Read online book «Regency: Innocents & Intrigues: Marrying Miss Monkton / Beauty in Breeches» author Хелен Диксон

Regency: Innocents & Intrigues: Marrying Miss Monkton / Beauty in Breeches
Helen Dickson
A Question of Marriage! Sir Charles Osbourne has made a promise against his better judgement. He will rescue one Miss Maria Monkton and deliver her to her betrothed — a man whose reputation he cares little for. Travelling alone with her protector, Maria finds herself falling in love — but she is promised to another and Charles has no mind for marriage!The Wedding Wager Unconventional orphan Miss Beatrice Fanshaw is determined to win back her ancestral home from the distinguished but disreputable Julius Chadwick. Knowing his weakness for a flutter, she’ll play the Marquess at his own game. A wager is on — the fastest horseman wins! Astride her horse — in her breeches — should she win, Beatrice is poised to name her forfeit! Two BRAND NEW, DAZZLING Regency tales!



REGENCY Innocents & Intrigues
Lose yourself with two gorgeous Regency romances from Helen Dickson

About the Author
HELEN DICKSON was born and lives in South Yorkshire with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.
Regency
Innocents & Intrigues
Marrying
Miss Monkton
Beauty in Breeches
Helen Dickson


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Marrying
Miss Monkton
Helen Dickson

Chapter One
The day was wet and blustery. Charles had slept little, and uneasily, for the problem of going out of his way to call at Chateau Feroc was an added irritant he could do without. He lifted his lean face so that trickles of water ran down his cheeks. The weather suited his mood.
He rode into a small village with one main street. It was no different from any other village in France, with its huddle of poor cottages, a church tower on the outskirts, a windmill and a tavern. A particular stench arose from the gutters to assail his nostrils and touch like icy fingers upon his deepest fears. It was the stench of poverty, the foul, unacceptable smell of humanity at its lowest.
The wind had risen and the fallen leaves went whipping along the ground and collected in roadside ditches. The road along which he slowly rode was narrow and crooked and paved with cobblestones, glistening with the rain. There were few people about, and the few he saw were ragged; when they turned to face him on hearing his horse’s hooves, he could see raw hunger in their eyes, and every time he saw it he wanted to curse.
These were troubled and dangerous times in France. The country was suffering financial difficulties, which stemmed from the heavy costs incurred by France during the war with America, which had left the Treasury bankrupt. But the ordinary masses were of the opinion, and rightly so, that France’s troubles were not helped by lavish court spending. To pay the heavy taxes imposed on them, people starved while the nobility were busy at the elaborate idleness in their grand chateaus or at the palace of Versailles, in the swim of the gay life of Louis XVI’s artificial paradise. Revolution was already apparent in the minds of the masses.
On the edge of the village Charles saw an old man and a child of no more than five or six, a boy, he thought, stooping and carefully picking up sticks and placing them in a sack. It was, he knew, their only means of warmth and to cook the meagre rations that came their way. Stumbling, the old man dropped the sack and his precious kindling tumbled out. The child bent to retrieve them, his fingers young and nimble compared to those of the elder. Charles stopped and dismounted and helped them in their task.
When the sticks had been retrieved, the old man smiled at Charles out of his lined face.
‘My thanks, monsieur,’ he said.
Charles looked at him, wondering how old he was. He knew he was probably many years younger than he looked, but when he asked him, his answer shocked him.
‘Thirty-two.’ His smile broadened when he saw shock register in the stranger’s eyes. ‘Hunger makes old men of us all, monsieur.’
The distant sound of carriage wheels rumbling on the cobbles reached their ears, an impatient drumming that came slowly nearer, growing louder and sounding clearer. All three looked ahead and stepped aside to avoid being run down by the coach and four bowling towards them. The uniformed coachman was lashing the horses, the black coach careering so fast that the wheels were almost lifted clear of the ground, the horses’ hooves making sparks against the cobblestones.
Charles caught a glimpse of its occupant, an elegantly attired young gentlewoman wearing black. The coach was travelling so fast that it was impossible to see her face properly, but his sharp eyes caught a glimpse of a pale face surrounded by black hair.
‘Look at her,’ the peasant growled. ‘Aristocrat! Ere long we’ll make an end to the likes of them and their arrogant breed—and good riddance is what I say. They’ll get what’s coming to them—had it coming for a long time, they have. They’ll be shown no mercy on the day of reckoning.’ So saying he spat on the ground and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
‘You pay your dues to the Seigneur?’
‘I give him everything. I pay to grind my corn at his mill. I pay to transport it across bridges not once but a hundred times. I pay to press my own grapes for wine. When winter comes we go hungry and we have to feed the children on bran and roots, which swell their bellies up; one of my daughters died last winter—a painful death. My wife is too weak to work. We killed the oxen for food, and the bailiffs come to search my house for salt.’
‘They found some?’
He nodded. ‘They fined me all the money I had left. The taxes are eating us up. We have decided to leave the house and take to the road. We shall leave everything—the furniture, the land—everything. Let them take it. With nothing we can’t be taxed.’
‘I am sorry for you,’ Charles said with deep sincerity. Shoving his hand in his pocket and bringing out a louis, Charles handed it to the man. ‘Here, take this. Buy yourself and your family something to eat.’
The man shook his head, making no attempt to take it. ‘Where would I spend a louis? Have you nothing smaller, monsieur? Were I to present such a large coin at the baker’s or the grocer’s or anywhere else, it would raise suspicion and attract the attention of the bailiffs. They would demand to know where I came by such a coin and my assessment would be increased.’
Charles took back the louis and gave him some small coins, not worth as much, but the man was satisfied and stuffed them into his pocket. They would enable him to feed his family for days, if not weeks, if he and his wife were careful.
‘There are terrible times ahead for France,’ Charles said, hoisting himself back into the saddle. ‘There is a great fear. All over the country, the lines are crumbling.’
The man nodded. ‘Aye, monsieur, you are right,’ he said, his voice hoarse with real emotion. His sunken cheeks already wet with the rain, became more so when the tears that gathered in his eyes spilled over. ‘I doubt I shall live to see it.’ Taking the child’s hand, he nodded his thanks and went on his way.
Charles rode on slowly, unable to shake off his meeting with the man and boy. He had seen much suffering since he had come to France. The peasantry was in debt, increasingly resentful—and suffering from the catastrophic effects of the previous year’s bad harvest. The populace blamed the nobility for the high price of grain and was enraged against them.
Since the recent storming of the Bastille in Paris, revolution had spread to the countryside. Mob violence had broken out in many regions. The whole of France was like a tinder box. One strike and there was no knowing what would follow. He knew the temper of the mob. If they saw blood they became like mad wolves. It was the kind of violence that gave Charles many a qualm about the rightness of their cause, for some of the mobs were made up of villainous, evil-smelling brutes, who, he swore to God, had never been starving peasants or anything else but brigands.
He had seen it all, recording it all in his mind, so that he could set it down when he put up in some inn or other, where he would rest for the night before setting off again on his journey back to England. But before embarking for his home country, he had a slight detour to make. To the Chateau Feroc, here in Alsace.
Coming to the next village, Charles had a feeling of unease. Crowds were gathered in the cobbled square in little knots, having suspended their operations to watch a young woman who, against all reason and judgement, with a large basket on her arm was distributing food to a small group of scrawny, hungry children. A carriage, the one that had passed him on the road, waited across the street, the driver seeming uncomfortable and clearly wishing he were somewhere else.
Charles reined to a canter as he rode slowly into the square. He could feel the pulse and panic of the people swirling about him from the very atmosphere beating down on him. There was an ominous silence as he passed and a menacing mutter that rose at his back, and the faces that watched him were questioning, insolent or uneasy.
His progress became slower as he rode towards the woman, fighting down his apprehension and his fear. There was a danger that he could get himself involved in a riot, and he might have to draw his pistol and shoot, for the mob was like an animal, and like an animal it could sense fear.
The woman was perfectly calm, and quite uninterested, he thought, irrationally swinging from the extremes of fear to the limits of exasperation, in the dangers of the situation. She paused in her work and looked up, frowning a little at the sight of him. Dismounting, holding the reins, he moved closer, the children stuffing bread into their mouths with dirty little hands as they scuttled away.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, taking her arm and drawing her aside.
‘And who, may I ask, are you?’ the young woman enquired, looking him up and down with icy disdain and shaking off his hand. There was insolence in the way he stood, in the lean, rangy line of his body, that gave the impression of dangerous vitality, and in the firm set line of his well-shaped mouth. Even the slender brown hand that had gripped her arm recalled the talon of a bird of prey, while the look in those pale blue eyes was unnervingly intent. She was very lovely, but she was maddened by his interference in something she considered none of his concern.
‘It doesn’t matter who I am,’ he snapped, deliberately keeping his voice low. ‘Have you no sense? Take a look around you and then maybe you will understand my concern.’
She did as he told her and studied the groups of people. They were watching her, glaring, the men brutish, openly hostile, quiet and threatening. She looked again at the stranger. ‘These people know me—I do not believe they will harm me.’
‘If you believe that, then you are more foolish than I thought. The quality of your clothes and the mere fact that you have access to food represents authority, and that sets you apart.’
She raised her chin, smarting at the rebuke. ‘The children are hungry. I wanted to bring them food. I’m trying to help them.’
‘By putting yourself in danger?’
‘I know the dangers, but they are more likely to harm you than me.’
This was precisely what Charles himself had thought, and his anger against himself for not having had the moral courage to leave her to take her chance kept him silent.
‘It was kind of you to concern yourself. Thank you.’
‘You have nothing to thank me for,’ Charles said brusquely, ‘but what the devil did you think you hoped to achieve? Can’t you see that it was the height of folly for a lady to bring food to the village at a time such as this? It’s small wonder you weren’t mobbed—it’s still not too late.’
Suddenly the young woman couldn’t answer, for she knew he spoke the truth. Having overheard the servants at the chateau talking in subdued tones as they cleared away the remains of the dinner the night before, saying what was left would have fed the people in the village for a month or more, and how everyone went to bed hungry, especially the small children who did not understand the suffering they were forced to endure, on impulse she had instructed cook to fill a basket of food and come to the village to distribute it to the children. Now, looking around at the hungry, hostile faces, with a quiver of fear she saw her mistake.
‘You are right,’ she said, finding it hard to defend herself because she knew she was in the wrong. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come, but I’ve distributed the food now so I’ll leave.’
They stood face to face.
Charles saw a slender young woman of medium height. Her forehead was wide, her chin slightly pointed, her skin the colour of ivory and she had startling translucent green eyes. They were surrounded by long, thick lashes under delicate black brows that curved like a swallow’s wings. Her skin was flushed at the cheekbones, whether with her indignation or perhaps where the sun had tinted it.
Her raven-black hair was drawn from her face and hidden beneath her bonnet, and yet it still managed to look unconfined. Wisps of soft curls peeked out from beneath the brim, and he had the strangest need to put up a hand and smooth them back. Her jaw was strong, clenched to a defiant angle, and her whole manner spoke of fearlessness, a fearlessness that told him she was afraid of no one, and certainly not of him.
Wearing a black woollen cloak over her black dress, she could not be mistaken for anything other than what she so evidently was, a lady of quality.
She saw a man dressed in a black frock coat, black trousers and black leather knee boots, a white silk cravat wound and knotted round his neck. He was tall, lean and arrogant as men of consequence often are. His narrowed eyes were pale blue and penetrating, with silver flecks in them. They were surrounded by long, curling dark lashes. His hair beneath his hat was a shade lighter than her own and just as thick. It was drawn from his handsome face and secured with a thin black ribbon at the nape.
Charles looked sternly at her. ‘I don’t suppose you told anyone you were coming here—what you were doing?’
She shook her head. ‘They would have stopped me.’
‘And they would have been right to. Your family ought to punish you most severely for this escapade and curtail all your outings in future. Go home, and should you have any more noble intentions, I advise you to think again. Shall I escort you?’
She stepped back, her look telling him that she deeply resented his high-handed attitude. What right had he to criticise and chastise her? ‘Certainly not,’ she answered tightly. ‘I can take care of myself. I will go my own way.’
Charles watched her carriage drive off before mounting his horse and riding away to find an inn where he could stay the night.
It was a subdued Maria that rode back in the carriage to Chateau Feroc, her empty basket on the seat beside her. Putting the obnoxious stranger out of her mind, she stared wide-eyed out of the window. Even though the scenery was marred by the lowering clouds, it was hard to imagine the turmoil that beset France when such a beautiful landscape unfolded before her eyes. But how she wished she were back in England, at Gravely, her home, where she had spent the happiest time of her life.
Maria’s father, Sir Edward Monkton, had expressed in his will his desire that she be made the ward of the Countess de Feroc, his deceased wife’s sister, until she was of an age to marry Colonel Henry Winston. Colonel Winston had obtained a well-paid administrative post in the ranks of the East India Company, which was where he had become acquainted with her father. It was six years since Colonel Winston had been home to England, six years since he had visited Sir Edward at Gravely Manor.
Having contracted various ailments whilst in India, her father had suffered greatly from ill health. Aware that his time was limited and desperate to settle Maria’s future before fortune hunters began presenting themselves at Gravely, when Colonel Winston approached him as a possible suitor for her hand—his tanned face and colourful talk of India reviving memories of his own years spent in that country—he had accepted his suit, satisfied that his daughter’s future would be secure.
Maria, though just thirteen at the time, had not objected, for she had become extremely fond of the handsome, dashing colonel, who went out of his way to talk to her, to flatter her and to tell her of his exciting life he led in India. Of course the wedding could not go ahead until Maria was of age and by then Colonel Winston would have served another six years in India.
When Maria was fourteen years old, her arrival at Chateau Feroc had made an unfavourable impression—an impression that was equally unfavourable to her.
The chateau was so very different from her home in England. The contrast was startling, the warm, happy and colourful environment that she had left behind so very different to the cold and stately French chateau. Here she was met with strict discipline and hostility from family and servants alike. Not even Constance, her spoilt cousin, had made her welcome. Driven in upon herself by the circumstances of this new life reduced Maria to a state of loneliness, despair and dumb misery. Her silence would have aroused compassion and understanding even in such a hard, dispassionate person as the Countess, but Maria’s quietness and her desire for solitude was put down to petulance and resentment.
It was mid-morning when Charles approached the Chateau Feroc. On all sides of the magnificent house large formal gardens were enclosed by freshly trimmed box hedges, with long, elegant walks peopled with statues, and urns brimming with flowers, and ornate, soaring fountains. Arrogant peacocks displaying their full, colourful plumage strutted on lawns like green velvet.
An air of peace and serenity prevailed over it all—in marked contrast to the character of its owner who, he was told when he asked to see the Count de Feroc, was being interred in the family tomb in the local church this very day.
Turning his horse, he headed off in the direction of the church. The path leading up to the gates was lined with faces bearing every expression from sadness to sympathy, curiosity and hostility for the man whose demand for higher taxes had made their lives intolerable.
All eyes were on the church as people began filing out in a subdued procession. Charles dismounted and removed his hat as a mark of respect for the dead Count and his family. He stood apart, a quiet observer as they were handed up into waiting carriages. Mourners were few, for people of the upper classes were afraid to travel far in these troubled times.
His eyes were drawn to the impressive and stately figure that could only be the Countess. She was followed by two women, their heads bowed, and like the Countess they were dressed in deepest black, their black gloved hands clutching their prayer books. Veils fell from their bonnets’ edges concealing their features, but failed to disguise their youth. Charles’s eyes were drawn to the taller of the two. She was of slender build, and there was something about the way she moved that he found vaguely familiar.
Watching them drive away, he felt it was inappropriate for him to intrude on the funeral party and the Countess’s grief, so he returned to the inn until the next day. But he would wait no longer. It was dangerous for him to remain in France, and if he were apprehended he would more than likely be hanged or shot or beaten by the mob. He must leave France without further delay.
As Charles followed the imposing servant in white wig and midnight blue livery up the great white marble staircase of the Chateau Feroc, he was surrounded by all the graceful elegance of eighteenth-century France. Here, it was gilded scrollwork, innumerable tall mirrors that seemed to double the house by reflection, exquisite porcelain, heavy silks and thick carpets and glittering chandeliers.
He went along a corridor and was admitted into a high-vaulted room, with all the elegance and luxuries befitting a family of the nobility. The furniture was in the mode of the present reign, Louis XVI, delicate and fine, the beads of the crystal chandelier catching the firelight and brightening the whole room.
Madam la Countess—an English woman who had met and married the Count de Feroc on a visit to France with her parents—received him alone. She was a stiff, thin, elderly woman with grey hair and very pale skin. In deepest mourning, she presented an imposing figure in a high-necked gown of heavy black silk. Grim faced, she rose from her chair when he entered and calmly watched him approach. There was no sign of grief for her dead husband on her face.
Charles stopped in front of her and inclined his head. When he straightened up it was to find himself looking into a pair of coldly critical pale eyes. Immediately he could see she was one of those aristocrats who had her feelings buried under deep layers of social propriety, the sort who might stare icily at someone, or turn away, affecting indifference.
‘Thank you for receiving me so promptly, Countess,’ he said in flawless French. ‘May I offer my deepest condolences on your loss.’
‘Sir Charles Osbourne! Welcome to Chateau Feroc.’ The Countess spoke English to the Englishman, her voice clear and incisive.
‘Please speak to me in French, Countess,’ he requested with calm gravity. ‘These are difficult times and servants hear and speculate too much.’
‘As you wish,’ she replied coolly.
‘I apologise for my inopportune arrival. Of course I had no idea of the Count’s demise until I arrived.’
‘How could you? It was very sudden.’ The Countess had never been particularly fond of her husband, and had regarded him with tolerance rather than affection. ‘You are here on behalf of Colonel Winston?’ she remarked, resuming her seat and indicating with a wave of her hand that was almost royal that he should occupy the chair across from her.
‘That is so, Countess—to escort your niece, Miss Monkton, to England.’
‘I know. I was expecting you.’
‘Colonel Winston said he would write to you apprising you of my arrival and the nature of my mission. You have received his letter?’
‘Yes, some weeks ago. We expected you earlier than this.’
‘I did not come direct. The recent troubles make travelling difficult. I also had some matters of my own to take care of first.’
