She hadn’t had a clue as to his distress; he had been a master at hiding his thoughts and feelings. “You are amongst friends. I am your friend. In my eyes, you are a great hero of the revolution.”
His brows lifted. And now she knew he had relaxed. “How much more fortunate could I be? To wind up in your care?” Suddenly, he reached for her hand. “Am I being too direct, Julianne?”
She went still. He had never called her by her name before; he hadn’t even called her Miss Greystone. It had always been “mademoiselle.” Yet she did not protest. “No.”
And he knew that she had just allowed him an intimacy—and perhaps opened the door for even further intimacy.
He did not release her hand. It was late and dark and they were alone. “I hope you are not afraid of me,” he said softly.
She slowly looked up from their clasped hands. “Why would I be afraid of you, monsieur?”
He met her gaze. “Hero or not, I am a stranger…and we are alone.”
She didn’t know what to say. His stare was unwavering, intense. “I enjoy our conversation, monsieur,” she finally said softly. “We have so much in common.”
“Yes, we do.” He was pleased. Then, “I am glad you think of me as you do, Julianne.”
“What else could I possibly think?” She managed a fragile smile. “You are fighting for equality in France and the freedom of all men, everywhere. You have put your life in jeopardy for a great, universal cause. You almost died for the sake of freedom.”
He finally let go of her hand. “You are a romantic.”
“It is the truth.”
He studied her. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
He spoke in a murmur, but he had that tone of command again. She knew she flushed. She managed to look down at the table between them. “Some thoughts are meant to be privy.”
“Yes, some are. I am thinking that I am fortunate to have been brought into your care. And not because you are a Jacobin.”
She jerked to look up at him.
“When I first woke up, I remembered dreaming of a beautiful woman with titian hair, tending me, caring for me. And then I saw you and realized it was not a dream.”
He had just walked through that open door....
“Am I being too forward? I am accustomed to speaking directly, Julianne. In war, one learns that time is precious and no moment should go to waste.”
“No. You are not being too forward. ” She trembled. He was feeling the same pull toward her that she felt toward him. Amelia would be shocked if she knew what was unfolding; her brothers would be furious.
“And does your sister think of me as you do?”
She was so off balance that, for one absurd moment, she thought he was asking her if Amelia also found him attractive.
“I do not have the impression that she thinks of me as a war hero,” he said.
It was hard to think about Amelia just then. But he was waiting for her to respond. She inhaled. The change of topic had been so abrupt. “No, she does not,” Julianne breathed.
“She is not as radical as you are?” he supplied.
She took a breath, finding her composure. “She isn’t radical at all, monsieur.” She could not tell what he was thinking or feeling. She did not want to worry him. “But she is not political, and she would never turn you over to the authorities, I promise you that.”
For another moment, he stared, considering her words. Then he rubbed his neck, as if it ached. Before she could ask him if he was all right, he said, “And have you been able to aid our Jacobin allies in France? Is it easy to send word to them?”
“It isn’t easy, but there are couriers these days. One must merely pay handsomely to get a message across the Channel.” Did he wish to send word to France? She tensed. Wouldn’t he want Nadine to know he was alive?
“What’s wrong?”
The French woman had to be a lover—he could not possibly be married, not when he’d flirted with her as he had. But she hated ruining the evening by asking about her. She was afraid she would learn that he still loved her. She smiled quickly. “I was just thinking that I wish I could be of more help to our allies in Paris. Thus far, we have merely exchanged a few letters and ideas.”
He smiled at her. “And what is your brother, Lucas, like? I will have to eventually find a way to repay him for my use of his clothes.”
She looked closely at him, sensing he wished to ask far more. “Lucas will not mind you wearing his clothes. He is a generous man.”
“Would he turn me over to the authorities?”
He was worried, and rightly so, she thought. She hesitated. Hadn’t she feared that Lucas would do just that? Charles was most definitely interviewing her.
“No,” she finally said. “He would not.” She would not allow it.
“Is he a radical, then, as you are?”
She was grim. “No.”
“Julianne?”
“I am afraid that my brother Lucas is a patriot,” she said carefully. “He is a conservative. But he has no time for politics. He manages this estate, monsieur, providing for this family, and that occupies all of his time. He is rarely here—and I would never tell him who you are, if he suddenly appeared.”
“So you would withhold the truth about me from your own brother in order to protect me?”
She smiled weakly. “Yes, I would.”
“You believe that he would turn me in.”
“No! He could not do any such thing, anyway, because we would never tell him who you are.”
“Are you expecting him in the near future?”
“He always sends word when he is returning. You do not have to worry about him.” But Lucas hadn’t sent word a week ago; he had simply appeared. She decided not to tell Charles that.
He scrutinized her and said, “And your other brother?”
“Jack doesn’t care about this war, not one way or another.”
“Really?” He was mildly disbelieving.
“He is a smuggler, monsieur. The war has raised the price of whiskey, tobacco and tea—indeed, it has raised the price of many items—and he says it is good for his business.”
He rubbed his neck again, and sighed. “Good.”
She didn’t blame him for his questions. Of course he would want to know who the members
