Authors: Mary Nichols
`About you or
about James?' she asked, turning in the saddle to look at him. He did not seem
half as uncouth as he had when she first set eyes on him, but that was because
he was not the rough French captain he pretended to be, but her dearest Philip
in disguise and a very clever one at that. Should she tell him she knew or wait
until he chose to reveal himself?
`Where is
Monsieur Stewart?' he asked.
She laughed
suddenly. 'You know that is not his real name, don't you?'
`Do I?'
`Oh, yes. You
followed us to France from England. It wasn't simply chance which brought you
to Hautvigne.'
`Who told you
that?'
`Pierre. He
said James was a traitor, that he had used his position at the War Department
to gather information. He was supposed to pass it on to someone in the French
command, only he went to Hautvigne instead. You have been following him.'
`Do you believe
that?'
`I do not know
what to believe.' She was thoughtful for a moment. 'Do you remember telling me
that if he was a double agent he was playing a very dangerous game?'
`Yes.'
`Perhaps that
is the way of it.'
`Perhaps, but
if that is so, should you be telling me?'
She smiled
suddenly and the moonlight, falling on her face, gave it an ethereal beauty
which made him catch his breath. 'Why not? I do not think you are the common
soldier you pretend to be,' she said. 'Major Clavier was also very interested
in you. He wanted to know where you were. He called you a thorn in his side.'
He laughed and
it was Philip's laughter that fell on her ears. 'And what conclusion do you
draw from that?'
`You are no
Frenchman. I do not think you are Philippe Devereux at all. In fact, I know...'
She had guessed
after all! His spirits soared, then plummeted again. If she had said that at
Hautvigne, before that ride to Paris and he had been given his orders to
dispose of James, he might have admitted the truth and sworn her to secrecy,
but now it was too late. Much too late.
`Oh, but I
assure you I am, mam'selle,' he put in before she could finish. 'I was born and
raised in a little village close to Hautvigne, son of Antoine and Marie
Devereux. I was not lying when I said my father knew Henri. He was our
neighbour before he moved to the chateau.'
`I don't
believe you,' she said. 'I understand you have your reasons for pretending to
be someone else - after all, we are in France - but you do not have to pretend
with me.'
`There is no
pretence, Countess. If we had time, I could prove it to you.'
`Oh.' She was
bitterly disappointed and tears filled her eyes. She blinked hard to stop them
falling, but one escaped and ran down her cheek. Ever since she had made the
discovery, she had been buoyed up with hope, and now to find that he did not
trust her enough to admit his identity, was the cruellest blow of all. But
could she be wrong? Could there be two men so much alike? 'You really are
French?'
`Naturellement,
I am,' he said, watching the changing expressions flit across her face, the
hope in her lovely eyes change to despair and fill with tears, and he hated
himself for his continued deception. 'Did you think differently?'
`I thought...'
She brushed a hand impatiently over her brimming eyes. How could she have been
such a fool? `Oh, it does not matter what I thought. 'Are you taking me back to
Hautvigne?'
`Do you want to
go back?'
`No, there is
nothing for me there.'
`What about
James? You are still betrothed to him, after all, and he will surely return for
you and the jewels.'
`Oh, you are as
obsessed by hidden treasure as he was,' she retorted angrily.
`No, I do not
believe that fairy story,' he said. 'It is twenty years since the comte and
comtesse went to the guillotine and the chateau has been looted more than once
since then. It stood derelict for years until Henri Caronne was given permission
to live there. Since then he has searched everywhere for the jewels. It is an
open secret.'
`I found them
after you left.'
`Did you? Well,
I must own myself surprised. What did you find?'
'A box hidden
in the cellar. It had nothing in it, except a piece of paper, a single blue
stone and some bits of broken silver. Major Clavier has it now, so you see
there is no point in returning to Hautvigne.'
`Then we shall
have to think of something else,' he said. 'Now save your breath for riding.'
They rode on in
tense silence, each immersed in thoughts they could not convey, feelings they
dare not express, doubts and uncertainties and the knowledge that each had
secrets that could not be told.
`I think we
should rest,' he said, when dawn lightened the sky. 'It is dangerous to travel
in daylight. Clavier is not a fool. He will guess you are not alone and will
organise a search.'
`If you are a
loyal Frenchman, then he is surely more interested in James than you.' Her
voice was flat, every emotion seemed to have been drained from her.
`Where is
James?'
`I told you, I
do not know. He went after you to retrieve his letter. Why did you take it?'
`I thought it
might be useful.' He would have liked to tell her the real reason, that without
that piece of paper and the other documents James Martindale could not do his
traitorous work, but to have done so would have revealed where his own loyalty
lay. He spotted a shepherd's hut about half a mile away on the slope of a
grass-clad hill. 'We will rest there,' he said, turning his horse towards it.
The hut was
deserted; the sheep had been taken down to a lower level for the winter. They
dismounted and tethered the horses between the hut and the rising ground behind
it. He took a haversack and a rolled-up blanket from his saddle and ushered her
inside. There was no furniture and it had a strong smell of sheep, but it was
shelter from the cold wind. 'Not a palace, but it will do,' he said.
Juliette sat on
the floor, leaning against the rough wall, her hands clasped round her knees,
her skirt tucked around her feet. 'How long must we stay here?'
`Until dark.'
`Oh.' She could
not stifle the little tremor of alarm she felt. To be riding beside him was one
thing, but alone in the confines of this isolated hut, was another altogether.
What would he do? What did she want him to do? Again she wondered if she was
being rescued or whether he had some other reason for taking her. Did he
imagine she would lead him to James?