‘You have been in Paris?’
‘I have come from there.’
‘And are things as bad as they say?’
He nodded grimly. ‘The rioting grows worse by the day. Nobles are fleeing the city—and France, if they can manage it without being apprehended.’
‘Then we can be thankful that we do not live in Paris, Sir Charles. So, Colonel Winston is no longer in India,’ she said, folding her hands in her lap, her thin-lipped mouth relaxing slightly.
‘No. He has been in England six months.’
‘And eager to reacquaint himself with Maria, he informed me. He feels that to delay the marriage would be unnecessary and harsh. You must know him well. He must think highly of you to entrust you with the responsibility of escorting his betrothed to England.’
‘We are not friends, Countess,’ Charles was quick to inform her—Henry Winston was an unsavoury character and not a man he would wish to count as one of his close associates. ‘We are—acquainted. No more than that.’
‘I see.’ The Countess studied him thoughtfully. ‘Do you disapprove of Colonel Winston?’
‘It’s not a matter of disapproval, Countess. Our meetings have been infrequent.’
‘And yet he asked you to escort Maria to England.’
‘For reasons of his own he was unable to come himself. I was coming to see my own family—my mother is French, from the south. Everyone in Britain is alarmed by the news that crosses the channel. I was concerned for my family.’
‘Your mother still lives in France?’
‘No. She married an Englishman—my father—and chose to remain in England when he died. Colonel Winston was worried that Miss Monkton might become caught up in the troubles and wanted her to get out. When he heard I was leaving for France, he approached me to ask if I would see her safely to England.’
‘And you agreed, without having met her.’
‘My father and Sir Edward Monkton were close friends for many years. They were in India together. I remember him as being a very fine and noble man. I also owe him a great, personal debt.’
‘Tell me.’
‘When I was a boy my mother and I were washed away while crossing a swollen river. Sir Edward came to our rescue, putting his own life at risk. Without his bravery I would not be here now. It is for that reason that I agreed to escort Miss Monkton to England. While in India I came into contact with Colonel Winston on numerous occasions. He made no secret of how Sir Edward had been easily manipulated into agreeing to his betrothal to Miss Monkton. It was a matter of great amusement to him. I feel under an obligation to protect Sir Edward’s daughter and I have made it my duty to try to stop her marrying Colonel Winston when the time comes. Will she have any objections to leaving France?’
‘Not at all,’ the Countess answered crisply. ‘All Maria talks about is going home and marrying the Colonel.’
‘She has not seen him for six years. She will find him much changed.’
‘As he will Maria. She is no longer a child.’
‘And you, Countess? Will you and your daughter not accompany us to England?’
The Countess studied him for a moment in silence, contemplating his question and curious as to what had prompted him to ask. ‘Ah,’ she said, narrowing her eyes on him. ‘Would I be correct in assuming you are about to try to persuade me to leave my France?’
Charles’s firm lips curved in a slight smile. ‘You are, Countess. I sincerely hope I will succeed. I would be happy to escort you and your daughter, along with Miss Monkton, to England. France is in great turmoil and every day things get worse. There is no organisation in the country, only chaos everywhere. I believe you are in mortal danger, and that you are at risk of your life—I would not like to be a noble in France now. Very soon you will find yourself alone and friendless, and prey to all kinds of dangers.’
The Countess smiled thinly. ‘I think you exaggerate. I hear rumours—most of it nonsense, of course. My husband was of the opinion that the fear is spread to provoke disorder so that it will bring about anarchy. Rumours of conspiracy and crime, reports of disaster, spring up everywhere, both by word of mouth and by writing. It is the panic mongers you have to fear.’
Charles’s expression tightened. ‘I shall hope very much to be proved wrong, but it seems—unlikely. I am staying at a local tavern and I hear things—that some of your own servants have run off and joined the people. The peasants are in such a state of revolt that they are ready to commit any crime. Indeed, in this very parish, they talk openly about setting fire to the chateau. I urge you, if you do not think of yourself, then think of your daughter.’
The Countess raised her head imperiously and gave him a hard look. ‘Constance will remain here with me.’
‘Being English will not save you, Countess. English law cannot reach you here. You were the Count’s wife. The mob will not see beyond that.’
‘Are you saying that we should all leave immediately, that you think I need saving?’
He nodded. ‘You must leave quickly. I took the liberty of having false travelling papers drawn up for that eventuality.’
The Countess’s brows rose with surprise. ‘You did? How did you manage that?’
Charles’s face remained closed. ‘I know the right people.’
‘I see. Well, I will not pry into the whys and wherefores, sir, of how these things are done, but I must tell you that you have wasted your time. But is it safe to travel? If there is danger, would it not be safer to stay here?’
‘There is no safety anywhere, least of all in the chateaus of France.’
‘No one would dare attack the chateau. I know the people hereabouts. They have always looked to us for their livelihood and they will continue to do so.’
God give me strength, prayed Charles, setting his teeth. It was no use. She did not even now realise the magnitude of this terror that was overtaking them. He was tempted to ask—what livelihood would that be? The people you speak of are starving because of the likes of you and your exorbitant taxes, but instead he said calmly, as though reasoning with a fractious child, ‘Because of who you are, I urge you to flee the country.’
‘This is my home. I feel perfectly safe. I have no intention of—fleeing. If things do get worse then of course I shall consider leaving, but I am confident that they won’t.’
A mildly tolerant smile touched Charles’s handsome visage, but the glint in the pale blue eyes was hard as steel. Could there be any greater display of contempt for the hardships the people were facing? While ordinary people had starvation staring them in the face day after day, the Countess was blind to the offence the ordinary French people took to their self-indulgent plutocratic life style.
‘If you don’t wish to make mourners of your friends, Countess, I suggest you leave with us.’
‘You do much to fan the flames of discontent with such foolish talk, sir. I am sorry. I have made my decision.’
Charles shifted in his chair impatiently, holding his irritation in check. He could see he was wasting his breath—she had no intention of relenting. She was adamant, blinkered about the atrocities going on around her, and very foolish.
‘I am sorry to hear that. However, I will leave you the papers—but you will have to make your own way and travel as peasants, Countess. It will be difficult, I know, and will need much planning on your part and assistance from people you can trust. You would never reach the Channel otherwise. You do realise that Miss Monkton will be very much alone when she arrives in England, and very dependent on Colonel Winston.’
The Countess raised her head imperiously. ‘As her betrothed, that is the way of things.’
‘And you are comfortable with that?’
The Countess looked a little taken aback as she met his steady gaze. ‘Comfortable? But it is what the girl has wanted ever since her father died. Why should I be uncomfortable about that?’
‘Because Sir Edward placed the responsibility for her upbringing in your hands. You are her guardian. Have you no wish to see for yourself the sort of man she is betrothed to?’
‘I have no need to. I have listened to what you have said, but Colonel Winston is a gentleman, having seen long and honourable service with the East India Company. He is eminently suitable to marry my niece.’
‘How can you know that, when you have never met him?’ Charles persisted.
‘Maria’s father, my brother-in-law, knew him well. He liked and trusted him enough to agree to a betrothal between them. That is good enough for me.’
‘I beg your pardon, Countess, but when he agreed to the betrothal Sir Edward was an ill man. I imagine he was ignorant of Colonel Winston’s passion for pleasure—for drinking and gaming. I do not lie to you. Colonel Winston is almost fifty years old, old enough to be your niece’s father.’
The Countess remained unmoved. ‘It is not unusual for young ladies to marry older gentlemen. Of course all men drink, and on occasion drink far too much and behave accordingly. But wives must not make an issue of such things. My brother-in-law placed Maria in my care until the time when she was of an age to marry Colonel Winston. She is nineteen years old. She will be under your protection until you deliver her to her betrothed. When she leaves the chateau I shall consider my obligation to her discharged.’
Charles looked at her for a long moment. His eyes had darkened with anger and his mouth had closed in a hard, unpleasant line. He was unable to believe the Countess could cast her responsibility to her niece off so callously, to send her into the clutches of a man who would use her ill. It was like sending a lamb to the wolves.
Sadly Miss Monkton’s father’s judgement about the prospective bridegroom had been seriously impaired. His eyes were too dim to see what Charles would have seen—the calculating, dangerous look in the Colonel’s eye. In those days he’d had the body of Adonis and the face of an angel, and was as full of vice as the devil.
‘You must not forget the fortune Miss Monkton represents. The prospect of being able to retire a rich man and preside over Gravely appeals strongly to his vanity. He will go through your niece’s wealth like water in a fast-flowing stream the minute he gets his hands on it. Colonel Winston left the Company in disgrace—an unsavoury scandal concerning his neglect of duty, which resulted in many lives being lost.’
‘Then he must have had good reason,’ the Countess replied, her tone falling just a little short of sounding flippant.
‘He was found in a brothel, drunk out of his mind, the following day.’
‘I see. I would appreciate it if you did not tell my niece of Colonel Winston’s … unsavoury habits—although personally I wouldn’t worry about it. You do see that, don’t you?’
Charles did see, and he was sickened by it. He saw that the Countess had no fondness for her niece and that she was willing to send the girl into the lion’s den without a qualm and impatient to do so, with no concern for her future protection. That she could do this was nothing short of despicable and had Charles quietly seething with anger.
‘Then you must forgive me, Countess, if I say that you are being extremely naïve. I have given you the facts and you choose to ignore them. I can do no more. But by doing nothing to prevent the marriage of a young girl to a man of his sort, it will not be long before she is broken in mind, body and spirit.’
The Countess looked a little taken aback at the harshness of his tone and his blunt speaking and she stiffened indignantly. ‘You exaggerate, sir. I know my niece,’ she told him frostily. ‘If you are worried about what she will do when she reaches Gravely, you need have no worries on that score. She is a sensible girl. Level-headed like her mother. When she reaches England she will see for herself and make up her own mind as to whether or not she will marry Colonel Winston—and she will. I have every confidence that Colonel Winston will lose no time in making her his wife.’
Charles, who had turned his head towards the door when he thought he heard a sound, spun round and looked at her again, thoroughly repelled by her attitude. ‘It is precisely on that account,’ he said fiercely, his eyes flashing, ‘that I hoped you would accompany her. I know very little about Miss Monkton, but from what you have told me she appears to have cherished a romantic and childish attachment for the man. In your care you could protect and support her when she discovers, as she will, the impossibility of marrying Colonel Winston.’
The Countess returned his gaze with a coldly smiling blandness that told its own story. ‘I think you should meet my niece. She will tell you herself how much she wants to return to England. It is six years since her father died. Six years since she left Gravely.’
‘Over six years since she saw Colonel Winston.’
‘That too, but as I said, in the end she will make up her own mind.’
‘As I always do, Aunt,’ a voice rang out from across the room.
The Countess and Charles looked towards the door to see a young woman standing there.
Charles rose to his feet, recognising her as the young woman he had met in the village the previous day distributing food to the children. Closing the door softly behind her, she moved towards him; he was struck by her proud, easy carriage, her clear skin and the striking colour of her blue-black hair, drawn from her face into a neat chignon. She was stately, immensely dignified, her face quite expressionless, but underneath he sensed that she had overheard some of his conversation with the Countess and that she was quietly seething.
‘Sir Charles, this is Maria, Colonel Winston’s future wife. Maria, meet Sir Charles Osbourne. He is to escort you to England.’
When Maria stood in front of him, Charles bowed his head and murmured a few words of conventional greeting. But when he raised his head a sudden feeling of unease caused him to look at her with a start, his scalp prickling. She was studying him with cool interest, her expression immobile and guarded. His eyes met the steady jade-tinted gaze, and for one discomforting moment it seemed that she was staring into the very heart of him, getting the measure of him, of his faults and failings. He had never seen eyes that contained more energy and depth.
It was not until she began to talk that he realised the depth of her charm. Her voice was low, beautifully modulated, and her French was a joy to hear. Everything about her fascinated him, drew him to her, and he felt a stirring of interest as he looked into the glowing green eyes, the passionate face of the young woman before him.
Maria found herself gazing into the eyes of the man she had seen in the village the day before. Her lips tightened ominously. ‘You! So you are the man Colonel Winston has sent to take me to England?’
‘He did not send me, Miss Monkton. He approached me and asked me if I would escort you when he heard I was coming to France.’
The light blue eyes rested on her tight face and she thought irately that he was aware of her dislike and amused by it. ‘I see. I do not know what you meant when you said to my aunt that when I reach England I will discover the impossibility of marrying Colonel Winston and nor do I care to—and he will not force me into marriage. No one could do that, sir.’
‘He—is much changed since you last saw him. You must be prepared for that.’
She smiled. ‘As I am changed. That is only to be expected after six years. It is quite normal.’
‘I do not speak lightly, Miss Monkton.’
Maria heard him with growing annoyance. There was much she wanted to say to him, but not with her aunt’s eyes watching her every move and her ears missing nothing of what was said. She disliked his easy manner and the steady gaze of his light blue eyes, but his last words awoke an echo in her mind, of her own doubts about marrying Henry. When his letter had arrived informing them to expect Sir Charles Osbourne who was to escort her back to England, she had experienced a joy like she had never known—joy because she was going home to Gravely, a joy that had little to do with her becoming reunited with Henry.
Of late there was a doubt inside her mind concerning her betrothed, like a small persistent maggot nibbling away. Perhaps it was that she had got older, had read more into his letters, which had become shorter as time went on. The writing was scrawled as if hurriedly written—as if he found writing to her more of a duty than a pleasure. Whatever it was, the spell had begun to lose some of the lustre of its first potent charm.
But she would not expose her doubts to this arrogant Englishman and she thrust them into the background of her mind.
‘You do not like Colonel Winston, do you, sir?’
‘No,’ he replied truthfully. ‘I don’t.’
‘These are troubled times. I am sure you have more important things to do than assist a complete stranger across France.’
‘I do have important matters that occupy me.’
‘Then if you dislike him, why did you agree?’
‘One of the reasons is because my father and your own were friends. They were in India together.’
‘Oh—I see!’ she faltered. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘How could you?’
‘And the other reasons?’
He smiled. ‘There were several—which I shall tell you about on the journey. When I became aware that you were to return to England and the difficulties you may encounter, I was happy to offer my services. My father would have expected nothing less of me than to help the daughter of an old and dear friend.’
‘Then I am grateful to you, sir. I will be pleased to avail myself of your protection and assistance on the journey. How are we to travel?’
‘By coach.’
‘Which Chateau Feroc will provide,’ the Countess offered.
‘Thank you, but I must decline your offer. It must be an ordinary equipage, nothing too grand, you understand. I will acquire the coach and two post horses. There must be nothing in your baggage to give you away,’ he told Maria with a note of authority. ‘All your fine clothes and any jewels you might have must be left behind.’
‘I have no jewels, sir. Everything I have of value—jewels my mother left me—is in England in the strong room at Gravely.’
‘Good. We shall travel as husband and wife—Citizen Charles Duval and his wife Maria, visiting relatives in a village near Calais. We shall speak French at all times. Consequences could be dire if we are heard speaking English. We are both fluent in French, so if we are stopped no one will suspect we are anything other than what we seem. Memorise your assumed surname if you will. You will dress in plain clothes as befits the wife of a cloth merchant of modest means. Good clothes are enough to brand a person, as the mob attribute fine dress to nobles and rich bourgeois.’
‘And my maid?’
‘Will remain behind.’
Her delicate brows rose. ‘This is all very unconventional.’
His eyes sliced to hers. ‘These are not ordinary circumstances.’
‘Nevertheless Maria cannot travel alone with you without a maid. Why—it’s quite unthinkable,’ the Countess remarked, her expression one of shock.
‘That is how it will be. I am not planning a tea party, Countess. I am trying to execute a plan to get your niece to England with her life intact. On this occasion etiquette and protocol don’t count.’
‘When must we leave?’ Maria asked.
‘In the morning. We must prepare for the journey at once. It is essential that we have food and warm clothes.’ He turned to the Countess. ‘I must go. Have Miss Monkton brought to the inn at first light. I consider it safer that the servants should know nothing of her departure. For our own safety the driver will know us under our assumed names.’
After politely taking his leave, he went out, striding along the corridor to the stairs. On hearing the soft patter of running feet and the soft swish of skirts he turned, pausing when he saw Miss Monkton hurrying towards him.

Chapter Two
‘There is something you wish to ask about the journey?’ Charles asked.
‘No, not that. It is about Colonel Winston. Why do you dislike him so much?’
Charles’s face hardened and the perfectly amicable expression in his eyes disappeared. ‘My dislike is neither here nor there. I am not concerned about Colonel Winston. Can you not at least show some gratitude towards the people who are trying to help you?’
Maria raised her head. ‘Yes, of course I am grateful, and it was ill mannered of me not to show it. I apologise, but please do not abuse Colonel Winston to me.’
‘I will not abuse him to you and nor will I offend your ears with matters that are beyond your comprehension, but I strongly urge you not to marry him.’
Maria’s eyes were suddenly bright with anger. ‘You say this to me. You, a perfect stranger.’ She saw the sudden anger flare in his eyes. Her chin lifted haughtily and she favoured him with a glance of biting contempt. ‘My father was a good judge of character and thought well of him. He would never have agreed to the betrothal if he was not of good character.’
‘And you, Miss Monkton? How well do you know your betrothed?’
‘I have got to know him through his letters.’
‘That is hardly the same.’
‘It is good enough for me.’
Charles sighed, turning away. ‘Who can claim to know what moves a woman’s heart? At all events,’ he went on in a harder voice, looking back at her, ‘your betrothed is not a fit person to wed a decently bred girl, but it is none of my business, of course. I have said my piece. I can do no more just now.’
He saw the lovely face turn white with anger, and he knew a fraction of a second before she raised her hand what she intended. His own hand shot up and he caught her wrist before she could deal the blow to his cheek. She gasped at the quickness of his reaction and to her fury he unexpectedly laughed.
‘I see I have misjudged you. Perhaps you will be a good match for Colonel Winston after all.’ Releasing her wrist, he turned on his heel and proceeded to walk away.
Maria watched him go, the bright colour flaming up in her cheeks. ‘One more thing, sir,’ she said to his retreating back. ‘I heard what you said to my aunt about me cherishing a romantic and childish attachment for Colonel Winston. How dare you presume to know that?’
