Helen Dickson (5 page)

‘I agree absolutely and the demands of the people
must be listened to and acted on. Privilege must be abolished, and all men should be taxed equally, according to their wealth.’

Maria looked at him with interest. ‘Anything else?’

‘These and a hundred others.’

‘You speak like a politician. Is that what you are?’

A cynical smile curved his lips. ‘No.’

‘Then what do you do?’

‘Do I have to do anything?’

‘I suspect you are not the sort of man who would be content to idle his days away doing nothing.’ She looked out of the window. ‘You have to do something.’

‘I dabble.’

‘In what?’

He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘This and that.’

She took her eyes off the passing scenery and regarded him intently. ‘You mean you’re a businessman?’

He grinned. ‘You might say that.’

‘And is your business respectable?’

Her question brought a humorous gleam to his eyes, and a tantalising smile played on his lips. ‘Perfectly respectable,’ he declared, ‘but if I were to tell you more of what I do, we will have nothing to talk about, and we have a long way to go.’

‘You may not consider the question important, but it is to me. My life is very important to me. Since I have entrusted it to someone I know nothing about, it is perfectly natural that I want to know everything there is to know about you.’

He stared at her, one black brow raised interrogatively. There was a direct challenge in his eyes, which she found most disturbing.

‘Everything?’ he enquired silkily, and Maria could sense the sleeping animal within him begin to stir.

Her thoughts were thrown into chaos, for she had not expected such an uncompromising response to her hasty remark. She glanced away, trying to regain her composure, and then looked up to meet his eyes.

‘I do not wish to offend you, but I do not know you, so how do I know I can trust you?’

‘What exactly do you fear?’ he asked. ‘That I am not equal to the task of escorting you to England?’

‘I am naturally apprehensive. If you were in my place, wouldn’t you want some indication of your good faith? Since when did businessmen risk their lives by coming to a country torn by strife?’

‘When they have family they are concerned about.’

She looked at him with interest, her green eyes wide and questioning, her lips parted slightly in surprise. ‘Your family live in France?’

‘In the south—the Côte d’Azure. My mother is French.’

‘I see. So that explains why you speak French like a native. I did wonder. Did you manage to see your family?’

‘Yes.’

‘And are they all right?’

‘When I left them they were in perfect health.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Whether they will remain so remains to be seen.’

‘Why? What are you afraid of?’

‘They are connected to the nobility. That connection could well bring about their death—and my own. Anyone found assisting suspected royalists will be ruthlessly condemned. The life of a noble is not worth a candle in France. I believe that every noble family and
many of the richer bourgeois will suffer unless they flee the country.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She is safe in England, thank God.’

‘Do you have siblings living in France?’

He shook his head. ‘I have two sisters, both of them happily married in England.’

‘And—do you have a wife waiting for you in England?’

He laughed easily and dusted the knee of his breeches. ‘No. And were you always so inquisitive about others, or is it just me?’

She smiled and gave him a coy look. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose it must seem like that to you. It’s just that it’s so long since I talked to another English person, apart from my aunt and Constance, that I forget my manners.’

Charles thought that Maria Monkton had a truly breathtaking smile. It glowed in her eyes and lit up her entire face, transforming what was already a pretty face into one that was captivating. He was intrigued, but he did not let it show in his face, for as much as he would like to taste and relish at first hand what was before his eyes, to throw caution to the four winds and dally to his heart’s content, he had to consider at what cost he’d be doing so.

‘Please don’t apologise. I am not offended.’ His chuckle sounded low and deep. ‘Our journey to England will be long and arduous, but I can see that with you I will never be bored.’

She met his eyes. ‘Like you said, we have a long way to go. Things change. Must we speak French all the time?’

‘Yes. The less attention we attract to ourselves the safer it will be. When we are within earshot of the driver
if we address each other as Charles and Maria he will be none the wiser.’

Maria felt comfortable with Pierre. There was a look about his square face that inspired trust while the steady gaze of his blue eyes compelled honesty. ‘I think he can be trusted. What do you think?’

He shrugged. ‘Who can one trust nowadays? One can never be sure. He seems trustworthy enough and was glad of the work. The coach belongs to him and I have paid him a handsome sum—with the promise of more if he gets us to Calais safely.’

‘I would like to thank you for helping me, Charles. Is there a reason for this—apart from our fathers being friends?’

‘I have reason to be beholden to Sir Edward.’

‘Oh?’

‘He saved my life—and my mother’s. It was during the monsoon season, when my mother and I were going to join my father in Bengal. We were crossing a fast-flowing river when our boat went out of control—several people perished. From the shore your father saw what was happening and commandeered a boat to come to our aid. Not once while he was helping us to safety did he consider the possibility that he might lose his life. I fell into the river and was in danger of being washed away when he jumped in after me. Somehow he managed to get me back on board.’ His features softened with remembrance. ‘I owe him my life. You should be proud of him.’

‘I am, and I realise how you must have felt honour bound to come to my rescue.’

‘Something like that. I realised it was the least I could
do for Sir Edward—to see his daughter safely out of France. It is my way of saying thank you to an exceedingly brave man.’

‘Yes, I can understand that. Thank you for telling me.’

‘My pleasure.’

A familiar, slow smile played on his lips and he fell silent. He was relaxed, and there was no mistaking the provocative way in which his gaze lingered on her eyes, her hair and her soft lips.

Feeling his warmly glowing eyes devouring her as if he were strongly tempted to do more than just stare, a sudden flush mounted Maria’s cheeks, and she said abruptly, ‘I am sorry about—almost slapping you. It was unforgivable of me and I should not have done it.’

