his glass. “I’ll let you.”
“Let me what?”
“Break my legs if I betray her.”
*
Retiring to bed alone with her hands free and her son safe, held a certain sort of contentment. And yet part of her wished they could have all have simply fallen asleep in the inn parlor, in the comforting camaraderie that had prevailed once the Monteignes were sent about their business.
Another part of her wished Stephen was here with her. The innkeeper’s wife had unfastened her gown and stays and made a fuss over her. But lying in bed, exhausted, Aline could not sleep. Because Stephen was not here. Because she did not know what he thought of her now or even what she wanted him to think. She did not know how he knew about the Monteignes’ betrayal of Duclos, something she hadn’t known herself, and suspicions chased themselves around her brain, alternately hopeful and anxious.
She had entirely given up on sleep and on his company when a faint scratch sounded at the door. She sat up and lit the lamp. By its pale light, she saw the door opening and the figure that stepped through, swiftly closing it behind him again.
“Aline. It’s Stephen. May I come in?”
“You are in.”
“So I am.” He came toward her, quick, decisive, yet surely without his usual confidence. Had he come to end it? Whatever it was that had sprung between them so quickly, so consumingly—at least for her.
Her heart skittered as the lamplight played across the fine angles of his face, and he sank down on the bed, twisting around to face her.
Slowly, as if afraid she would stop him, he took her bandaged hands in his and raised one to his cheek. “I hate that you’re injured. I hate that I could not prevent it.”
“I think you’ve prevented it happening again,” she said lightly.
“I need to tell you something.”
Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Somehow, she held his gaze. “I know.”
He drew in a breath. “I think… I think I was the man in the Paris garret who passed your information to various smugglers and officers of the Royal Navy. The man you thought you betrayed.”
She swallowed, wondering if she could bear it. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing,” he said, softly kissing her bandages. “I was away, at the coast, and when I returned, the street was too quiet, too watchful. I didn’t go in. I found somewhere else to stay. And then there was Waterloo. The point is, you betrayed no one. Even if they had arrested me, it would not have been your fault. Any fault was mine then. As it is mine now. I should have told you as soon as I suspected. I should not have let you suffer, just because I wasn’t sure. Receiving the documents, from you and others, was just something I fell into, something I felt obliged to do to prevent yet more war in Europe. And something I quickly forgot about again. I never thought of anyone worrying about me.”
Her hand moved in his, and he released it at once. But she reached up, touching his cheek, his lips with two unbandaged, unhurt fingertips.
“Not enough people have worried about you in your life, Stephen Dornan,” she whispered achingly. “I would like your permission to worry about you, to care for you, because I shall do it anyway.”
He smiled, his curved lips brushing her fingertips. His voice was not quite steady as he said, “I was about to say the same to you.” He leaned toward her, giving her time to avoid him, but she only parted her lips to receive his kiss, sweet and tender.
“I am dancing about this,” he whispered against her lips. “Because I am afraid it is too quick, afraid it will drive you away. Don’t let it. I don’t ask for anything in return.”
“In return for what?”
“I love you.” He touched the side of her face, and only then did she realize it was damp.
“Oh, Stephen, come to bed,” she whispered brokenly.
He did, and it didn’t take long. He had come to her without his boots or his coat, so he removed everything else in moments, and slid into bed beside her. She reached for him at once, and he kissed her foolish tears, her eyelids, her lips. His arms were strong and safe around her, his long, lean body warm and increasingly aroused.
“You need to sleep, Aline,” he murmured. “Let me hold you while you sleep.”
“That would be lovely,” she said honestly. “But would you make love to me first?”
There was relief as well as pleasure in his smiling eyes as he covered her mouth with his. Despite his own desire, the need she sensed barely contained beneath his surface courtesy, he would have let her sleep and that touched her almost as much as the stunning fact that he loved her.
He drew her shift slowly up over her hips and waist and breasts until he could tug it right over her head and throw it aside. His kisses, his wonderful, sensitive hands traveled all over her body, arousing and thrilling.
It was a slow, gentle loving that yet seemed to reach into her soul. Sheer emotion tangled with the physical pleasures until they became one and the same. In the whole world, there seemed to be only her and Stephen, joined together, moving in languorous tender strokes. Even as the ecstasy built and built, to unendurable intensity, he did not rush. And when it broke, he held her there while she moaned and gasped and held on to him.
“Stay,” she pleaded, “Stay with me. I love you…” And with a soft groan, he gave in, releasing the tide of his own joy while hers surged yet again, and they collapsed together in a welter of sheets and tears and utter happiness.
*
“Will you marry me, Aline?” he asked her, just before he fell asleep. He felt boneless and ecstatic after their loving, and her words of love had brought him at least as much joy.
Her eyes opened, sleepily smiling, although there was a hint of worry behind it. “Unfair to ask me after that. I will agree to anything when you love me.”
“That’s settled then.”
She laughed. “No, it isn’t,” she said, kissing him and closing her eyes again.
So did he, and in each other’s arms, they fell asleep.
He was foolish, he knew, to expect everything at once. This night was enough for now. Her love was more than he had ever dreamed of. Beneath whatever held her back, she was already his, and he would marry her.
Chapter Twelve
“Do you like Mr. Dornan?” Aline asked Basil casually. They had been back at Renwick’s Hotel for two days and were planning to leave for town that afternoon. So, she and Basil were making a last visit to the pleasure garden, which gave her a rare moment of privacy with her son, to learn Basil’s views.
“Yes, I like him.” Basil grinned. “He says I can call him Stephen! And he likes my drawings. Maybe mine will be as good as his one day.”
“Maybe,” she agreed. “Would you mind if he came to live with us?”
Stephen’s eyes widened a bit. “No, that might be fun. Doesn’t he have a house of his own?”
“I think he does, in the country. We could live with him there sometimes, too.”
“Oh yes,” Stephen enthused. “Does he have dogs and horses? And lambs?”
Aline laughed. “I expect so, though you would have to ask him. The thing is, he has asked me to marry him, and I wondered if you thought that was a good idea.”