Charles’s jaw tightened, his humour of a moment before gone. So this girl thought she could impose on him with her queenly airs. Furious with himself, more than with her, he took refuge in anger. ‘So much the worse for you,’ he said grimly. ‘I will not mention it again. I will escort you to England and Colonel Winston, but I will not go so far as to wish you joy in your union.’
Coldly furious, Charles had no intention of exerting himself further in this matter just now. Having seen much service with the army in India and returning to England on the death of his father, when a prominent member of the Whig opposition found him about to travel to France on his mother’s bequest to see how her relatives fared during these troubled times, he had asked him to secretly collect and report information on the events in Paris. Happy to oblige an old friend, Charles had agreed.
With this and other things on his mind, he’d had little time to think about the problem of Colonel Winston’s bride. Having fulfilled his commitments, travelling miles out of his way to Alsace to collect Miss Monkton, he had done what he thought was right by informing her guardian of certain aspects of Colonel Winston’s character. As far as he was concerned he had discharged this office and his conscience was clear. But he was encouraged, for, despite her youth, Miss Monkton clearly possessed both character and courage, and was quite capable of breaking off the engagement at the last minute if necessary.
Maria arrived at the inn at first light. She rode her favourite horse, her intention being to leave it at the inn where a groom would collect it later. She was dismounting when she caught sight of the dark forbidding figure striding towards her with the silent sureness of a wolf. This morning he seemed even taller, lean and superbly fit. In fact, if it were not for the arrogant authority stamped in his firm jawline and the cynicism in his cold eyes, Maria would have thought him breathtakingly handsome.
Looking her up at down and satisfied that she would not attract any untoward attention in her plain black woollen dress, which she had obtained from her maid with another carefully packed with other items necessary for such a long journey in her valise, he said brusquely, ‘Come. It is time.’
Their departure occasioned no remark. Once in the inn yard, they were caught up in a fierce gust of wind that blew rain into their faces. Maria breathed in deeply with a sudden exhilaration. The wind smacked of freedom, of England and home, and suddenly she discovered a new meaning to her flight.
Her initial thought when Charles Osbourne had told her of his plans had been undoubtedly to go home, but now as she felt the wind on her face it came to her suddenly that there was a fierce joy in severing all ties with Chateau Feroc and France. Impulsively she threw back her head and laughed, as if she were offering herself up to be carried away by it.
Her effervescent laughter caused Charles to look at her in fascination and curiosity. ‘I imagined you would be apprehensive about the journey. It will be a hard flight.’
‘I don’t care,’ she said, still laughing. ‘I love the wind. And besides, I am happy. I am going home, which is what I have dreamed about for so long.’
The rigid lines of Charles’s face relaxed. ‘I know. Come—wife.’
His eyes twinkled somewhat wickedly in the grey morning light. Maria looked at him sharply. ‘Only for the duration of the journey to Calais,’ she quipped, quick to resent his easy dismissal of her grudge against him. And yet despite her attempt to remain cool and detached, her heart beat out an uncontrollable rhythm of excitement.
‘I hope you don’t harbour an aversion to being alone with me for such a lengthy period,’ he said, taking her hand to assist her into the coach.
‘Why should I?’ Maria enquired quizzically, pausing with her foot on the step to look at him. ‘Unless, of course, you are a rogue at heart.’
‘I may well be,’ Charles acknowledged, lifting to his lips the slender fingers of his assumed wife, letting his warm, moist mouth linger on her knuckles in a slow, sensual caress.
Maria became aware of a strange quivering in the pit of her body and realised her breath was being snatched inwards when his lips came into contact with her skin. Sliding her hand from his, she lifted her skirts to step aboard and immediately felt her companion’s hand beneath her elbow aiding her ascent. She settled herself on the seat while striving to control her composure.
His eyes danced teasingly up into hers, his lips curved into a smile. ‘You could be in danger. You are by far the most enticing female I have seen in a long time.’
As Maria listened to the warm and mellow tone of his voice, and her gaze lit upon that handsomely chiselled visage, her eyes were drawn into the snare, and for a moment she found herself susceptible to the appeal of that wondrous smile. She glanced at him reflectively, wondering if she should read anything into his statement, and raised her brows meaningfully.
‘Perhaps I should warn you that if warranted, I am not above defending myself.’
Charles had the feeling that what she said was true—and her intended slap the day before proved that. He laughed to ease her fears, while his glowing eyes delved into hers. ‘I am sure you could do so admirably, so be confident of my good intentions. I shall take care to treat you as I would a wife—with the utmost respect.’
Maria cast an apprehensive eye toward him as he climbed in, but much to her relief, he settled across from her. As he caught her gaze, he grinned.
‘I fear the nearness of you would completely destroy my good intentions. It is safer if I sit here.’
Maria relaxed back in the seat. She could only hope that his restraint would continue and her resistance would not be tested.
The carriage was discreet, with no outward signs of wealth beyond a pair of post horses. The driver, Pierre Lamont, who knew them by their assumed names and had been paid an enormous amount of money to drive them to Calais, clicked his tongue as the whip curved gracefully through the air and the conveyance lurched into motion. When they had passed from the cobbled inn yard, the long journey back to Gravely had begun.
Maria had left Chateau Feroc without regret. However, despite the cold reserve with which her aunt and Constance had always treated her, she did feel a slight pang of remorse. Even at the last minute her aunt had refused to give way to sentiment and embrace her, but Maria was surprised to see how much distress Constance displayed.
Constance did embrace her, her eyes in her white face wide and full of tears. Maria felt her tremble as she clung to her. It was only then that she realised how afraid her cousin was of remaining at the chateau and that she secretly wished she was leaving for England with Maria.
In that one brief moment Maria saw Constance not as the self-obsessed cousin, whose sole interest lay in her pretty face and her ability to attract the sons of the nobility as well-to-do as themselves, but as a young girl frightened for her life. Maria had held her, surprised to feel her own throat constrict with pain and tears brimming in her eyes.
‘I wish I was going with you,’ Constance had whispered earnestly, ‘but Mama won’t hear of it.’
‘Then defy your mother, Constance.’
‘I cannot. I could not go unless she came too.’
‘I wish you were coming with me,’ Maria had replied with heartfelt understanding. ‘If you can persuade her and you manage to get out of France, you must come to me at Gravely. Do you promise?’
With tears running down her cheeks, Constance had clung fiercely to Maria for a moment longer, and then, tearing herself free, she fled into the house.
Maria had turned away, too afraid to think of her cousin’s fate.
As the driver urged the horses into a faster pace, Maria braced herself against the sway of the carriage. Glancing across at her companion, she was suddenly reminded that she was going to be completely alone with a man for the first time in her life, a man who was as handsome of face as he was of physique—and with a boldness that gave her a sense of unease.
She knew nothing about him, and what, she asked herself, was he doing in France at this present time? She could not exactly understand what she was doing with him and why this stranger should have interested himself in her affairs to the extent of coming halfway across France to find her. Had he some ulterior motive? He might even be a spy—British or French, she had no way of knowing, since she knew nothing about spying.
During the journey perhaps she could turn the conversation to draw him out, to get him to talk about himself. In some strange way he both attracted and intrigued her. She looked into his light blue eyes and the expression there made her heart trip and beat a little faster. His long compassionate mouth curled in a slight smile.
‘We have a long way to go,’ he said, when they were settled, ‘so don’t make this harder on yourself than it need be. You’re stuck with me for a few days so you may as well accept it. Shall we declare a truce for the duration of the journey?’
‘Yes, I think we must,’ she concurred.
‘We shall also forgo formality and use our given names. It is for the best, you understand.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, removing her bonnet and dropping it on the seat beside her.
‘I’m sorry the Countess and her daughter would not come with us.’
Maria felt a small tremor of misgiving. ‘You fear the chateau will be attacked?’
He nodded gravely. ‘It is only a matter of time. Your aunt is a stubborn woman.’
‘Yes, yes, she is. I sincerely hope they come to no harm.’ Maria stared out of the window at the passing scenery. It was all familiar, but soon they would pass into fresh territory that was alien to her. In the grey light it looked dismal. ‘I hate France,’ she said in a small voice, her expression subdued.
‘I sense you were not happy at Chateau Feroc?’
‘I do not mean to sound ungrateful or uncharitable but, indeed, I could not wait to leave. It is a cold, joyless place with no laughter.’
‘And you like to laugh, do you?’
‘Yes, although I have been at the chateau so long I fear I might have forgotten how to.’ Inexplicably the laughter rekindled in her eyes and she laughed again, just for the sheer joy of laughing, and when she looked into her companion’s eyes, she experienced a sudden relief of tension.
Charles smiled a little crookedly, thinking her courageous and fresh and very lovely. Despite her youth and inexperience she was no vapourish miss who would swoon at the first hurdle. ‘You should laugh more often,’ he murmured softly. ‘It suits you.’
She sighed. ‘There is nothing to feel happy about in France just now. What will happen, do you think? You have been to Paris?’ He nodded. ‘Was it very bad?’
‘I saw much blood shed by the mob. I have had to ask myself, where has the dignity, the self-control, the resolution gone in the France of today? But the people have their grievances—it would seem with some justification. The rise in prices and rents, as well as the taxes they have to pay, are increasingly burdensome. It is only right and natural that they want change.
‘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?
Quite suddenly the numbness left her and gave way to sheer horror and panic. Scrambling out of bed, she crossed towards him. He had removed his boots and was attired in his breeches and white lawn shirt. She stared at him with disbelieving eyes, not knowing what to think or how to feel. His dark hair was ruffled and a stray lock fell across his brow, and the hard planes of his face were softer in sleep. Without the cynical twist to his mouth, he looked vulnerable and incredibly youthful, and she noticed how outrageously thick his eyelashes were.
For a man who was involved in the dangerous business of reaching Calais unmolested, each road they took beset with dangers, he seemed offensively at ease.
Sensing her closeness, he was suddenly alert and his eyes snapped open. As he met her hostile gaze, his brows arched in surprise, and a slow appreciative smile spread across his lips.
It was a disconcertingly pleasant smile, and the fact that even through a haze of social embarrassment she could recognise it as such, increased rather than diminished her hostility.
‘You cannot be aware of the impropriety of such a visit to a lady’s bedchamber at this hour, or you would scarcely have ventured to knock on my door, let alone admit yourself.’
‘When I came in you looked in a state of delicious comfort and I certainly had no intention of disturbing you.’
Maria flushed. She didn’t like to think he might have stood watching her as she slept. Not knowing how to deal with a situation of this nature, she tried to distract herself from her inner turmoil and avoid his gaze that seemed to burn into her by watching the occasional spark erupt from the glowing embers in the hearth, but she found it impossible when every fibre of her being was on full alert to Charles’s presence.
When she saw his eyes sweep over her body, even though her nightdress was concealing, she felt her modesty, so long intact, was being invaded by this man’s gaze, this stranger, who was beginning to alarm her awkward, unawakened senses.
Folding her arms across her chest in an attempt to protect her modesty and fervently wishing she had a shawl or something else to throw over her nightdress, she glowered at him.
‘Unfortunately I have nothing with which to cover myself.’
Charles chuckled softly. Even in these extreme circumstances she felt it unspeakably shocking that he should see her like this. If she knew how long he had ogled her during her sleep, she’d realise it was far too late for her to try to salvage her modesty.
‘That’s a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted. I assure you, it would not wipe from my mind the loveliness I savoured when I came in.’
Maria gasped, her cheeks burning. ‘Have you no shame? How long did you stand there looking at me?’
It took an Herculean effort for Charles to drag his gaze away from the shape of her body outlined beneath her nightdress in order to meet her gaze. ‘Long enough to know that the sight of you in your bed was sufficient to waken the slumbering dragon in me that I fear will not be easily appeased.’
In spite of his unrelenting stare, his glowing eyes devouring her as if he were strongly tempted to do more than just stare, Maria was distracted and felt a frisson of alarm when she saw he had his long fingers clasped round the butt of a pistol by his side. Her throat went dry. ‘Do you make a habit of sleeping with a pistol?’
‘Only when I deem it necessary.’
‘And is it—tonight, I mean?’
‘I think so. I have no wish to alarm you, but it’s as well to be on our guard at all times.’ He placed the pistol on the table beside him.
‘Charles, you must leave my room. You cannot sleep here. Not with me. It—it’s just not right.’
He sat up, dropping his feet to the floor and pushing his hair back from his face. ‘My apologies, Maria. I did not mean to startle you. As I said, you were soundly asleep when I came in. I did not want to wake you.’
‘Well, you should have done,’ she flared, unconscious of the vision she presented as her hair tumbled about her shoulders in loose array. ‘How dare you take such liberties? You will certainly destroy my reputation if you continue to indulge in such foolery.’
A slow smile touched his lips. ‘It is not foolery—anything but. If you could see past that pretty little nose of yours, you would realise I am only trying to help you. Do not forget that I am here to protect you.’
Mutiny still showed in her countenance. ‘When we embarked on the journey I confess that I did not give much thought to what the sleeping arrangements would be while we are en route. Indeed, the matter never entered my head. My aunt would be aghast if she knew we were sharing a room.’
‘I dare say she would be, and yet I made her aware you would be travelling as my wife. Your reputation is the last thing you should be worrying about right now. I believe,’ he began solicitously, the humour in his voice disguised by a disapproving frown, ‘that you are somehow trying my ability to protect you.’
‘I am not—and I am indeed grateful—but … Oh,’ she gasped in frustration, ‘why could you not have made me your sister—or—or your cousin—anything—anything but your wife?’
‘Because as my wife you have my complete protection at all times. Of what use would I be to you if that oaf who accosted you earlier should take it into his sodden head to seek feminine company and remember you? From what I recall of some of the overpainted, disreputable women I saw in the public room when we arrived, you are by far the most desirable, so who could blame him? You are a rare prize for any man, Maria.’
His gaze never wavered from hers, but when it dipped downwards, Maria saw the light that flared in his eyes, again making her conscious of her lack of modesty. When she glanced quickly down, her fears were realised when she saw the soft, rosy peaks of her bosom straining against the delicate fabric of her nightdress. Raising her head, she met his gaze. Her heart seemed to leap in her throat in a ridiculous, choking way, and she chided herself for being so foolish as to believe he liked what he saw.
‘There is a lock on the door. He would not get in.’
‘He would find a way if he wanted to.’ The sight of her flushed cheeks and the way she had wrapped her arms around her waist in an unconscious act of self-protection brought home to Charles for the first time the fact that his proceedings might be considered shockingly unorthodox to a young woman who had been protected from the opposite sex and the ways of the world for the whole of her life.
Getting up, he towered over her, looking down at her apprehensive, upturned face. ‘You have led a sheltered life under the harsh eye of your aunt, who has rigid rules when it comes to raising young ladies of breeding and class. May I give you a word of advice, Maria? Common sense will always stand you in better stead than a slavish adherence to conventions.’
The shamed colour faded from Maria’s cheeks and the hostility in her eyes was replaced by interest. ‘If common sense is preferable to convention, then it is a point of view in complete opposition to the teachings of my aunt and the many governesses who had charge of Constance and me over the years.’
‘It is my point of view, and I know I’m right—otherwise what do you think would have happened had I not apprehended your drunken admirer when I saw him come up the stairs and approach your door?’
She stared at him in horror, her hand going to her throat. ‘He wasn’t! You mean he actually intended to come in here? But—no man would dare to come to a lady’s room, knowing they might encounter an irate husband.’
Charles nodded gravely. ‘He most certainly was—until I—persuaded him to think again.’
‘And the pistol? Is that part of the remedy to use against that—that oaf?’
‘If need be—which I doubt.’ His eyes glinted wickedly. ‘The man is no longer in any fit state to climb the stairs, let alone molest a young woman in her bed.’
Her eyes widened with alarm. ‘Why, what have you done to him?’
‘Let’s just say that at this time he will be sleeping like the proverbial babe.’ He looked at her through narrowed eyes, his firm lips curving in a gently mocking smile. ‘You left your door unlocked, otherwise how do you think I got in?’
‘But you should not be here.’
A crooked smile accompanied his reply. ‘And where would you have me go—to sleep outside your door, perhaps, which would be considered by some to be most odd and raise more than a few eyebrows? And if you’re thinking of your aunt,’ he said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, as if he expected the formidable woman to emerge at any minute, ‘don’t. She need never know.’
On consideration, Maria had to admit that he was right. ‘I never had a very high opinion of my aunt. It never occurred to me to question her authority and her rightness on her view on behaviour and etiquette. It just wasn’t done.’
‘I understand that, and in an ideal France, as it is in England, it isn’t the practice for young ladies to question their elders. But these are not ideal times—far from it. People are finding themselves in all kinds of different, often violent, situations. No doubt your aunt will look upon what I consider to be eminently sensible proceedings as entirely scandalous.’
‘And she would have regarded me, as the recipient of them, as something close to a fallen woman. With her inflexible code of what is right, when placed in the balance against the strict preservation of the social conventions, she would rather you had abandoned me to the advances of that oaf downstairs than for you to spend the entire night alone with me in this room.’
‘So you do accept that my point of view is infinitely more practical than your aunt’s?’
A smile broke out on her lips that brought a dimple in the gentle curve of her cheek. She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, conscious of a sudden sense of being released from a kind of bondage, as though some mental steel thread that still tethered her to the Chateau Feroc had snapped.
Watching her, it was the first time that Charles had seen her really smile since she had left the chateau. But he did not return it. Gazing down at her, she seemed older somehow. Her face was gently flushed, and the shadows under the wide dark eyes made them appear even larger. The whiteness of her modest nightdress was stark against the looseness of her hair that tumbled about her in rippling profusion, glinting with blue lights in the dimly lit room.
Charles had a sudden and disturbing vision of her betrothed, of the degenerate roué, Henry Winston, of his moist fingers twining themselves in that soft, sweetly scented hair, sliding over her bare shoulders, his mouth devouring those soft lips. He turned from her abruptly, his head slightly bowed as he gazed into the hearth.
‘Go back to bed. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow and it is imperative that you get your rest. You have my word that you are quite safe,’ he assured her.
‘But what about you?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘It will be a long day for you also. You cannot be comfortable sleeping in that chair.’
