vulnerable. Pain stabbed through his back with every breath he took.
Was he with friends—or foes?
Was he still in France?
Afraid and fully alert, he noted that he was not shackled. Very carefully, he opened his eyes, just enough so he could peek out through his lashes.
He did not change the pattern of his breathing. He did not move a single muscle, other than his eyelids. He sensed he was not alone. He wanted whoever was with him—whoever was guarding him—to think he was asleep.
The vague outlines of a small bedroom came into his line of vision. He saw an armoire, a window. A moment later, he smelled the tang in the air, and tasted its salt.
He was near the coast, but what coast?
He fought fiercely to retrieve every possible memory. Had he dreamed of a long journey in the back of a wagon, mostly by night? Had he dreamed of the rocking of a ship, the creaking of masts, the whisper of canvas—and being in the throes of a terrible agony? What happened to him after he had been shot? Hazy images tried to form, and suddenly he thought he remembered a woman with titian hair, hovering over him, bathing him, caring for him.
And then a woman moved into his line of vision, bending over him. He glimpsed titian hair, her pale visage, an ivory dress.
She murmured, “Monsieur?”
Dominic recognized the sound of her voice. So she had cared for him; it had not been a dream.
He could not assume that she was a friend and an ally. Could he defend himself if necessary? Escape? He was so exhausted, so weak! Who was she and why had she nursed him through his illness? Was she a friend of Michel’s? How had he come into her care? He debated waiting her out—sooner or later, she would leave him, and then he could decide what predicament he was in. His first order of business would be to search the room, then the house. He had to discern his location. And he needed a weapon with which to defend himself.
On the other hand, she could not be alone. She had to have comrades. When she left, someone else might be sent to guard him, and it might even be a man.
He opened his eyes fully and looked into the startled gray gaze of the woman.
She was seated in a chair, pulled up to his bedside, a writing tablet on her lap, a quill in her hand. She started and whispered, “Monsieur, vous êtes reveillé?”
He had no intention of answering her, not yet. Instead, he took a quick inventory of his surroundings. He saw that he lay in a narrow bed in a room he did not recognize. The chamber was a modest one, simply furnished, and it was hard to discern if he was in a bourgeois’s or a nobleman’s home. If the latter, they were impoverished.
One window let in the daylight—it was early afternoon. The sunlight was gray and weak, not at all like the bright summer sunshine in the Loire Valley.
How had he gotten to this bedchamber? Had he been taken in a wagon and then a ship—or had that been a dream? Damn it, he did not recall anything after being shot in the alley in Nantes! The only thing he was now certain of was that he was on the coast—but where? He could be in Le Havre or Brest, he thought, but he was uncertain. He could be in Dover, or Plymouth. Even if he was in England, he had to protect his identity. No one could ever guess that he was a British agent.
But she had spoken to him in French.
She spoke again. He became absolutely still, focusing on her, as the woman repeated what she had said before. “Sir, are you awake?”
Her color was high, a question in her eyes. Although she was speaking French, she had a slight accent. He felt certain she was English. And that should relieve him—except, he did not like the fact that she was speaking in French. Was she partly French, as he was? Or did she assume him to be a Frenchman, for whatever reason? Had she met him when he was undercover? Did she know the truth or any part of it? Where did her sympathies lie? If only he could remember more!
And why the hell was he stark naked beneath the thin sheets?
She suddenly got up. He watched her warily as she walked across the room, noticing that her figure was very pleasing, not that he really cared. She might be an ally—or she might be the enemy. And he would do whatever necessary to survive. Seducing her was not out of the question.
He now saw that she was putting the tablet and the parchment on the table, placing the quill into an inkwell there. She took up a cloth, dipping it in a basin of water. He did not relax. The hazy images became more focused, of this woman bending over him and bathing him with the cloth…of her face, close to his, as he prepared to kiss her....
He had kissed her. He was certain of it.
His interest sharpened. What had happened between them? Surely this was to his advantage.
She returned, her face pale except for two bright splotches of pink on her cheeks. She sat, wringing out the cloth, as he watched her closely, waiting to see what she would do next. His body stirred.
In France, living on the verge of death every day, he had lost all the morality he had been raised with. There had been so many French women in his bed, some pretty, some not, very few whose names he had even known, much less recalled. Life was short—too short. He had realized that morality was a useless endeavor in a time of war and revolution.
The images he had awoken to were always there, in the back of his mind, haunting him. That enraged mob, the bloody street and then the bloody river in Saumur. The family he had seen guillotined, the priest who had died in his arms. His morality had died long ago, perhaps with Nadine. Sex was entertainment, an escape, because death was the only certainty in his life.
Tomorrow, someone could assassinate him.
Tomorrow, an enraged mob could drag him from this house and stone him to death, or he could be led in chains, past cheering crowds to the guillotine.
She smiled slightly and then she laid the cool cloth on his forehead.
He flinched, surprising them both. Then he seized her wrist. “Qui êtes vous?” Who are you? She had spoken to him in French, so he spoke back to her in that language, as well. Until he knew where he was and who she was—and if it was safe to reveal himself—he would simply follow her lead.
She gasped. “Monsieur, you are awake! I am so very glad!”
He did not release her. Instead, he pulled her closer, down toward him, his heart racing with his fear. He hated this vacuum of knowledge; he had to find out who she was and where he was. “Who are you? Where am I?”
She seemed frozen, mere inches between their faces now. “I am Julianne Greystone, monsieur. I have been caring for you. You are at my family home, and you are safe here.”
He studied her, not willing to relax. The fact that she spoke of his being safe meant that she knew something of his activities. Why else would she suggest that he might otherwise be in danger? And who did she believe him to be in danger from? The Jacobins? Someone specific—like the assassin in Nantes?
Or did she think him in danger from his own allies? Did she think him a Frenchman in danger from the British?
Was her family home in England—or France? Why did she keep speaking in French?