`I am going out
to feed and water the horses and make sure we have not been followed,' he said.
'I won't be long.'
He went out.
She sat still, listening to him moving about outside, talking soothingly to the
horses. If he was not Philip, then who was he? He was not the simple soldier he
claimed to be, she was sure of it. The haversack lay just out of her reach.
Could it hold the answers to her questions and his identity? She crawled over
and pulled it towards her. She had just opened the flap when he returned.
`What are you
doing?' he demanded, grabbing the bag and showing for the first time that he
could be angry. She felt the colour flood her face and was glad of the gloom in
the hut to hide it. 'I...I thought you might have some food. If it needs
cooking...'
`It doesn't,'
he said. 'We cannot risk a fire.' He sat beside her and delved into it,
producing bread and cheese, cooked chicken legs and a flask of wine. 'You have
nothing to fear from me,' he said, softly, laying out the food on a
surprisingly clean cloth he had taken from the bag. 'But you must learn to curb
your curiosity. It could be dangerous.'
`What would you
do to me?'
`Not me, my
love,' he said quietly. 'Others. I would not harm a hair of your head.' He
smiled and reached out to push a tendril of hair from her face and tuck it
behind her ear. His fingers were gentle, the look in his eyes belied his fierce
appearance and she found herself trembling, though she was not particularly
cold. 'Believe me I have only your safety and happiness at heart.'
`I know.' He
was a inscrutable as ever but, in spite of her disappointment, she knew she
could trust him.
`Have something
to eat,' he said, handing her a chicken leg. 'And then you must rest. We have a
long ride ahead of us.'
She gnawed at
the bone. It had very little meat on it. `Where are we going, then?'
`Did I not tell
you I was returning to my regiment?'
`I did not
believe it. I still don't.'
Maintaining his
coolness and self-control was hellishly difficult, especially when she looked
at him with those brilliant eyes and asked questions that required him to lie
to her. He smiled. 'That is the second time you have doubted my word. If you
were a man, I would not let you call me a liar.'
`You would call
me out?' She giggled suddenly. `Pistols at dawn, or would it be rapiers?'
`You would have
the choice, being the one challenged.'
`Then I should
choose feathers.'
He laughed.
'And tickle me to death. It is good to see you have not lost your sense of
humour.'
`How do you
know I ever had one?'
`Oh, I
guessed,' he said quickly.
`You know, when
you laugh, you remind me of Mr Devonshire,' she said, hoping to make him give
himself away. 'He had a happy kind of laugh, as if he could always find
something amusing in any situation, however serious.'
Must he also
cease to laugh? 'And were you in love with him?'
`I am not
sure,' she said slowly, unwilling to admit it. `It seemed as though we had
known each other for ever, though it was only a few weeks. We talked about
being in love and agreed that it had to be a meeting of souls, a feeling that
each could not live without the other...'
`And that did
not happen?'
`I left
before...' She smiled, giving her small face a piquancy that tore at his heart.
'You know, you are very like him, except Mr Devonshire was clean-shaven and did
not have a scar. He was not a dandy by any means, but he was always impeccably
dressed and his manners were exquisite.'
`Ah, I see now.
In the depths of your despair, your imagination conjured him up. You
transformed a rough and ready rogue of a French soldier into a London dandy.'
He fingered his beard and smiled, sorely tempted to tell her the truth. 'I must
be a dreadful disappointment to you.' He paused. 'War makes ruffians of us all,
Chèrie. If this were a London drawing room instead of a shepherd's hut, I might
be shaved and dressed for the occasion.' He smiled suddenly, making his eyes
twinkle. 'Let us imagine it, shall we? There is a sofa over there,' he said,
pointing. 'There is a table with chairs about it, and more chairs against the
wall. And above us there is a crystal chandelier, blazing with light. And there
is an orchestra on a dais, playing a waltz. Can you not hear it?'
`Oh, yes. And I
am the belle of the ball. The eligibles are all clamouring for me to stand up
with them.' He scrambled to his feet and executed an elegant bow. `Mam'selle,
may I have the honour of this dance?'
`Certainly,
sir,' she said, offering her hand.
He raised her
to her feet, put his hand about her waist and whirled her round, humming the
waltz tune they had danced to at her come-out ball and for a little while she
was back in London, wearing the white crêpe gown of the Goddess of the Hunt.
The tiny hut became filled with glittering lights and the sound of music and
laughter.
`Juliette,' he
murmured against her ear and now she was sure it was Philip and not Philippe
who spoke.
The imaginary
music faded, the fantasy lights dimmed, their steps slowed and they found
themselves standing in the middle of the earth floor of a crude shepherd's hut,
holding each other. She looked up into his eyes, waiting for him to tell her
the truth, and was lost in the depths of them, sucked in and drowned. She could
not look away.
`Juliette,' he
said again, savouring her name. Then slowly, so slowly she was not even sure of
his intention, his face moved closer to hers, his lips hovered a few inches
from her own. She waited, head tilted up to his. He touched her mouth with his,
a butterfly touch, and drew back slightly, a question in his eyes. She wanted
him to kiss her, wanted it desperately. She opened her mouth slightly, passing
the tip of her tongue across her lips. It was more than he could stand. He
began kissing her in earnest, her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose,
her throat and finally her mouth.
She clung to
him, savouring the shiver of excitement that ran through her from the top of
her head down to her toes, now being lifted almost off the ground. And in the
pit of her stomach, something stirred, a frisson of elation, of anticipation,
of danger, of exquisite joy. She did not care what he called himself, it was
enough that he was here with her. Her hands went up behind his head, holding
him to her.