He turned and looked at her, smiling crookedly, a roguish gleam in his eyes. ‘Where else would you have me sleep? With you, perhaps?’
Charles searched her eyes for barely an instant before the dark orbs went chasing off in another direction. Smiling, he leaned forwards to speak over her ear. ‘The idea of sharing your bed with me doesn’t frighten you, does it, Maria?’
‘No, of course not,’ she denied in a frantic rush, stepping back in an effort to put some distance between them. Her retreat was necessary to cool her burning cheeks and to ease to some small degree the unruly pace of her heart. ‘But that is out of the question.’
‘It needn’t be.’
‘Forgive me for ever thinking you were a gentleman,’ she derided. ‘So far you’ve done much to prove yourself as big a roué as any I have met—in addition to your impertinence in ogling me and suggesting I appease your—your dragon.’
Charles curbed a grin. ‘Worry not, Maria, you are quite safe. But if you should have a change of heart and take pity on me, I can promise you such delight as you’ve never before imagined.’
Maria was shocked to the core that he should be speaking to her like this. ‘Will you please stop?’ she flared irately, lifting her eyes to his face in time to see his eyes dip into her breasts. ‘You seem to forget that I am promised to another. You behave as if you really are my husband.’
Charles chuckled softly. ‘Who knows what will come from our association? I may just decide to forget that I am a gentleman, to forget about Henry Winston, and behave as your husband just to show you what delights can be had between a married couple.’
‘Except that we’re not. You engaged two rooms, as I recall.’
‘I did—one for Pierre.’ Tilting his head to one side, half frowning, half smiling, he peered at her. ‘His room is big enough to accommodate me if you would like me to leave you to sleep alone. Is that what you want?’
She bit her lip. The moment to tell him to go and leave her in peace was at hand, yet for the life of her she could not do so, for the fear of that drunken oaf coming to her room remained.
‘No. I would like you to stay.’ Without a word Maria went to the bed and removed one of the blankets and placed it on the chair.
‘You might as well be warm while you sleep. Thank you, Charles,’ she said stiffly. ‘You are being very good to me—when you aren’t trying to seduce me.’ Why she wasn’t outraged by his audacity was a mystery beyond her comprehension just then.
He looked at her, the firelight flickering in his light blue eyes. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? Our fathers were friends, were they not? There is no reason why we should be any different.’
‘No, of course not.’
Standing in such close proximity, Maria thought Charles looked very appealing—and very handsome. A warm trickle of an unfamiliar sensation ran through her body, a stirring she had never felt before. Her heart quickened within her breast, and her blood seemed to melt, turning her insides into a river of heat. She shivered. Charles noticed.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked, a crease of worry between his brows.
He reached to clasp her hand, his fingers very strong and sure. There was a faint white scar on the back of his hand, and Maria wondered how he had come by it. At the same time she realised she knew absolutely nothing about him. How could she? And maybe it wasn’t safe to know.
She withdrew her hand and turned her thoughts away from this new, dangerous direction. She felt a sudden stillness envelop them. Vividly aware of his closeness, the spicy scent of him, she was overwhelmingly conscious of him—and confused. She was slightly irritated by the way in which he skilfully cut through her superior attitude, the artificial posturing she often assumed to save herself from him. She knew she asked for it, but the magnetic attraction still remained beneath all the irritation.
‘I’m not cold,’ she said, her voice sharp.
‘Then go to bed.’
She did as she was bade and crawled back into the warm softness, allowing sleep to overtake her and her troubled thoughts.
Charles sat staring into the shifting, glowing lights in the dying embers of the fire, his mind wandering back to his young charge between the covers. A picture of a tumbling mass of blue-black hair swirled through his thoughts, of dark fringed green eyes that glowed with their own light, the colour of their depths forever changing like richly hued jewels. A nose was added to the lovely vision, slim and pert and a feature of perfection. A pair of lips floated into mind, gently curving and expressive; in his recollection he remembered the moment when they had left the inn to begin their journey and her lips had turned upwards and parted with laughter.
Let it be for ever so, he mused, but he knew it would not.
Thinking of the long and arduous journey ahead of them, he hoped they would reach their destination without mishap. Maria was depending on him, he reminded himself. She trusted him to get her to England safely. He owed it to her not to fail.

Chapter Three
The following morning when Maria awoke, the sight of Charles standing half-naked at the wash stand, his shirt thrown over a chair and his trousers unfastened at the waist and falling slightly low over his hips, was almost too much for her virgin eyes to bear. The vision of his tall, lithe, wide-shouldered form with sculpted muscles as he hummed a military march, bathed in the golden glow of early morning sunlight, would be for ever branded on her brain.
Shoving back the covers, she knelt on the bed and stared at him. Never having seen the naked male form before, she stared in virginal innocence, thinking he was one of those rare men who looked like a Roman statue. Up close, in broad daylight, his maleness, the power, the strength of his body, seemed even more pronounced. Armed with shaving dish and razor, a towel round his neck and lather on his face, he continued to shave.
Curious, never having seen a man shave before, as she watched him she felt an unfamiliar sensation—a melting sensation that somehow made breathing difficult and made her heart race. He did seem to have a way with him, and she could not fault any woman for falling under his spell, for she found to her amazement that her heart was not so detached as she might have imagined it to be. As handsome as he was, she could imagine that he had grown quite adept at swaying young women from the paths their parents had urged them to follow.
Catching her eyes in the mirror, Charles paused and grinned, his eyes glowing in the warm light of day. ‘So, you are awake at last. Good morning, Maria.’
‘Good morning,’ she murmured, trying to shake off the effects of his winning smile. Unexpectedly she found herself the victim of an absurd attack of shyness.
Charles saw that her face was a mirror of lovely confusion, and, taking pity on her innocence, he fastened his trousers and quietly said, ‘Have you never seen a man shave before?’
‘No—of course I haven’t—not even my father, and Henry—’ She stopped what she had been about to say, that she had been very young when her betrothed had gone away and it had never entered her head to find out how and when he shaved.
Charles paused to look at her, the razor in mid-air. ‘Ah, your betrothed. I wondered how long it would be before you brought him into the conversation. How did you manage to allow yourself to become betrothed to Colonel Winston?’
His remark seemed to discomfit her and, as if stalling for time in which to compose an answer, she wriggled into a sitting position and drew her long legs up against her chest and wrapped her arms around them, perching her chin upon her knees and raising her brilliant green eyes to his in the mirror. Sitting like that, Charles thought she looked incredibly desirable—a delightful nymph with long curly hair. Her pose allowed him a view of small feet and trim ankles. From there, his gaze ranged upwards with equal admiration.
‘Was that question too difficult for you?’ he asked, his eyes never leaving hers.
‘It was—impertinent.’
Her reply was accompanied by such a well-bred, reproving look that Charles chuckled in spite of himself. ‘You’re quite right,’ he admitted, grinning at the delightful young woman who dared to lecture him on his shortcomings. ‘But I would still like to know the answer.’
‘And I do not choose to discuss it. It is most unchivalrous of you to badger me about matters which are of a most private nature—not to mention excruciatingly embarrassing.’
‘Embarrassing for whom?’ Charles asked, ignoring her jibe. ‘For you, or for Winston?’
‘I am embarrassed—to find myself in such intimate surroundings with a near-naked man. I dread to think what Henry would have to say—not forgetting my aunt.’
Charles’s sudden grin was wicked. ‘I can well imagine what a dreadful experience this must be for you, Maria. But fear not. It will be our secret. Colonel Winston will never know.’
‘I hope not. Look at me. I’m not even dressed.’
‘I have been looking—all night,’ he averred with a broad grin, and was forced to marvel at how comfortable he felt with her in such an intimate situation. Two days ago, he would never have imagined such simple, yet totally gratifying pleasure.
Maria’s face flamed. Beneath the consuming heat of his eyes as they ranged slowly over her, she felt thoroughly divested of what few garments she had on. The sight of those bare shoulders and broad, furred chest made her feel most uneasy. Unable to continue watching him perform such an intimate task, totally shaken and thoroughly amazed by what she was experiencing, to hide the crimson tide that swept over her face, clutching her precarious modesty close, she climbed out of bed and turned away. No longer facing him, she missed the smile that widened his lips.
Charles could not resist a glance over his shoulder. Maria stood facing the door, resolutely refusing to look at him. His eyes coursed down the fine curves of her stiff back, from the slim erect column of her neck to the beckoning roundness of her hips. Putting down his razor and wiping the soap from his face with the towel, he turned towards her.
‘I’m almost done. As soon as I’ve finished my ablutions I shall give you your privacy to perform your own and to dress. We’ll leave as soon as we’ve had breakfast.’
When Maria turned to face him he was already thrusting his arms into his shirt. His smiling eyes captured hers and held them prisoner, until she felt a warmth suffuse her cheeks. Never had she felt such burning heat or such quickening fires in the depths of her being as she did just then.
Moving to stand close to her, noticing a thick coil of hair resting in the curve of her neck, Charles stretched out a hand and rubbed the tress admiringly between his thumb and forefinger. ‘You have lovely hair, Maria,’ he murmured huskily.
Maria realised her insides were melting as they were prone to do when he touched her in some manner. His eyes shifted from beneath a fringe of jet lashes to meet hers, which were softly shining, and for what seemed an eternity in the heartbeat of a moment, their gazes gently mingled. If ever she had wondered what it would be like to be drawn out of herself, to be absorbed into someone else, she found herself experiencing that now. Never had she known such intense, consuming emotions that filled her very being with what she could only assume was desire.
Lowering her gaze from his openly admiring regard, she was strangely thrilled by it, but also confused. He should not be looking at her like this, not when she was betrothed to the man who trusted him implicitly to behave with honour and decency to his future wife.
‘I would like to get dressed now,’ she whispered, aware of the slight tremor in her voice.
For a moment Charles stood on the threshold of something life changing as he struggled with an overwhelming desire to toss her on to the bed and make love to her. As much as he yearned to caress her silken flesh and make her groan with longing, he knew it would be a dastardly thing to do in the light of her being betrothed to another and that she had placed her trust in him.
Yet she seemed so vulnerable, so trusting, so willing …
It might have been the hardest thing he had ever done, but he drew back, denying himself the solace he craved. ‘Do you have any idea what a temptation you have been to me throughout this long night, Maria? I want to touch you, but I shall exert every measure of restraint I am capable of rallying in an effort to quell the instincts of desire that goad me. I must leave. Get dressed.’
Looking embarrassed, Maria hurriedly gathered her clothes and slipped behind the screen. Charles had gone when she emerged fully dressed. She was relieved, for it gave her a moment to gather her scattered wits. Were he to contrive such assaults on her senses, it might well mean the collapse of her resistance and her ultimate downfall. She tried to feel abused and angered, but thinking of the feelings he had stirred inside her, she felt something more akin to—what?
It was nothing but curiosity, she vowed. She had merely had a taste of something she wanted to taste more fully. It was nothing but what any woman would want, and in her state of undress she would seriously test that rogue’s ardour. There had been no contact between them—only their eyes, which had been a simple contact, but the memory of it lingered far too long for her to be able to discount its effect on her.
Frustrated, she swilled her face with cold water. What manner of man was Charles Osbourne, who had crept into her mind and taken root? She was beginning to think he had entered her life with the express purpose of stealing her heart and perhaps even her soul.
Going in search of him, at the bottom of the stairs she paused, experiencing a feeling of alarm on seeing the man who had accosted her on her arrival going outside. Sober now, he threw her a sullen look, but made no attempt to approach her. The cut on his lip and blackened eye told its own story—Charles had obviously fought well in defence of his assumed wife’s honour.
Charles was waiting for her, his expression impassive, and yet there was a knowing gleam in his eyes when they settled on her that made Maria avert her gaze. There were others in the room eating breakfast before setting off on their journey.
As Maria did ample justice to her breakfast, she only half listened to the conversation around her. When she heard how a chateau, the home of an eminent nobleman, had been burned to the ground just yesterday in the Ardennes, she stopped eating and raised her head.
Knowing precisely what thoughts were going through her head, Charles shot her a warning look, his eyes conveying to her the danger of reacting too much to this news.
‘Did you hear what they said?’ she said softly, her face stricken. ‘I know the chateau they speak of. It is not far from Chateau Feroc. We often went there—such a lovely family. It can’t be true! I won’t believe it!’
Alarmed that her sudden distress would draw attention to them, Charles rose abruptly. ‘Come, the carriage is waiting. Finished eating? I think we should leave immediately. I know what happened at the chateau. Such things are happening all over France.’ Placing his hand on her elbow, he steered her outside to the waiting carriage.
‘But—but what about my aunt—and Constance?’ she asked, having to run to keep up with his long strides. ‘What are we to do?’ She was churning inside, her mind spilling with horrible thoughts.
‘There is nothing we can do,’ he told her briskly, handing her valise to Pierre to secure to the coach and assisting Maria inside. Sitting across from her, he said, ‘I warned the Countess this could happen. I urged her to leave.’
‘But what will happen to them?’ Maria’s eyes searched his, and for a terrible stabbing moment she knew a fear so strong it seemed to take the breath from her body. She strove hard to curtail it. ‘How could I have left them? I should have stayed. Everyone has been talking about what was happening, but I didn’t really know how bad things were.’ She leaned forwards and gripped Charles’s arm with her hand. ‘Charles, we have to go back. We must.’
Astounded by her totally unreasonable request, Charles looked at her. She really was ignorant of what was happening in France. She really had been contained in some kind of bubble at the chateau, living in some kind of dream world, while chaos went on all around her.
There was a brooding, hopeless expression in his eyes. ‘We cannot go back. It has to be faced.’
She stared at him, tense and white faced. People were milling about in the yard as the carriage began to move, but she did not see them. She said in a hard, breathless voice that she fought to control, willing him to comply to her wishes, ‘Please, Charles. It is not much to ask.’ She could not endure it and she could not bear to think about it. ‘I have to find out if she is all right—help her if need be.’
‘Stop it,’ Charles said curtly, averting his gaze as they took to the road. ‘You don’t know what you are asking. It isn’t as easy as that. There is nothing that can be done beyond what I have already done. We go on to Calais.’
She snatched her hand away. ‘You mean you won’t do anything? That’s what you’re saying.’
He turned his head and looked at the white face beside him. Her eyes were no longer hard, but wide and imploring, and there was pure panic in her voice. The change in that face was like a knife in Charles’s heart. After a moment, he said, ‘No. I’m sorry.’
She did not look at him and her own hurt made her desire to hurt him also. ‘No, you’re not. You don’t care—and why should I expect you to? You don’t know them. They mean nothing to you. You don’t understand,’ she whispered numbly.
‘Oh, yes, I do,’ he hissed fiercely, the frustration of his inadequacy to do anything to help her aunt and cousin increasing his anger. ‘I understand only too well. You did not understand the dangers that threatened you all at Chateau Feroc, and now you do you are perfectly prepared to jeopardise your chances of escaping the troubles, and risk both our lives into the bargain, just so that you can do what? If the chateau has not been attacked, then nothing will have changed. Your aunt will be as indomitable and awkward as ever, so our return will achieve nothing.’
‘At least I will know.’
‘Know? Know what, Maria? When I went to the Chateau Feroc to see the Countess I had just come from Paris. I had seen with my own eyes what was happening—the riots, the violence, death and looting that was going on all over the place. I hope I am wrong and that Chateau Feroc is not attacked. I can only say that in the event of my timorous fears proving justified, I hope the Countess will obtain some comfort from the realisation that she has sacrificed the life of her daughter and jeopardised the safety of the chateau in order to demonstrate a confidence in the fidelity of her servants.’
‘You speak harsh words. Do you forget that when you arrived she had just lost her husband? For her to contemplate leaving her home so soon was anathema to her.’
Charles’s precarious hold on his temper had departed and his voice was raw edged with anger. ‘I appreciate that, but this is no time for sentiment. She must have had doubts, but she would not admit it. It is all very laudable. But in the present crisis it is hardly practical.’
‘And if the chateau has been attacked?’ Maria asked, her eyes hard and accusing. ‘What then?’
‘As to that I cannot say. It depends on the mood of the mob.’
She stared at him, images of the chateau burning and her aunt and Constance at the mercy of those terrible, maddened people. ‘Do—do you think they would …?’
‘There would be nothing that you or I could do for them. I’m sorry, Maria, but that is the truth of it and you must face it.’
‘I never will.’
Although her glorious green eyes were glaring defiance at him, they were sparkling with suppressed tears, shining with an inner pain, and listening to her breathless, pleading voice, Charles would have given anything in the world to take her in his arms and kiss her tears away. But he knew that he must not.
‘I would never have left had I thought anything bad would happen.’
‘You don’t know that anything bad has happened,’ he said, trying to temper his impatience. ‘Plead their case all you like, Maria, but you will be wasting your breath. I have to be in London very soon and I cannot afford to let anything interfere with that.’
‘And I am one responsibility you can’t wait to be rid of,’ Maria retorted ungraciously.
‘I will not turn back, Maria. It is out of the question. We go on. Both of us,’ Charles said pointedly. ‘With any luck we’ll reach the coast tomorrow.’
The journey continued with Maria quietly seething at what she considered to be his overbearing and unreasonable attitude. Charles did not attempt to draw her out. He wished that he did not feel so responsible for her. It was an absurd feeling. It annoyed him and there was no reason for it. Nevertheless he could not rid himself of the feeling.
Glancing across at her, at her sad face and her small hands clasped together on her lap, he frowned. He was aware of a disturbing tug at his heart, and thinking again of how fortunate she was to be leaving France, he knew that should they be apprehended she was going to be a devilish responsibility.
Aware of Charles’s penetrating gaze, Maria looked at him at this point in his reflections. She noted the frown and it brought back her courage and a sudden spark of anger. Sitting straight-backed, she said in a cool, composed voice, ‘I apologise for my lapse in composure. It won’t happen again.’
‘There’s no need to apologise. Just as long as you understand why I had to refuse your request to turn back.’
‘I do. Of course we can’t go back. It would be madness. I am just so concerned for my aunt and Constance.’
It was almost dark and they were about to stop for the night at the next hostelry when they saw the flames rising from a large villa on the outskirts of a nearby village. The fire was licking upwards, a thick plume of smoke curling into the darkening sky.