‘But entirely understandable,’ Charles answered gravely. ‘Think nothing of it. It is forgotten.’

Maria waited, expecting him to apologise for the things he had said about Colonel Winston, confident that now she had given him an opening to do so, he would hopefully retract them, but he remained silent.

Beneath the shadow of her long lashes her eyes passed slowly over her companion. His broad shoulders filled his dark blue coat, and the grey breeches were close-fitting to display a superb length of firmly muscled limbs. It was obvious at a mere glance that he was an arrogant man, bold and self-assured, and much to her aggravation, she realised he would be the standard by which she would eventually measure her betrothed.

The clouds were suddenly swept away and the sun rose, bathing Maria’s face in its soft, golden light. She knew Charles continued to watch her, for she felt the heat of his gaze more firmly than the warmth of the sun.
The countryside along the way failed to hold her interest, for his close presence wiped everything else from her mind. His gaze was persistent and touched her warmly. A smile was in his eyes and on his lips.

There was that quality about her companion that made her wonder if he were something more than what he appeared. It was as if his eyes could penetrate her flesh, and she wondered if she would ever cease to feel the unsettling vulnerability and wariness she experienced in his presence.

There was one time when the road was choked with peasants and vagabonds and carts and horses, when they had no choice but to go with the flow of things. At times the people were openly aggressive. Danger was in the air. Maria was a realist, knowing that they might be apprehended at any time. No one was safe. It was a relief to know that Charles was armed, with a plentiful supply of ammunition.

Thankfully they were offered no violence and their carriage went unmolested.

Halfway through the journey of their first day on the road, the carriage clattered and rocked over cobbles and Maria, glad of the opportunity to stretch her legs, descended stiffly to pace around the coaching-house yard while the steaming horses who had brought them so far were unharnessed and a fresh pair put to.

Getting back inside the carriage, she had to wait for Charles, who was in conversation with Pierre. Leaning a little closer to the window to study her companion when he was unaware that he was being observed, she gazed at him, her green eyes becoming darker, her soft
skin a little pinker, her lips parting as she breathed faster, caught up in a sensation she herself did not understand.

As though somehow he had sensed her curiosity, he suddenly turned. And there was something about the way he looked at her that made Maria shudder before snatching her gaze away from him. He had no right to look at her in that way—that openly bold and dangerous way. No right at all. There was something about him that made her feel odd and nervous and excited, tingling with the rush of unfamiliar sensations invading her body. That feeling made her angry with herself and even more angry with him for being the cause of it.

Then they were off again.

It was dark when they reached the inn where they were to stay for the night. Pierre followed his passengers inside, carrying the valises. The inn was serviceable and clean, the air permeated with a delicious smell of food. The public room was full of people, mostly men drinking and discussing the worsening state of affairs in Paris. Their entrance attracted looks—secretive, sideways looks, suspicious, unreadable minds behind expressionless faces. Maria shuddered, having no desire to come into contact with any of them. Charles managed to engage two rooms.

‘I think I’ll go straight to my room,’ Maria said. ‘I would like my meal sent up if it can be arranged. I’ve had nothing to eat since midday and I am dying of hunger.’

Charles smiled at this youthful appetite. ‘I’ll see to it. I’ll stay and have supper with Pierre. Go on up. The maid will show you to your room. I’ll see you later.’

As she headed for the stairs an untidily garbed
peasant who had imbibed too much rose from a table and came to stand in front of her as she followed the maid, his smile a lecherous leer. He swept her a low, clumsy bow.

‘Mademoiselle,’
he declared. ‘And who do you belong to, pretty wench?’

‘Madame,’
she corrected him coldly, remembering her part and looking away disdainfully.

The man sought to move. His limbs refused to respond as they should and he teetered precariously on one leg before toppling on to a nearby stool. He raised his gaze, but, seeing only the tall, powerful and glowering figure of the young woman’s husband where the daintier form had been a moment before, he blinked, his eyes owl-like.

The gentleman stood there, smiling his icy smile. ‘The pretty wench belongs to me. She is my wife, so if you know what is good for you you won’t follow her. Understand?’

The man glowered in sullen resentment and looked away. Charles watched Maria climb the stairs, and only then did he turn away to seek out the driver of their coach.

After eating her meal, Maria sat before the bright fire, her thoughts flitting between her aunt and Constance at Chateau Feroc and her home in England. Gradually the night grew quiet. After preparing for bed she slipped between the sheets, thinking it would take her a long time to fall asleep, but after the fatigues of the long journey, added to the comfort of the soft warm bed, she was plunged at once into a deep sleep.

When she woke up in the darkness, it took her a while to realise where she was. She lay listening to the wind rattling against the window panes, but underlying this she heard the sound of gentle breathing. Troubled and uneasy, she lay quite still. The sound came again—a low snore. Fear stirred inside her. There was someone in the room with her. She sat up swiftly, rendered motionless by the scene that confronted her, for in the light of the still-glowing embers of the fire she was horrified to see her escort stretched out in a chair, his legs propped on the chair opposite.

‘Oh!’ she gasped, deeply shocked by the indignity of this discovery.

She had not taken in the sense of his last remark to her when they had parted—that he would see her later, and in the confusion of their arrival, she had forgotten that people who were married shared the same room—and the same bed. She realised that although their marriage was a sham, to allay any awkward questions from suspicious travellers, it was imperative for them to keep up appearances—but he didn’t have to take it so literally—did he?