On his perch with a loaded blunderbuss beside him, Pierre stopped the coach in alarm when they were approached by a noisy, bedraggled band of people heading away from the fire. Many of the excited villagers had poured out on to the streets to view the spectacle, amid a great deal of howling and buffoonery. The men approaching the coach, their confidence already heightened with bloodlust, were armed with sticks, poles and spades and anything else that constituted a weapon.
‘What is it? What do they want? Why have they stopped us?’ Maria asked in alarm.
Charles looked at her. In the glow from the carriage lamps her face was white, her eyes enormous but quite steady. ‘No doubt we’ll find out soon enough.’ His eyes were anxious and alert, but his voice was neither. He spoke to Maria in an entirely matter-of-fact tone that somehow carried complete conviction. ‘Whatever happens, trust me. Unless they order you to get out, stay in the coach. We’ll get out of this.’
‘I wish I had your confidence,’ she murmured fearfully, her eyes on the ever-increasing rabble.
Charles did not answer. It was as if she was not there. He was watching the men saunter towards them. There was an odd, still look on his face. His eyes narrowed suddenly. The abstraction left them and his hand closed round the butt of his pistol on the seat beside him, concealed by a fold in his coat, and Maria, watching him, as she always watched him when he wasn’t looking at her, was all at once aware that behind that casual gesture his nerves were tense and alert, as if he were waiting for something to happen.
The leader of this band of unsavoury, hostile peasants was a man in a green-caped coat, his complexion the colour of ivory. His hatchet face with the thin lips and heavy, drooping eyelids was a curious mixture of alertness and perturbability. The chin that rested on the abundant folds of his untidy and soiled neckcloth was long and resolute. He peered inside with a somewhat suspicious glance at the coach’s inhabitants.
‘What is this?’ Charles asked calmly. ‘We have done you no harm and most certainly intend none.’
‘Well, now,’ the man drawled. ‘It’s simple enough. We’ve got no reason to see you and your lady—uncomfortable, but we’ve got no reason to trust you either.’ He squinted one eye at Charles. ‘Why, I don’t know you—not at all.’
‘It is a simple enough problem to cure,’ Charles returned. ‘Duval’s the name. Charles Duval. I am of the people—of peasant stock on both sides.’
‘But now you walk and talk like a swank.’
‘I’ve bettered myself, I admit. Do you find something wrong with that?’
The man nodded slowly, without taking his eyes off the stranger. ‘No—I was right. I don’t know you.’
‘The fire? Whose house is it?’ Charles asked, appearing coolly unruffled by the interruption to their journey and the threat this band of miscreants posed to their safety.
‘The house of the Seigneur,’ the man growled. ‘And the Seigneur is feeding the flames this very minute.’
Apart from a darkening of his face, Charles was careful not to show the horror and revulsion he felt. ‘What precisely did he do?’
‘What’s it to you?’ he snarled. ‘But I’ll tell you if you want to know. That rich bloodsucker said that a man with a family could live on ten sous a day. That’s never right, don’t you agree, eh?’
Charles shrugged. ‘What is that to me? I’m a stranger in these parts. I was not acquainted with your Seigneur, but he sounds just like any other I have come across.’
The hatchet face thrust itself further into the coach. ‘Are you sure he’s not a friend of yours?’ He turned and roared, ‘Look, boys! I don’t think we can trust this man who calls himself one of the people.’
Obscenities were loudly uttered and sticks were raised, and, before the echo of their shouts had died away, to Maria’s horror Charles opened the door and climbed out, the pistol he held concealed in the folds of his coat. Taken unawares, the crowd backed away. Charles stood before them, smiling his icy smile.
‘You’re the leader of this rabble, are you?’ he said quietly, addressing himself to the hatchet-faced man.
The man hesitated. ‘I might be.’
Charles started walking straight towards him. The rabble were at the man’s back. The crude weapons wavered. This was unusual. They were not prepared for this. Nothing in their experience had prepared them to deal with a man who wouldn’t turn and run when confronted.
Pierre had scrambled down from his seat and stood close to the window. ‘Savages,’ he murmured, just loud enough for Maria to hear. ‘Savages, the lot of them, that’s what they are. The devil’s own. God save us.’
Pierre voiced Maria’s own apprehension. The horses were uneasy, their eyes alert, ears pricked and tremulous tails.
That was the moment when Charles took positive action. When he was close enough his hand shot out and he caught the leader by the coat front. Then his arm stiffened and he shoved the man backwards to crash into his comrades. The impact knocked several of them down into the dirt. They got to their feet, shouting and cursing, only to stare straight into the muzzle of Charles’s pistol. The mob had no stomach for gunfire.
‘A man’s a fool to wander through France unarmed today,’ Charles said, hoping it would discourage these madmen from inflicting harm and allowing the incident to degenerate into wholesale brigandage, as it threatened to do.
Inside the coach Maria watched the whole terrifying proceedings, the howling of the village’s inhabitants loud in her ears. An odd shiver tingled down her spine at the sound and she set her teeth and tried to shut her ears.
Until that moment she had admired Charles’s utmost forbearance in his dealing with the crowd, but she uttered a gasp of horror when she saw him brandish the pistol. Knowing that one man armed with a pistol didn’t stand a chance of surviving against an angry mob, thinking quickly, inspiration struck. Opening her reticule, she pulled out a small pot of rouge.
Shrouded in her cloak, her hood pulled well over her head and holding it together so that only her eyes showed, she opened the door and climbed out. All eyes except Charles’s became focused on her, but he knew she was there and silently cursed her idiocy for disobeying him.
Moving closer to Charles, Maria could almost feel the effort he was exerting to keep his rage under control. She knew that relaxed, almost indolent stance of his was only a surface calm, beneath which was a murderous fury which he would no doubt unleash on her later.
She was numb to every emotion save a gnawing fear that feasted heartily upon what courage she could muster. She set her mind not to appear frightened beneath the hideous stares and bold leers that were directed at her, yet her knees had a strange tendency to shake beneath her. Despite her show of self-control, she was desperately afraid, not knowing what lay in store for them, but convinced now that the miscreants planned some hideous fate.
Disconcertedly she moved her gaze to Charles. His dark hair was stirred by the light breeze. Standing stiff and appearing to be in complete control of his actions, he seemed like a stranger, a man she did not know, distant, frowning.
Suddenly a bearded rough standing to one side of the leader nudged his neighbour with his elbow.
‘Nice, isn’t she?’ he said. ‘But I’d like to see more of her, eh?’
‘Lends a bit of a swank to our company,’ said another.
Another ill-favoured, toothless individual shrilled his assent to the statement, lifting his stick to emphasise his words.
Beneath Maria’s blazing glower, the bearded man made a turn about her, a careless swagger in his walk. He gave her a lusty perusal, his mind holding lewd thoughts. Reaching out with his gnarled hand, he gave her hood a firm tug with a gesture that was at once peremptory. ‘I’m Handsome,’ he said.
She slapped down his hand with ill temper. ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’
A roar of laughter shook his audience.
‘That’s got nothing to do with his looks,’ snarled the hatchet face. ‘It’s his name. Handsome, that’s what he’s called.’ He scowled at her. ‘Going far, are you?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. To the coast. The doctor recommended it for—my health, you see.’ When the bearded rough made a move to touch her again, she glared at him. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You might have cause to regret it. I’ve been ill, you see, and I’m not completely recovered—smallpox, it was.’
The leader’s eyes narrowed as they flicked like a rat’s from Charles to Maria and back to Charles. ‘Is this true? She doesn’t look like she’s got much wrong with her.’
As if on cue, Maria calmly folded back her hood, relieved that they stood some distance away from her and that it was almost dark so they would just be able to make out the occasional spots of rouge she had dabbed on her face, hoping fervently they resembled pock marks.
The rabble gave a collective gasp and backed away, each and every one of them having a horror of contracting that often fatal, disfiguring disease.
Apart from a slight raising of his eyebrows when he looked at her, Charles’s expression didn’t alter. ‘My wife does not lie,’ Charles remarked, joining in the pretence. ‘As you see, she is not marred quite as severely as some are, but the doctor advised her against coming into direct contact with others for fear she might still carry the infection. Maria, get back inside the carriage.’ He issued the order without taking his eyes off the rabble. She hesitated, but only for a moment, for there was a steely edge to his voice she would ignore at her peril.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ Charles said pleasantly, ‘you will have the goodness to go home to your wives and children. If you refuse, you will leave me with no alternative but to blow your brains out.’
The pistol levelled at them, and one other held by a steady hand in the doorway of the coach, was persuasion enough.
‘From the look of the Seigneur’s home, you have done enough mischief this day,’ Charles said, softly. ‘I have not done any hunting lately, which is a sport I always enjoy, so do not follow me.’
Then he spun on his heel and walked back to the coach, moving calmly and without haste. The rabble didn’t follow him. He had known they wouldn’t—although he didn’t know whether that was down to the fear of being shot or contracting Maria’s feigned smallpox.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked when he had settled himself across from her and ordered Pierre to drive on, putting the beacon of the burning villa behind them.
She nodded. ‘When you got out of the coach, I counted each breath as though it were my last.’
‘It could well have been. I told you to stay inside the coach.’
‘I know, but I had to do something. I was terrified.’
‘It took courage not to show it. It was also ingenious of you to feign smallpox.’ He handed her a handkerchief. ‘You can wipe them off now. They have served their purpose.’ He glanced down at her hand. ‘You found my other pistol, I see. Can you use it?’
‘Yes, if I have to,’ she replied, rubbing hard at the rouge on her face. ‘One of the grooms at the chateau taught me how to shoot.’
‘Which may come in useful, who knows? But hear me well, Maria.’ His voice was like ice and his eyes held a terrifying menace as very quietly, very deliberately, he said, ‘Unless you have a death wish, don’t ever do anything like that again. By your reckless action you could have got us all killed. It was stupid. How dare you disobey me?’
Feeling the frigid blast of his gaze, reflexively, to her consternation and fury, Maria felt her cheeks grow hot and found herself shrinking into the upholstery, then checked herself and met his look head-on.
‘Disobey you?’ she repeated, indignant. ‘If I did that then I am very sorry, but I think it was my quick thinking that saved us, not your pistol.’
‘However it may have looked to you, I had the situation under control. How can any man make a cool-headed decision that he knows may involve grave risk, while the woman he is trying to protect has ideas of her own—ideas that could have jeopardised everything?’
She wanted to shout at him, to tell him how frightened she had been for him, but the words froze on her lips; instead she said, ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
‘Obviously. When I give an order, I don’t expect it to be questioned. That’s a matter of principle with me.’ His voice rang with authority. He saw Maria stiffen with angry confusion. ‘Don’t you dare defy me again.’
Before Charles’s eyes, Maria’s expressive face went from shock to fury, and then she coldly turned her face away from him. He stared at her profile, furious because, by her actions, the situation could have turned very ugly. But most of all he was furious with himself for failing to anticipate that such a scene with the rabble might occur, and for not taking steps to avert it by instructing Pierre to take the longer route to avoid the village, such had been his haste to get to the hostelry before nightfall.
He wondered grimly how it was possible that he could intimidate those he employed into doing his bidding with a single glance, and yet he could not seem to force one young, stubborn, defiant girl to behave. She was so damned unpredictable that she made it impossible to anticipate her reaction to anything. But then again, he thought, a feeling of admiration for the courage she had shown coming to the fore, the idea of feigning smallpox had been clever.
As they neared the inn where they would spend the night, he glanced at her, belatedly realising how terrified she must have been on finding herself confronted by a band of miscreants who had just set fire to a house with its inhabitants still inside. With a twinge of pity and reluctant admiration, he admitted that she was also very young, very frightened and very brave. Any other woman might well have given way to hysterics, rather than coolly confronting the rabble and implying that she could infect them all with smallpox as Maria had done.
On reaching the inn, Pierre drove the coach through the arched gateway and brought the steaming horses to a halt. Charles was the first to alight. Turning, he reached up and held out his hand to assist Maria, noting as he did so that her lovely face was stiff, and she was carefully avoiding meeting his eyes.
His gaze swept the bustling inn yard. ‘Unfortunately we have not reserved rooms so we will have to take what’s on offer.’
Maria turned to him. ‘I would appreciate it if you would engage alternative accommodation for yourself tonight, Charles,’ she said coldly. ‘I don’t care what interpretation Pierre or anyone else puts on a husband and wife having separate rooms—make any excuse you like, but tonight I would like my privacy.’
‘As you wish.’
Maria was relieved he didn’t object, but then Charles seemed to have a trick of wiping all expression from his face when he wished, and it was difficult to know what he felt or thought.
Noise struck them as they entered the main room. The inn appeared to be full, but Charles managed to engage rooms.
‘This way, madame,’ the innkeeper said, picking up her valise and heading for the stairs.
Charles stayed to drink a much-needed tankard of good, cool ale with Pierre in the common room.
Relieved to have some time to herself, Maria followed. In a moment he had thrown open a door and ushered her into a cramped chamber with bare whitewashed walls. Dimly illuminated by a single oil lamp, it was furnished with a long narrow bed covered with a flowered counterpane, a wash stand with a jug and basin, and a pair of upright chairs near the window set in the eaves. The innkeeper went out, promising to have dinner sent up.
The long day of undiluted tension and anxiety had taken its toll. The fire and the horrific images of what the people must have suffered in the flames had affected Maria profoundly. A ragged sob escaped her, and she flung herself away from the door in a desperate attempt to keep her mind from thinking of the many things that did not bear thinking of—of what might have happened to her aunt and Constance. Had the chateau been burned like the villa she had seen? Were they dead, or were they hiding and hunted, with no refuge?
Pressing trembling fingers against her temples, she sat on the bed. Tears flowed easily and the sleek lines of her body shuddered with each racking sob. She could not believe what had happened. The nightmare had come true at last, just like Charles said it would—noble houses were burning all over France, and this was far worse than any of the dreams had been, because she knew that she would awake from it to find herself trembling with fear.
Much later, Charles came to her room. Knocking softly on the door, he waited until he was told to enter before turning the handle, surprised, after what had occurred the night before, to find it wasn’t locked. He found her sitting by the tiny window, her fine-boned profile tilted to one side. The forlorn droop of her head went to his heart. He could not help but wonder at the courage of this young woman. He had known no other quite like her, and the disturbing fact was that she seemed capable of disrupting his whole life.
‘Maria,’ he said softly.
She looked at him directly with her clear green eyes, without smiling.
Crossing the room, he went down on one knee in front of her and took her hand. He longed to take her in his arms and soothe her as he would a frightened child, but her rejection of him would only make matters worse between them. It would be a step too far, too fast, and he didn’t want her to withdraw into the protective shell she seemed to have built around herself and shut him out in the cold.
He could read nothing on her closed face. Her eyes were downcast, the thick lashes making half-moons on her cheeks. He could not tell if she was welcoming the touch of his hand or grimly enduring it.
‘Maria—I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. That you, of all people, should have had to go through that. What I said to you was harsh. I apologise for my tone. As you know, I was not in the best of moods when we came upon the rabble. My temper had been well tested earlier, and I stood very near the edge of losing it entirely.’ A slight, crooked smile curved his lips. ‘Am I forgiven?’
Maria nodded her acceptance of his apology, but the expression on her face remained impassive.
‘If you’re thinking of what happened earlier, forget it. It is behind us now.’
‘Perhaps my memory is clearer than yours. Perhaps I cannot forget as easily as you. I can still see that fire, imagine those poor people who must have been—’
‘Don’t, Maria. Don’t torture yourself this way. Violence is only one aspect of life.’
‘I don’t agree.’
‘Yes, you do. Violence has always been hidden from you. It has been done by people far from sight. Now you have been made aware of it, and it will not go away.’
‘Do you really think the Seigneur, and perhaps his family, perished in the fire?’
‘It looks bad, I’ll admit. But in the absence of any conclusive evidence to the contrary, why not believe that at worst the Seigneur and his family may have been hurt, and afterwards managed to escape?’
‘That,’ Maria said, ‘is what I want to believe.’ But there was no hope in her voice. ‘I also want to believe things have not changed at Chateau Feroc. I pray my aunt and Constance are all right. When I remember how I laughed on leaving, of the joy I felt because I was going home—to Gravely.’ She looked at Charles, unable to hide the guilt she felt and the self-disgust.
‘Why do you look like that?’
‘Because I am ashamed of myself. I ran away and left them to face a terrible fate. How could I?’
‘You don’t know that anything has happened to them. Besides, it was their choice to stay.’
‘I should not have left them. My aunt took me in when my father died. There was no one else, you see. I was under an obligation to stay and help.’
‘The way I see it, you had no alternative but to leave. Colonel Winston was most insistent that you left France while it was still possible. And besides, I had travelled a long way to fetch you. I would have been none too pleased to find my journey had been in vain.’
Realising that he still retained her hand in his, self-consciously Maria withdrew it, and immediately mourned its loss, its strength. Suddenly she was aware of his proximity and what it was doing to her. When she gazed into the pair of penetrating pale blue eyes levelled on her, her heart turned over.
Charles stood up and looked at the food she had left untouched. ‘I see you have not eaten. You should eat something.’
‘I haven’t much of an appetite at the moment.’
‘Then a glass of wine.’
‘No—I …’
‘I insist.’ Charles poured some of the wine from the decanter into two goblets and handed one to Maria. She took it reluctantly and sipped it slowly. He sat opposite, watching her, and he sensed rather than saw her relaxation of tension.
‘Feeling better?’
She nodded. ‘When do you hope to reach Calais?’
‘Tomorrow—hopefully before dark, which means an early start. I can only hope we get there without incident. Before I went to Chateau Feroc, I wrote to Colonel Winston informing him of when we hope to reach Dover—providing everything goes to plan. He will make provision for you after that—unless things change.’ She gave him an enquiring look, but he did not enlarge on this, for it was his dearest hope that after taking one look at Winston, she would send him packing. ‘I have made my own arrangements. We shall part company at Dover, but I will not be at ease until I am assured you are taken care of.’
Charles looked at her now. ‘I suppose you are looking forward to meeting your betrothed again after all these years, Maria.’
The unexpectedness of his words took her by surprise. ‘I—I am apprehensive—not knowing what to expect. It has been a long time.’
‘Are you afraid?’
Maria met his steady gaze. ‘I suppose I am—in a way. My dread of meeting Henry again actually intensified rather than abated as time went on,’ she confessed quietly. ‘You know as well as I that my father was a man of keen intuitive intellect and he was adamant in his belief that Henry would make me a good husband—and I will do all I can to honour his memory.’
‘I know you will, and if you decide you cannot go through with it, I’m sure your father would understand.’
‘You needn’t try to assuage my feelings, Charles. I’ve realised for a long time the limited possibility of my marrying Henry. So please spare me your concern. There really is no need. In days from now I may decide to take a different path from what my father intended.’
‘It is you that looks concerned, Maria. Will it disappoint you to walk away?’
‘In a way. You see, at Chateau Feroc there were times when I was afraid. It seemed that everyone I had been close to had died—my parents, my brother who died in infancy, my maternal grandparents, who drowned when their ship went down in a storm in the English Channel—and there was no one at the chateau I felt really close to. In the early days I pinned all my hopes on Henry.
‘When I came to France, knowing that he was waiting for me, my heart and soul longed for the years to pass so he would come and take me home. But as I grew older my feelings changed. He wrote seldom—the content forced—as though he wrote out of duty. I became apprehensive and even afraid of him. Determining his character for myself is vital in making a prudent choice before we speak our vows. Whatever his faults, I am committed to seeing him—whatever may come from it.’
‘It could be the end—or the beginning of something.’ Maria looked at him steadily. ‘Yes, it could.’ She was wearing the woollen dress she had worn when she had left Chateau Feroc, which she had unfastened at the neck. Her face glowed in the light of the lamp, and her black hair falling loose about her shoulders gleamed with flickering blue lights. With a rush of emotion Charles thought that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. At the end of two days, he was captivated by her. She seemed to have taken up occupation in his mind. She was an intoxicating combination of beauty, an exhilarating intelligence and disarming common sense.
And if she severed all ties with Henry Winston, so much the better.

Chapter Four
Stretching his legs out before him, Charles leant his head against the high back of the chair to enjoy more leisurely what had become his favourite pastime since going to Chateau Feroc—watching Maria. She could not guess the depth of torture she put him through, for beneath his calm facade and silken words, he burned with a consuming desire for her. Last night he had sat sleepless in his chair while visions of her in all manner of disarray—laughing, angry as she had been in the coach earlier, sleeping or awake, but always paramount in his imagination—floated teasingly in and out through the shadowed fringes of his mind, enslaving his thoughts like some impish sprite with dark luminous eyes, leading him into fantasies no virginal maid could even imagine. He was ever conscious of her and painfully aware that she was a woman, and he wanted her.
The silence lengthened and drew out and filled slowly with sounds of the inn, and the monotonous fluttering of a large moth that had found its way in and was battering its wings against the glass of the oil lamp.
Maria dragged her eyes away from the window and looked at Charles’s relaxed, unguarded face in the flickering light. His mouth was firm and unexpectedly sensitive. She looked at his hand holding the glass—slender and long-fingered, a hand possessed of an unexpected strength and an equally unexpected gentleness. Just being with him was beginning to cause her moments of painful confusion, yet just as often pleasure that lightened her heart and made it soar—and made her forget Henry.
‘Why don’t you like Henry?’ she asked quietly.
Charles looked at her and shrugged. ‘There are many reasons,’ he repeated quietly, wondering how she would react were he to tell her the true nature of her betrothed—that he was utterly vicious and corrupt, rotten to the core, and without principle and honour, and the only reason he wanted Maria to return to England was because, if anything were to happen to her, he would lose sight of her fortune.
‘Why? What has he done to you?’
‘Nothing to me personally,’ he replied at length.
‘Then has he done something to someone else?’ she asked, wondering why he looked so disconcerted. ‘Is that why you dislike him?’
‘If he has, then that is his affair.’
‘And you’re not going to tell me.’ She sighed deeply, sensing his reluctance and decided not to press him. She would find out the true nature of her betrothed in due course. ‘Don’t worry, Charles. Whatever he is or whatever he has done, I shall find out for myself soon enough.’
‘I’m very much afraid you will,’ he said softly.
Not for the first time, Maria felt at a loss to understand him. Suddenly his presence was vaguely threatening. Whenever he stopped playing her escort he became a passionate companion, a predator set on unsettling her equilibrium, or a dark mysterious stranger. She didn’t know whether he was a spy, although she was certain he was involved in some shady business, and that visiting his French relatives was only a cover-up. But that was his affair and she wouldn’t pry. Pushing her hair off her forehead, she glanced out of the window.
‘It is late. I think I would like to go to bed.’ She got to her feet, smoothing her skirts. ‘You—have a room that is comfortable?’ she asked awkwardly.
‘It is—adequate.’ Standing up and noting her sudden discomfiture, he was encouraged by it. ‘At least I have a bed to sleep in tonight,’ he murmured with a slanted, meaningful smile. He crossed to the door where he turned to find she had followed him. He raised a brow.
‘I—I thought I’d lock the door.’
‘Very wise.’
‘I—don’t want a repetition of last night,’ she said desperately. ‘I didn’t see any undesirable characters when we arrived, but I’m not taking any chances.’ A roguish gleam suddenly entered Charles’s eyes and with a touch of alarm Maria recognised her amorous companion of the night before.
‘If you are afraid, I would be willing to—’
‘No,’ Maria was quick to reply in alarm, knowing he was about to suggest that he stayed. ‘That would not be wise.’
Uttering a regretful sigh, he said, ‘Then no doubt I shall find warmer companionship in other parts of the inn.’
Maria’s eyes shot to his. The idea that he might seek out solace from one of the tavern wenches upset her and filled her with a fierce jealousy. An image of his long, muscular body stretched out alongside one of those women made her heart sink sickeningly. She was surprised to realise that she could not bear the thought of him making love to another woman, even though she was still officially betrothed to another man. Her cheeks flamed with the conflict that raged within her.
As if reading her thoughts, Maria watched Charles’s gaze turn warm and sensual and she was aware of how close they were standing. Suddenly his manner bore an odd touch of threatening boldness as his gaze dwelt on her face.
‘Worry not, Maria, the only woman I yearn to be close to is here now. You must find the subterfuge of travelling halfway across France as my wife strange—and dressed in such plain attire—used as you are to wearing elegant clothes and jewels.’
‘It is no great sacrifice,’ she replied softly, relieved that he had set her mind at rest. ‘As for jewels, my aunt was forever telling me that I was too young to wear them. When I reach Gravely I shall have rubies and diamonds enough. Whether I wear them is a different matter.’
Charles looked at her from beneath lowered lids. ‘Diamonds—for you? No. I think pearls would suit you better. They are less harsh—soft, soothing to the touch. Nothing vulgar—small, creamy ones.’
‘You—you make them sound nice,’ Maria said. ‘But if I marry Henry, he might like me in diamonds.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of Henry,’ Charles said. ‘I was thinking of you. I would like to attach some pearls here—’ he reached out and almost touched her ear ‘—and more—there.’ He picked up her hand and laid it at her throat, close to the valley made by her breasts.
Maria’s heart stirred, for it was an oddly sensuous and erotic gesture—far more so than if he had touched her himself. There was a silence as he continued to gaze down at her flushed face and time stood still.
‘Please don’t look at me like that,’ Maria whispered, her voice quavering. ‘It makes me excessively uneasy.’
He smiled. The light of the lamp behind her fell upon his face and hers in shadow, and the soft wavering flame threw an aureole about her, glinting on the long ripples of her black hair and outlining her small head.
‘You are very lovely. Has anyone ever told you that?’
She shook her head. At Chateau Feroc she had been drilled in the habits of strict decorum and not, as some might think, given the beautiful chateau and the Count’s fabulous wealth, in the glittering, fashionable world in which flattery and flirtation were commonplace.
‘Maria,’ Charles teased, gently touching her cheek with the back of his hand, ‘you are blushing.’
‘And I think you are quite mad.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ he whispered, and, bending his head, he pressed his lips to her forehead, placing his hands around her upper arms and drawing her against his chest, holding her as if he knew she would struggle if he tried to do more than that. ‘When we set out on this journey, you were not in my plans, Maria.’
‘Oh, please,’ she implored helplessly. ‘I don’t know what you want of me. Please don’t do this.’
He took her chin between his thumb and his forefinger and lifted it, forcing her to meet his steady gaze as he quietly said, ‘A kiss would not go amiss.’
‘Nevertheless, I think you should proceed with caution.’
‘A little kiss here and there is quite harmless.’
‘A little kiss here and there is dangerous,’ she countered, thoroughly convinced of that premise where he was concerned.
She turned her head away. The powerful force of sensual persuasion that he was capable of launching against her could reap devastating results. She must guard her heart. She was very susceptible. But when he placed a finger against her cheek and brought her face back to his, when his eyes delved into hers, he all but burned her heart inside out, and touched at its tender core.
‘Have you ever been kissed, Maria?’
She shook her head, her breath coming quickly from between her softly parted lips. ‘No, of course I haven’t.’
His lips quirked. ‘Then perhaps it’s time you were.’ A wicked gleam entered his eyes. ‘It won’t hurt. I promise.’
Maria’s entire body started to tremble as his lips began to descend to hers, and she sought to forestall what her heart knew was inevitable by reasoning with him. ‘Please, Charles. I am betrothed to another. Do you forget so easily?’
‘Would that I could, but with a little gentle persuasion I might succeed in making you forget.’ He laughed softly at her appalled expression. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Maria. Your betrothed will never know.’
His warm breath stirred her hair and warmed her cheek. ‘Don’t—I cannot do this.’
‘Yes, Maria, you can.’
His lips brushed back and forth across her lips, and Maria shivered with the waves of tension shooting through her. The instant he felt her trembling response, Charles’s arm tightened, supporting her. She did not struggle or utter one word of protest. Perhaps she knew it would do little good to do either. She stood entirely still. His hand curved round her nape, sensually stroking it. He began trailing scorching kisses down her neck and back to her lips.
‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll stop whenever you tell me to.’
Imprisoned by his protective embrace and seduced by his mouth and caressing hands, being totally ignorant of such matters and not knowing what to expect, Maria helplessly raised her head to fully receive his kiss.
The sweet offering of her mouth wrung a groan from Charles and his lips seized hers in a kiss of melting hunger. His tongue traced a hot line between her lips, coaxing, urging them to part, and then insisting. Even though she was braced for it, the shock of his parted lips on hers was indescribable sweetness. She touched her tongue to his lips, and when she felt him shudder, instinct told her she was doing something right. The moment she yielded he deepened his kiss.
Too naïve and inexperienced to hide her feelings, her body jerked convulsively with the primitive sensations jarring through her entire body, and she surrendered mindlessly to the splendour of the pagan kiss. It was deep and, when Charles finally pulled his mouth from hers an eternity later, feeling almost bereft, Maria surfaced slightly from the sensual place where he had sent her. She forced her eyelids open and looked at him, the confusion she felt and her sudden awakening to the desires of her body in their soft depths.
But with the cold onrush of reality the passionate spell was broken and Maria pulled back in his arms. ‘No, Charles, I cannot.’
He pulled her back and looked down at her, letting his eyes sweep the flushed cheeks and the roundness of her breasts rising and falling beneath her dress. ‘Then speak a lie, Maria, and say you want no part of me.’
Though her mouth opened, no words formed, and she could only stare up at him, helplessly caught in the web of her own desire. Again he placed his lips on hers to possess their softness leisurely and languidly. He met no resistance and, with a low moan, Maria let him gather her to him, their mouths melded in warm communion, turning and devouring, until their needs became a greedy search for more. His hand slipped to her breast, caressing and kneading its swelling firmness, and the white-hot heat that shot through her was a sudden shock that made her catch her breath and drag her mouth from his.
‘Charles, we cannot do this,’ she whispered in desperation, tearing herself from his arms, shaken to the core of her being. ‘You haven’t enough honour and decency to stop yourself kissing another man’s future wife.’
Charles’s jaw tightened. ‘So much the worse for you,’ he said grimly. ‘At all events, when the two of you finally meet up, he will see that he has lost you.’
‘That will be for me to decide, not you, although I am touched by your concern—if that is what it is. If the chivalrous feelings you possess towards me are indeed genuine, then you may prove it simply by not taking advantage of my vulnerable and defenceless state by kissing me again. What am I to think—only that you are soliciting me for my favours?’
Seeing a deep hurt underlying the anger in her flashing eyes, his anger melted. Lifting his hand, he tenderly brushed a dark lock of hair off her cheek. ‘I am not trying to pry into what your feelings might be, and I am not soliciting you for your favours, Maria. It’s just that after being alone with you for two days now and getting to know you better—you’re like a potent wine that has gone to my head. I just cannot bear to see you in the thrall of a man who is unworthy of you—a man who aspires to be your husband.’
‘I am not in Henry’s thrall, Charles—never that. To the man I marry I shall gladly yield all I have to give—as well as all the love and devotion and passion I am capable of feeling. In return I shall want from my husband love, honour—and fidelity. But whatever happens, I will make up my own mind in the end.’
‘I know you will, and I hope your decision will be the right one. And now I think you should go to bed. And don’t forget to lock your door.’ He turned in the open doorway and looked back, a smile curving his lips. ‘Sweet dreams, Maria.’
Walking away from Maria’s room the smile remained on Charles’s lips. The kiss had proved what he suspected, that she had not the least idea of the mechanics of sexual intimacy between men and women. The suffocating prudery of her life at Chateau Feroc under the stern, autocratic eye of the Countess had kept her in complete ignorance of such matters. He had seen it reflected in the shocked and appalled expression on her face when he told her he was going to kiss her, and he had sensed it in her body’s lack of response when he had.
But he was encouraged by the fact that her lips had answered his kiss. They had been soft and sweet and pliable beneath his own, and he would have liked to stay and educate her further, but seducing Maria Monkton was not in his immediate plans. For the time being, somehow he would have to cool the lust gnawing at his very being and try to forget how soft and sweet she had felt in his arms, to ignore the fact that she had set her hooks into him, and to control the strong attraction that seemed to bind his heart and mind to Maria.
Maria stared at the closed door in a waking dream. How was it possible that after just two days Charles Osbourne could stir feelings she had never felt before? She was fearful of what might happen if he came to her again and seeked to finish what he had started. She had escaped this moment—not entirely unscathed, but nevertheless with her virtue still intact. That state, however, was most tenuous and would not withstand another persuasive, unrelenting assault.
His kiss, his forceful persuasiveness, had been her downfall. He had known full well what he was doing to her, and the memory of what she had experienced in his arms made her plight all the more unbearable and she feared she was destined to remember his embrace for the rest of her life.
And Henry? She had given no thought to him while allowing her mind to dwell on romantic thoughts about another man. Her emotions were torn asunder, and she could find no peace in the depths of her thoughts. What her heart yearned for went against everything she deemed honourable, and yet she had no control over it.
Maria awoke to the sound of someone knocking on the door. Still drowsy with slumber, it took her a moment to remember where she was. When the knocking came again, startled, immediately she was out of bed, her heart slamming into her ribs, her knees turning to jelly. Pushing back her hair, she padded across the room.
‘Who is it?’
‘Charles.’
Maria stared at the door, reluctant to open it, reluctant to look Charles in the eyes after what had happened last night.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, hearing the tiredness in her voice.
‘You—you startled me. I didn’t expect you …’
‘Really,’ he mocked from the other side of the door. ‘Whom did you expect? It’s late, Maria. If you remember, I told you I wanted to make an early start.’
‘I’ll get dressed. I’ll be down in a moment.’
Charles was already doing full justice to his breakfast when she arrived downstairs. He raised his brows when she slipped into the chair across from him, his expression oddly impassive.
‘You slept well?’ he enquired coolly.
‘Eventually,’ Maria answered quietly, focusing her attention on the food the innkeeper’s wife placed in front of her and pouring coffee into a mug. She took a sip of the steaming beverage gratefully. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was more tired than I thought.’
Charles wished he could have let her rest a little longer. But there was no help for it. They must press on if they were to reach Calais that day.
‘You can sleep in the coach. I promise not to wake you,’ he teased gently.
Maria trembled at the gentle confidence she heard in his smiling voice.
As she climbed into the coach for the final stage of their journey, she found herself alone once more with this man who was beginning to have such a powerful effect on her. She had become a bewildered young woman with an added problem and an upbringing that convinced her that what she had let happen and enjoyed with Charles was unforgivable.
‘Maria,’ Charles said, dragging her from her thoughts. ‘Is something wrong?’
Her eyes flew open and his unfathomable light blue eyes locked on to hers. ‘Wrong? I …’
‘Perhaps you’d like to talk about it?’ he asked calmly. She shook her head. ‘You’re afraid. Is it me you fear, Maria? Or something else?’
The way he spoke her name in his rich deep voice had the same stirring effect on her as the touch of his lips. ‘It—it’s about last night when—when you …’
‘When I kissed you.’
‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘And?’
‘I’m afraid of the things you made me feel,’ she admitted desperately. ‘I don’t understand them. I—realise that to you this is merely a—a dalliance …’
‘Is that so?’ he teased, a lazy, seductive grin sweeping across his handsome face. ‘And you know that, do you, Maria?’
She swallowed nervously. ‘Do you mean it isn’t?’ Visions of being kissed whenever he felt like it rose to alarming prominence in her mind. Hoping that by speaking in a calm, reasonable voice, rather than heatedly protesting his intentions, she said, ‘It’s not that I’m afraid, it’s just that you shouldn’t have done it. It was quite wrong of you, and I would appreciate it if you refrained from—from doing anything like that in the future.’
With a mixture of amusement and admiration, Charles noted her request. With any other woman, such a request would only add to his determination to taste her response to him again—and Maria was no exception. Of that there was no doubt. Maria hadn’t any notion how much control he had to maintain over himself to keep his hands off her, and if the situation arose again his actions would be exactly the same—and Henry Winston be damned.
‘The kiss was harmless, wasn’t it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Neither of us was hurt, were we?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then, there is no reason why we should mention it again, is there?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Good.’
The coach made rapid progress despite the dreadful condition of the roads—the combination of this and the badly sprung coach was punishing for both occupants. As dusk began to descend they were approaching the coast. Already Maria could smell the sea and she knew they could not be far from Calais.
They entered the medieval walled town, the wheels of the coach rattling over the cobblestones of the narrow, twisting streets. Reaching the Place d’Armes, the main square of the town, with its thirteenth-century watch-tower, they veered off down a side street and Pierre halted the coach outside a small tavern that catered for the fishermen of the town. The doorway was low and a red light shone through greasy curtains.
Climbing out, Charles took Maria firmly by the arm and drew her inside. She found herself in a dimly lit, low-ceilinged room where the atmosphere was like a dense fog, reeking in equal parts of liquor and tobacco smoke. There were sailors and fishermen drinking and talking, some breaking out into ribald shouts as the serving girls passed among them, their hands groping and clasping softly rounded parts.
‘Do we have to stay here?’ Maria whispered, terrified in case someone should reach out and molest her in the same way.
‘Stay close beside me and you’ll come to no harm.’
When his eyes lighted on the newcomers, a man rose from his seat at the far end of the room, hoisting a basket on to his back. Maria gasped when she saw him pushing his way towards them through the fog like some weird and menacing Neptune, for he was the most fearsome man she had ever seen. He was a giant of a man with enormous shoulders and fists like hammers. A battered red-and-green cocked hat sat jauntily sideways on his pigtailed head and a bushy black beard sprouted from his chin. He had a broad face, a wide, fleshy nose that might have been flattened by a blow at some time, and bloodshot eyes.
‘You’re early,’ the man said to Charles in a deep and powerful gruff voice, dropping the basket at his feet. ‘I didn’t expect you for another day.’
‘We made good progress,’ Charles said coolly, taking the man’s arm and drawing him aside, out of earshot of anyone who might be interested in their conversation, which was doubtful, since most had their eyes fixed on a pretty and extremely well-endowed serving wench as she served them with ale.
‘Did you encounter any trouble?’
‘Only once. It could have been worse.’
‘Never mind. You are here now.’
Charles drew Maria forward. ‘Maria, this is Jaques.’
Jaques pulled his hat off and grinned down at her. ‘Honoured to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle.’
‘Madame,’ Charles informed him quietly. ‘For the time it takes us to reach England. Can you take us across tonight? If you can, there will be no need for us to find lodging. I have no desire to remain in Calais kicking my heels indefinitely.’
‘Not till daybreak when the tide’s full. Stay here until the early hours and then come aboard. You won’t be alone. There will be other passengers.’
‘I thought there might be. We’ll be down in the harbour in plenty of time.’
Taken by surprise, Maria gave Charles a startled glance. Was this man expecting them? And if so, how could this be? ‘Charles, there are boats crossing all the time to Dover, and then there’s the packet. I’m sure we would have no difficulty obtaining passage on one of them.’
‘Jaques brought me out from England. Not wishing to draw attention to myself, I asked him to be here to take me back.’
Maria stared at him in amused amazement. ‘Not draw attention? Charles, have you had a good look at the man? No disrespect to you, Jaques,’ she said, meeting Jaques’s eye, ‘but you can’t help but draw attention. You are the most terrifying individual I have ever seen.’
Jaques looked down at her and laughed out loud at her outspoken honesty, not in the least offended by it—in fact, he was openly amused by it. ‘Worry not, little lady. Appearances aren’t always what they seem. I am but a simple fisherman here to sell my mackerel,’ he said, giving the basket a kick with his foot, ‘and as meek as a lamb and quite harmless.’
Maria gritted her teeth and forced herself to look this fearful new acquaintance in the face. ‘I am obliged to go to England, so I will have to take your word for that.’
‘You may rest assured that my boat is seaworthy. I’ve things to do before we put to sea,’ Jaques said, drawing his bushy eyebrows together and addressing himself to Charles in a low voice. ‘I’d be obliged if you told no one you’re to sail with me on the tide.’
Charles inclined his head gravely. ‘I know better than to do that, Jaques.’
Sticking his hat back on his head at random and hoisting the fish basket on to his shoulder, with a final wave of his hand Jaques headed for the door where he turned and looked back at them. ‘The sea is rough tonight. I advise you to drink some grog while you wait. It’s pretty cold down in the harbour in the early hours.’
Charles turned to his companion and smiled, aware of her trepidation. ‘Jaques was absolutely right. He really is quite harmless unless provoked.’
‘Are you sure about that? Forgive me if I do not share your opinion, Charles. The man bears a striking resemblance to a pirate.’
Charles chuckled low in his throat. ‘The difference being that he has no eye patch or wooden leg—although I suppose on second thoughts he does bear some resemblance to a pirate in that he is a—gentleman of fortune—as well as being a fisherman.’
Something registered in Maria’s mind and she frowned. ‘These people who are to sail with us? Who are they, Charles, and why the need for secrecy?’
‘Because they are aristocrats, émigrés already fleeing the country in fear of their lives. For a price, Jaques is willing to take them to safety in England. It’s a good living in these times. Dangerous, yes, but good.’ He glanced around. ‘Now I have met up with Jaques I can send Pierre on his way—although he will probably remain here for now. Apparently he has family living further along the coast and will be glad of a spell of inactivity.’
Outside the inn they were caught up in a fierce gust of wind bringing with it stinging drops of rain and a strong smell of the sea. After they had said farewell to Pierre they went back inside. After partaking of a dish of steaming mutton, taking Jaques’s advice Charles ordered hot rum.
‘Drink some of this. It will be cold on the boat and you’ll be glad of it.’
Maria was not so sure when she eyed the pungent beverage suspiciously. She had never tasted spirits and was on the point of refusing, but Charles bent forwards so that his head almost touched her ear, and he said quietly, ‘Don’t make a fuss, Maria. You’ll get us noticed.’
Bravely Maria swallowed down the hot rum. She gasped and began to cough, which brought a broad smile to Charles’s lips and he slapped her between the shoulder blades, which almost knocked her off her feet.
‘I should have warned you. It takes your breath at first, but it will warm you.’
Maria was coughing too much to reply, but once she got her breath back she discovered that this assertion proved correct. An agreeable warmth infiltrated her body and she found it to her liking. She took another sip, cautiously this time, and seated herself on a settle before the fire to wait until it was time for them to leave.
The deserted harbour under the town walls was just coming to life. Fishing boats were getting ready to leave, and the now-empty fishing baskets heaped on the decks would be brought back filled with plaice and sole, wet and shiny, and granite-coloured crabs.
Jaques’s boat was a small fishing vessel plainly crafted. It looked small and insignificant alongside a brig and two tall-masted frigates, but her very insignificance was a safeguard, as was the single, modest riding light at her masthead.
Jaques was beckoning to them on the deck, and seconds later they crossed the plank connecting her with the shore and were aboard. Maria wrinkled her nose. The boat smelled nauseatingly of fish. She looked at Charles, suddenly aware of how tense he had become. Jaques moved out of the dawn shadows across the deck towards them.
‘We’ll get off now. The tide’s all but full. Escort the lady below,’ he ordered, keeping his voice low.
‘Below?’ Maria asked hesitantly, extremely reluctant to enter the bowels of the boat. She had a dread of ships and would rather be on deck in the fresh air than down below.
‘Yes, Maria, down to the cabin,’ Charles said, taking her arm with a firm grip.
She held back. ‘May I not stay here?’
Charles’s grim expression as he met her gaze boded ill. ‘No, you may not. Until we have left the harbour you must remain below.’
‘But I don’t—much care for ships,’ she confessed, ashamed of her weakness, but she couldn’t help it. She hoped her request to stay on deck wouldn’t sound like cowardice and that he would understand her fear. ‘They—frighten me.’
His jaw hardened in annoyance. ‘This isn’t a ship, Maria, it’s a boat, a small fishing boat in case you haven’t noticed.’
Maria flinched. He spoke to her as he would to a naughty child. ‘I do know that, but they’re one and the same to me. My grandparents’—my mother’s parents’—ship went down in a storm in the Channel when they were returning to England after visiting my aunt.’
That made Charles pause. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally. ‘I recall you telling me. I should have known. Nevertheless, Maria, for our sake and for those already below, it is essential that the coastguard and the harbour authorities don’t see us. If they should spot us, the consequences don’t bear thinking about. No one saw us board. As far as anyone is concerned Jaques is embarking on one of his regular fishing trips. Do you understand?’
She did not persist. ‘Yes, and I’m sorry. Of course I’ll go below,’ she said bravely. She hesitated, reluctant to go without him, she realised with a vague sense of surprise. ‘You will come with me?’
His voice softened. ‘Of course. We’ll come back on deck when we’re out in the Channel.’
So she allowed him to lead her below to the small cabin. In the yellow light of the lantern they saw they were not alone. Six shapes—the émigrés, two women and four men, who had smuggled themselves aboard during the night—all sat close together, clutching their few possessions.
Dressed in plain, shabby clothes, with caps covering their heads and pulled well down, they looked far more like the rabble who pursued them for their lives than aristocrats.
That was the moment when Maria was made forcibly conscious that she was just like them, a fugitive, because she was obliged to hide and flee. She had no choice but to humbly accept in silence what fate might send her, even to being ordered about by someone like Jaques.
Taking her hand, Charles drew her down on to a bench away from the others, just big enough for the two of them. Sensing her fear and feeling her body tremble next to his, he leaned towards her. ‘Maria,’ he said gently in her ear, ‘you needn’t fear the boat will go down. Jaques hasn’t lost one yet.’
She glanced at him and then away again, conscious of the intense physical awareness she felt at his nearness. She wanted him to put his arms around her and calm her fears. She could hear the wind getting up. Down in the cabin it seemed to be blowing with a force that was terrifying.
Something in Charles’s chest tightened. ‘Maria,’ he murmured, ‘are you all right?’ Placing a gentle finger under her chin, he compelled her to meet his gaze. ‘What is it? Are you really so frightened?’
She swallowed and nodded. ‘Would you … Do you suppose you could hold me?’
Wordlessly he put his arm around her and drew her close. She placed her head on his shoulder and he could feel her body trembling. ‘There’s nothing to fear,’ he murmured gently, stroking her head. ‘We’ll soon be out into the Channel and then we’ll be able to go up on deck.’ He pressed his cheek against her hair and repressed a smile, suspecting her docility was a measure of her fear and fatigue—and maybe the belated effects of the rum she had consumed.
The moment he drew her into his arms, Maria was instantly conscious of the warmth and potential power of his body against hers, and felt an answering spark in him. She tilted her face to look at him. His hair fell in an untidy sweep over his brow. He had an engaging face. She saw something she had not seen in him before, the sweetness and humour of his firm lips, the quiet amusement behind his alert gaze. She paused, holding her breath as her heart turned over. To her at that moment, he was quite simply a beautiful man. Something stirred inside her. Something was happening, something that shouldn’t be happening—something she didn’t want to happen.
Her body began to soften. It was a melting feeling, one her body liked. For what seemed to be an age she really looked at Charles. Even though she had been alone with him for three days, it was like coming face to face with a stranger. It frightened her, especially when his eyes locked on hers. It was all she could do to face his unspoken challenge and not retreat from him. Measure by measure the realisation dawned that this was a man she did not know.
Nothing had prepared Maria for the thrill of quivering excitement that gripped her now. Her heart swelled with an emotion of such proportions she was overwhelmed. She was aware that this was a moment of great importance yet didn’t know in what way.
Quite suddenly, and with stunned amazement, she was conscious of an overwhelming impulse to reach up and take his dark head between her hands and draw it down to her own. For a moment it was almost as though she could feel his thick hair under her fingers.
Against her will and against all common sense, something stirred deep, deep within her, something dark and soft and treacherous. A hot tide of incredulous horror engulfed her mind and body in a wave of burning shame, and she lowered her eyes, hiding them with her long black lashes. They had looked at each other deeply, a look that spanned no more than a few seconds and yet seemed to last for an eternity.
She shivered in anticipation, then almost shyly she pulled away from him. His eyes on hers were very bright, very tender.
‘I’m all right now. You must think I’m very foolish.’
‘No, Maria. To be afraid is nothing to be ashamed of. It often takes courage to admit it.’
Charles was not immune to the unresisting woman he had held close. He was a virile man, a very masculine man, who was accustomed to the women in his arms allowing him whatever he asked of them. He was well used to the lusting pleasures that were always available to him. He had not, until he’d kissed Maria, held a woman in his arms who was not only young but innocent. Not until she had met him had she encountered the closeness, the intimacy and power of a man’s body close to her own, of desire that inflamed the flesh and confused all coherent thought.
The vessel slipped slowly out of the harbour and bounded forwards running into the Channel. On a word from Jaques, those below were told it was safe to come up on deck.
Clinging on to the rail next to Charles and with Jaques at the helm, as the vessel rolled on the swell already making itself felt in a choppy sea, the waves capped with curls of foam, Maria was filled with confusion. She could not understand herself. She realised that Charles was becoming very dear to her, but how could this be when she didn’t really know him? Just a few moments ago, if he had made the slightest movement towards her she would have been in his arms.
Breathing deeply of the night air she looked back at the receding French coast shrouded in early morning mist. The wind was getting stronger, causing the sail to crack and the little vessel to lurch alarmingly.
‘We’re running right into a storm,’ Maria gasped fearfully.
‘This isn’t a storm.’ Jaques laughed, his voice booming over the noise of the wind. ‘If you saw a real storm, you’d never forget it.’
‘Get back from the rail,’ Charles ordered, taking her arm and almost dragging her away. ‘I’d hate to see you tossed overboard. I’d be forced to jump in to rescue you.’
‘And I would expect nothing less,’ she laughed, glad to be out of the claustrophobic confines of the cabin and the threat of being in such close proximity to him always posed to her susceptible heart.
‘Are you all right?’ he shouted above the wind.
She nodded. ‘Yes. I am now. Don’t worry about me. I’m going home and that’s all that counts.’
Drawing her cloak tightly about her, she looked up at Charles, at his profile etched against the lightening sky. Indomitable pride was chiselled into his handsome face, determination in the arrogant cut of his jaw, intelligence and hard-bitten strength etched into every feature of his face. There was an aloof strength, a powerful charisma about him that had nothing to do with his tall, strong-shouldered physique or that mocking smile of his. There was something else, a feeling she got that he had done and seen all there was to do and see, and that all those experiences were locked away behind an unbreachable wall of charm, a handsome face, and piercing light blue eyes. Beyond any woman’s reach.
Daylight had broken as the boat gently nosed its way towards the English coastline. It was a sight Maria would never forget. The boat was rolling gently now, the wind having dropped mid-channel. Gradually the land came more clearly into view, with its white cliffs and the castle overlooking the harbour. What a relief it was to see England again.
Ever since she had left she had wished to return. Now there was no need to wish any longer. At that moment she saw the sun rise in a ball of crimson on the horizon—just like an omen, she thought, marking the start of a new life, a happy life. Would Henry be a part of it?
Before Charles had arrived at Chateau Feroc she had had her doubts about marrying Henry, and now, after the short time she had spent alone with Charles and the sensations he had awakened inside her, sensations and womanly desires far different from anything she had ever experienced before, as arduous as the task promised to be, she saw no help for it. Already the decision was beginning to form in her mind that she would have to tell Henry she would not marry him.

Chapter Five
Maria was returning to a country under the reign of King George III, a man who was devoted to Queen Charlotte. The court of King George was irreproachable, respectable and formal. Unfortunately of late he had become mentally unsound. The malady had precipitated a political crisis and making his son George, a man who was totally self-indulgent and as incapable of curbing his spending as of governing his passions Prince Regent, was being considered.
In the coming days, and the more familiar Maria became with England and its politics and the royal family, she would realise there were many similarities in the man who would be Regent and the man to whom she was betrothed.
Once the boat was tied up to the quay, after thanking Jaques and bidding him farewell, Charles and Maria headed for the town. As they approached the inn where they were to meet Henry, Maria walked stiffly beside Charles, her back ramrod straight, unable to forget what had taken place between them on the boat, and the profound effect those moments when they had looked at each other as if for the first time had had on her. She noticed how quiet Charles had become, how tense.
On the point of meeting her betrothed at long last, she masked her trepidations by an extreme effort of will. Whether Henry was as unworthy as Charles said he was, was yet to be determined.
With these thoughts she went inside the tavern. There were few people about. Her eyes scanned every face for the one she remembered. She turned to Charles, who was just behind her.
‘I don’t see Henry. Maybe he arrived ahead of us and has gone out—for a stroll, perhaps.’
Charles’s expression was one of cynicism. How little she knew Henry Winston. He was not the type to waste his time strolling.
‘Or perhaps he’s been delayed on the road,’ Maria suggested hopefully.
‘I didn’t expect him to be waiting, Maria. We have arrived a day ahead of schedule. I would imagine he is still in London. I’ll go and order refreshment while we decide what to do.’
Maria seated herself at a table in a window recess so she could see the road and not miss the moment when Henry arrived. Now the moment had come, she was so scared and utterly unnerved that she knew she could not have moved a muscle to flee if need be. She waited as one transfixed, not knowing what to expect of the man her father had chosen for her to marry.
She turned and looked at Charles when he approached the table. Meeting his eyes she sensed that all was not as it should be. He was holding a letter in his hand, a hard, angry look on his face.
‘Charles? What is it? Is something wrong?’
He held out the letter. She took it, her hand shaking a little. Seeing that it was addressed to him and strangely reluctant to open it, she offered it back to him, her eyes wary.
‘It’s addressed to you.’
‘It concerns you. Read it.’
‘Who is it from?’
‘Winston. It would seem that he’s unable to come to meet you—something about unforeseen business. He won’t be coming to Dover.’
‘You mean he can’t get away?’
Can’t or doesn’t want to bother, Charles thought furiously. ‘Now why is it,’ he mocked, pacing the floor in exasperation, ‘that letter doesn’t surprise me? I had my doubts about him travelling to Dover, which would have been a true test of his merit. I can only thank God that he had the foresight to inform us, otherwise we might have been kicking our heels here for a week, waiting for him to arrive.’
Maria read Henry’s brief note. It would appear she would have to remain under Charles’s protection a while longer, and Henry was sure Sir Charles wouldn’t mind seeing her safely to London where they would be reunited and married right away.
With a strange feeling of relief that she had been handed a reprieve, Maria folded the letter and handed it back to Charles. ‘I’m sorry, Charles. It looks as if you’ll have to put up with me a while longer.’ She expected the news that he would have charge of her for a while yet to get a reaction, but except for a muscle that began to twitch in his jaw, there was none. She sensed a change in him. His manner and the way he was looking at her was in sharp variance to what she had become used to.
Charles thought Maria looked very small and forlorn and as he looked at her his heart softened. Absently she smoothed a lock of hair from her temple. She had twisted the heavy black tresses in a large knot at the nape of her neck, which emphasised the perfection of the delicate features and oval contours of her face. Hers was a soft and rare beauty that would remain ageless for many years to come.
He wished that he didn’t feel so responsible for her. It was an absurd feeling and it irritated him, for there was no reason for it. But the truth of it was that at the very beginning he had felt obligated to protect Sir Edward’s daughter, and knowing the nature of her betrothed, he had made it his duty to try to prevent her marrying Colonel Winston when the time came.
‘I’m sorry, Maria. I know how bitterly disappointed you must be feeling.’
Maria looked at him. His eyes were fixed on her with a frowning intensity. Her lips curved in a cynical smile. ‘If there’s anything I’ve learnt over the years, it’s that life is full of disappointments. One has to learn to bear them.’
She looked up at him, at his taut features, and it became apparent to her how Henry’s tardiness affected him also. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with a loneliness that wrenched her heart. Until now she hadn’t realised how much she had come to depend on Charles for both his strength and his protection. Parting from him was going to be harder than she had realised.
‘It is you that concerns me, Charles. I have no doubt that you hoped to discharge your duty where I am concerned and be about your own affairs. This must have come as a blow to you. I have no wish to be a burden to you so perhaps if there is a conveyance that will take me to Gravely—’
‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘I will not hear of it.’
‘I recall you telling me that you had made your own arrangements once we reached Dover.’
He nodded. ‘My home, Highgate, is in Kent. It was my intention to go there.’
‘I’m so sorry. But—you don’t have to change your plans. If I cannot go to Gravely, I am quite capable of going on to London alone.’
He shook his head, rejecting her suggestion. ‘I will not allow it. I arranged for my own coach and driver to meet me here. As soon as they arrive, if you don’t feel too bruised from your journey to Calais and in need of rest, we can leave as soon as we have eaten. Highgate is close to Canterbury. We can break our journey there.’
Still seated in the window recess, Maria raised her eyebrows, her look one of admiration as she watched a splendid coach, its body lacquered a gleaming black, drawn by four identical grey horses, the coachman turned out in formal bottle-green livery, arrive.
Charles, who had been pacing the floor impatiently, suddenly came to a halt.
‘Here he is. Very soon we shall be on the road.’
Maria stared at him. ‘You mean—that fine-looking carriage belongs to you?’
‘It does—and I am sure you will find it a good deal more comfortable than the conveyance we travelled in to Calais.’
When the horses had been rested and fed, the coachman put up the steps and closed the door, and with scarcely any sensation of motion, the well-sprung travelling chaise glided along the road behind the four prancing greys.
Maria glanced about her, admiring the crystal lamps and the heavy silver door handles and the soft dove-grey upholstery. Luxuriating in the unexpected comfort of the spacious conveyance, she looked across at her companion, who had his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He was gazing morosely out of the window. Immediately she was filled with contrition. What a nuisance all this must be for him and how he must be cursing Henry for not coming to Dover to meet her.
‘I hate inconveniencing you like this, Charles,’ she said softly. ‘Will you stay long at Highgate?’
He flicked a glance in her direction. ‘I haven’t made up my mind. It depends what I find when I get there. Hopefully things will be as they were when I left for France. I have to go to London anyway. I have pressing matters and important people to see.’
‘Has it anything to do with you being in France?’ she dared to ask, expecting a rebuff.
She was surprised when he fixed her with a level look and said, ‘To satisfy your curiosity, Maria, now it is safe to do so I can tell you that I went to France on the request of some members of the government to see and report on the general order of things in Paris. Like everyone else in England, the government is horrified about what is happening—the massacres and the burning of properties. Those with a vested interest in the social order are seriously worried that revolutionary ideas will spread to Britain.’
Maria stared at him wide-eyed in astonishment. ‘Good gracious! So you are a paid spy in the employ of the British government. How exciting—though highly dangerous,’ she finished on a more sombre note.
His eyes hardened and a thin, cynical smile curved his lips. ‘You needn’t appear so surprised, Maria. You had me cast in the role of spy from the first.’
‘In all truth I didn’t know what to think. I’m just relieved things have turned out the way they have—that France is behind us. What will happen in the end, do you think?’
‘That depends on what you mean by the end.’
‘When all the rioting and burning of noble houses and the killing has ended. Will France get her republic?’
‘I believe it will.’
When he made no attempt to converse further with her, Maria sensed that he was grappling with some sort of weighty problem, and she let the silence continue, content to watch the passing scenery roll past the windows.
Arriving at Highgate they were admitted through the tall gates of the estate where Charles lived. The warm mellow brick manor house stood proudly against a backdrop of sprawling parkland as they drove up the gracefully curving drive.
Maria looked around in approval. ‘What a lovely house.’
‘I agree—but then I would. It’s been in my family for generations.’
They stepped out of the carriage and climbed the wide flight of stone steps to the massive door. Before they reached it it was opened by a stiff-faced man dressed in dark blue and gold livery. His face relaxed with pleasure when he saw who had arrived.
‘Sir Charles! It’s good to see you back.’
Charles lifted a hand in an invitation for Maria to precede him. ‘Thank you, Jesson,’ he said, striding past him and nodding at Mrs Moor, the housekeeper at Highgate. ‘It’s good to be home. How is my mother?’
‘Lady Osbourne left for London last month, Sir Charles. She was quite well when she left. She said she was tired of the country and was missing her friends.’
‘I see. Then I shall see her there. We are on our way to London. When we have eaten and the horses have rested we’ll continue with our journey. Is there anything I need to attend to while I am here?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. Mr Parry has everything running like clockwork. There is some private correspondence that needs attending to.’
‘I’ll take it with me and deal with it in London. Mark Parry is my bailiff,’ Charles explained to Maria. ‘He is highly competent and I don’t know what I’d do without him. Have cook prepare a meal for us, Mrs Moor—and if you could, show Miss Monkton to a room. I’m sure you would like to freshen up before we eat,’ he said, looking at Maria. His gaze passed over her attire and his expression became one of distaste.
‘I think it’s time you disposed of that dress. I’m sure Mrs Moor can find you something else to wear. My sisters both have dresses stashed somewhere. I think Georgina is more your size. There’s bound to be something that will suit. For safety’s sake, Miss Monkton was forced to leave everything in France in a hurry,’ he explained to his housekeeper.
‘Which is why I appear before you dressed as a peasant,’ Maria said, looking with mock dismay at her dismal attire. ‘I assure you I don’t normally look like this.’
Mrs Moor faced Maria with a cheery smile. ‘Come with me, Miss Monkton. I’ll see what I can find.’
And she did. Attired in a delicate lemon gown, the long tresses of her hair pulled from her face and left to fall down her back beneath trails of lemon ribbon, Maria entered the drawing room like a fresh breeze, sweeping in through the door.
Seated by the window flicking through some correspondence, Charles quickly came to his feet in appreciation of her dazzling beauty. His gaze slid boldly over her, from the top of her shining head to her swelling breasts beneath the bodice of her gown and right down to her feet. Maria was accustomed to the admiring glances of gentlemen, but there was nothing gentlemanly about Charles’s lazy perusal of her body.
‘Are you quite finished?’ she asked tersely.
His unhurried gaze lifted to her eyes and a wry smile quirked his stern lips when he heard the exasperation in her voice. Perhaps she resented him suggesting she shed her unflattering black gown that had seen better days on her maid. ‘I was merely admiring the transformation, Maria. You look quite radiant.’
She had been lovely before, but he hadn’t expected her to blossom into a full-fledged beauty simply by changing her gown. When she reached London she would dazzle society’s gentlemen. And therein lay his problem, for she was a complete innocent, an inexperienced innocent in his charge, and for whom he was responsible. The image of himself as guardian of her virtue—not forgetting her fortune—was so ludicrous it was laughable. But that was the role he would be forced to play when Maria had sent Henry Winston packing—which she would, when she laid eyes on his gross bulk, and she was truly alone.
‘Now come and eat. I would like to resume our journey as soon as possible if we are to reach London before dark.’
Feeling slightly mellow and in good spirits after partaking of a delicious meal, happy that Charles’s sombre mood had lightened somewhat with the food and wine, when they had left Highgate and were settled once more in the carriage, not wishing to impose on Charles any longer and impatient to see Henry so she could take stock and do what she thought was necessary, Maria ventured to ask, ‘Will you take me straight to wherever it is that Henry lives when we reach London?’ She smiled, and, without giving him chance to reply, went on, ‘Don’t you find it strange that I have no idea where that is?’ Charles merely gave her a wry smile. ‘Whenever I wrote to him I always sent the letters to his address in India.’ She looked at him sideways. ‘Where does he live now he’s left the company and is back in England, Charles?’
‘He has taken a modest house in the Strand,’ he answered brusquely.
‘I see, although I really have no idea where that is. I’m not at all familiar with London, never having been there. Whatever the outcome of our meeting, I’m impatient to go to Gravely, to see if it’s just as I remember it when my father was alive.’
Suddenly Charles shot her a glance of exasperation. He looked angry and agitated. ‘Maria, I would be grateful if you would speak of something else. The last thing I wish to discuss right now is Henry Winston.’
Maria stiffened and pressed herself back against the cushions, her face blank with hurt, surprised at the coldness in his eyes.
Charles met the look squarely. ‘You think that’s callous and brutal of me, don’t you?’ he said with deliberate harshness.
‘I’m sorry. I seem to have been talking a deal too much. I did not mean to bore you. But you needn’t worry. We’ll soon be in London and then you’ll be free of me. Your obligation to me will be over. That must please you.’
‘What pleases me is that I’ve managed to get you out of France unharmed. What doesn’t please me is that you might decide to honour your father’s wish and wed Henry Winston regardless,’ he snapped irately.
Maria met his gaze with anguish in her eyes. ‘You know how to wound, don’t you, Charles? Do we have to go through this again? You have made your feelings plain where Henry is concerned. Your point is well taken.’
The lines around Charles’s mouth tightened and a hard gleam shone from his eyes. ‘But is it, Maria? I think I should tell you the truth about the man before you meet so you can prepare yourself.’
‘Prepare myself? What on earth for?’ she said, her voice quick with indignation and reproach. ‘Has he sprouted two heads or something?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Initially I decided your betrothal was none of my business—’
‘You were right,’ Maria flared. ‘It isn’t. But why didn’t you tell me if you had something to say?’
‘I didn’t tell you because I suppose I meant it for the best,’ he replied, ignoring her jibe.
‘And now it’s too late.’ With a stubborn lift of her chin she turned her head away.
His hand shot out and grasped her wrist. ‘You will listen to what I have to say.’
Maria pulled furiously at her imprisoned wrist. ‘Let me go.’ When he released her, she rubbed her wrist and glowered at him. ‘Very well, say what you have to say. But in the end I shall make up my own mind about him.’
Despite her determined words, Charles saw there was doubt in Maria’s face, and something else. A dawning apprehension and fear.
‘So, what is wrong with him?’ she asked to prompt him when he delayed answering.
‘What is wrong with him,’ Charles said with brutal clarity, ‘is that Henry Winston suffers from overindulgence of all the pleasures in life: drink, drugs, gambling—and women.’
Maria caught her breath in shock and turned quickly. ‘Oh—I see.’
‘You don’t know him. How can you? You have not set eyes on him in six years, don’t forget. He is not a fit person for you to associate yourself with—or any other woman, come to that—never mind becoming his wife. He’s totally unsuitable for a decently reared young woman as yourself.’
‘Please stop it. If he is as bad as you say, then I shall soon see for myself.’
‘I do not know why, when he left India, and knowing what was happening in France, he did not go himself to bring you back. Nor do I know why he could not meet us at Dover. What I do know is that after attending wild, debauched parties he is frequently incapable of standing upright.’
Maria could not deny that she was deeply shocked by what he was telling her, and however much she wanted to disbelieve it, she knew Charles would not lie to her. ‘Why are you trying so hard to discredit him to me?’
‘Perhaps it’s because I don’t like to see pearls cast before swine.’
‘It won’t be like that,’ she whispered, averting her eyes.
Charles saw she was hurt. The truth always did that. ‘When you were a young girl you no doubt cherished a vision of a fine-looking soldier of the East India Company—a handsome knight in splendorous armour—and dreamt of him returning and carrying you off to a wondrous place. Am I right, Maria?’
‘Perhaps … when I was thirteen, but the fantasy dimmed very quickly.’
‘Strip away his rank and his uniform and you will see what is left—a blackguard, roué, drunkard, gamester—all in all a complete hedonist. It’s impossible to respect a man like that.’
Seeing the confusion and bewilderment that filled her eyes, aware that she had no experience of the kind of man he spoke of, once again Charles was conscious of the pain in his heart when he looked at her.
‘Now you know, I would advise you to go directly to Gravely when you are rested.’
Maria didn’t answer him. The moment seemed to stretch interminably. At length she managed to say, ‘If he is all the terrible things you accuse him of being, why would he want to marry me?’
Charles’s smile was ironic. ‘Come now, Maria. Surely not even you could be that naïve. Your wealth speaks for itself.’
Maria was profoundly offended and humiliated by his remark, and ire sparked in her eyes. ‘And I don’t suppose you believe that Henry could possibly want to marry me for myself,’ she retorted, deeply hurt and insulted that he should think this.
‘You were thirteen years old. That should speak for itself.’
No, this was too much. She felt that he was laughing at her, and she could feel the red flames of outrage scorch her body. She drew herself up to her full height. ‘How dare you say that? Yes, I was very young, I cannot deny that and nor can I help it, but I—I trusted him,’ she finished, somewhat lamely.
‘I know you did, and I also know it must be dreadful to trust someone and then find yourself totally let down.’
Angry sparks flared in her eyes. ‘Until I have seen Henry I don’t know that. I don’t doubt there is some element of truth in what you are saying, but I shall reserve judgement until I have seen for myself.’
Charles’s gaze held hers; he knew he was being brutal, but if it was the only way he could get her to listen, then so be it. ‘Think about it, Maria? He has worked for the East India Company for years, enjoying his pleasures too much to be taken seriously by his superiors to be offered promotion. Instead, he was considered an embarrassment to the Company and asked to leave.’
‘You—mean he didn’t leave of his own volition?’
‘That is precisely what I am saying.’
‘Then there must have been some other reason.’
Charles uttered a curse beneath his breath at her stubborn refusal to consider, let alone believe, what he was saying to be true. ‘Consider this. Winston has no wealth of his own to speak of. When he called on your father at Gravely, it was just what he needed, an ill man with a fortune, with a daughter to inherit, who would drop that same fortune at the feet of the man she married. With his knowledge of India and your father’s thirst to hear all about the land he loved, a land he knew he would never set eyes on again, this was child’s play for him to win your father over.’
Maria was stricken. ‘No.’ Her voice cracked painfully. ‘I do not believe any of this—nor do I know why you should want to discredit him so.’
‘Because I know him, Maria. Everything went off as Winston had hoped, better than that since your father did not live long after your betrothal, leaving everything to you. Can you not see the cynical calculation of which you have been the object, and the cold-blooded way in which Winston set about playing on your father’s goodness and your innocence?’
‘My father was an excellent judge of character. He trusted Henry implicitly, otherwise he would never have agreed to the betrothal.’
‘He was an ill man who was desperate to settle his daughter’s future. Winston appeared at Gravely like manna from heaven. Your father was hoodwinked by Winston. If you go ahead and marry him, your precious Henry will not enjoy your fortune for long.’
‘Why, what are you saying?’
‘In no time at all he will have got rid of it. He is head over heels in debt and disgrace. Maria, listen to me. You will be in as much danger from Henry Winston as you were from the mob in France.’
‘No,’ she seethed. ‘I do not know how I shall feel when I meet Henry—I confess to feeling apprehensive—and more than a little afraid. Since my father consented to my marriage to Henry, then I feel I owe it to his memory to at least give Henry the benefit of the doubt. I do not know why you are saying these things, Charles, why you hate him so much, unless it’s because you are jealous of him for some reason and are doing your best to blacken his name to me.’
‘And why would I want to do that? What reason could I possibly have?’
‘Because—because you—you might want me for yourself.’
Elevating a dark brow, he looked at her speculatively, the hint of a smile curving his lips. ‘And have I given you reason to think that, Maria?’ he asked softly.
‘All the time—in France—and on—on the boat—something happened … but I don’t see … I don’t understand … Oh …’ Her cheeks flamed red. She was bewildered and totally out of her depth when it came to speaking of such intimate matters.
‘No—you don’t, do you?’ His gaze was fixed intently on her. ‘You don’t know and you don’t see—that’s one of the things which makes you so extraordinary. You’re so lovely, so innocent, somehow. Something did happen between us,’ he admitted, his voice softening. ‘We both felt it, but I am surprised that you should mention it. It shows your inexperience and innocence, Maria—and there is nothing to be ashamed of in that.’
Maria felt her cheeks grow hotter and she lowered her head to hide her embarrassment. That exchange of incredulous glances—incredulous on her part—had lasted no more than a few seconds but had seemed absolutely right and so amazingly natural, she could feel it even now, a smoothness of something sweet like honey running through her veins.
But that incredulous feeling also brought with it a sense of fear, fear of Charles, but why this should be she did not know. She found him altogether too disturbing, and she didn’t know how to deal with the strange, alien feelings he had evoked in her.
Straightening her slim shoulders, she lifted her chin and glared at him with defiance, trying to still the trembling of her body with a visible effort of will. She said, ‘My inexperience is because of the sheltered life I have led at Chateau Feroc—which is the way of things in my aunt’s world; no matter how disparaging you are about Henry, ultimately the decision as to whether I marry him or not is my decision.’
Charles’s face stiffened into a scornful mask of stone. ‘Don’t be a little fool, Maria. If you go ahead with this foolishness it will not be long before you discover the misery of living from hand to mouth with a man for whom you will no longer hold any commercial value. But, as you say, that is your affair.’

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