“Forgive me, Alex,” Ryan said. “That was thoughtless of me. I have the tendency to forget that you are a lady. We ought not discuss this sort of thing when you are present.”
He doesn’t know.
She’d never felt more relieved in her life. “That’s quite all right, Ryan,” she muttered, with a hint of embarrassment as she dropped onto a chair. “But perhaps we ought to talk about something else instead.”
“I didn’t hear a thing,” William ventured.
“I doubt you would have woken if the roof had fallen on your head,” Ryan said. “I dare say I’ve never known anyone to sleep so soundly.”
“Yes . . . well,” Alexandra interjected. She was quite determined to steer the conversation on a smoother course. “Shall we discuss our plans instead? We’ll need horses and provisions.”
They spent the next hour trying to determine how they might best go about thwarting Napoleon. Given their experience, William and Michael did the most talking while Alexandra and Ryan patiently listened, only occasionally adding their opinions. Through it all, however, Alexandra remained painfully aware of Michael. His whole countenance and bearing were different somehow—he seemed . . . content. And each time his eyes met hers, there was a knowing look behind them that made her heart flutter.
That evening, as she was combing out her hair in front of the mirror in her room, she saw her door open. Michael stepped inside, closing the door silently behind him. She watched as he walked toward her, a steady warmth rising within her with every step he took.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t knock,” he said as he came to stand behind her, his eyes locking onto hers in the mirror as he placed his hands upon her shoulders. A soft wave of heat rippled through her at his touch. How was she ever going to be able to walk away from him?
“What are you thinking?” He brushed away her hair with his fingers and proceeded to press soft kisses against the side of her neck. His hands left her shoulders in search of her br**sts.
“Nothing.” Her voice was breathy in response to his caress, her skin already tingling while her stomach flipped in anticipation. She couldn’t say no to him. Not tonight when she so desperately wanted to feel his touch. She would allow herself this final luxury, because tomorrow, she would start rebuilding the wall around her heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Bertrand paced about his study with wild agitation. Damn Sandrine Laurant—if that was even her real name, which he by now very much doubted that it was. She and her cohorts had made a complete fool out of him. How could he have been so stupid? He’d had his suspicions, yet she’d still managed to help his prisoner escape, right under his very nose. If word got out about his inexcusable lapse in judgment, he’d be the laughingstock of Paris, if not all of France. Fortunately, he’d managed to shoot the man, though it might have served him better if he’d have lived so he could at least have questioned him. What a dratted nuisance.
And the doctor!
He’d been given direct access to the Imperial Majesty himself. It was outrageous! To think of what he might have heard—every aspect of the Emperor’s plan of attack in Brussels might reach the Coalition armies at any moment. He glanced across at Pierre Dupont. The lieutenant sat perched on the edge of his seat—ready to jump to attention the minute he was given the order to do so. He looked about as nervous as a young lad waiting to have his bottom smacked. Served him right. If it weren’t for him, Bertrand wouldn’t be in this mess.
“Explain yourself.” The command was barked, Bertrand’s face was red with anger as he turned on Pierre who was looking more and more ashamed and embarrassed by the second, his eyes flickering hopelessly toward the door. “How can it be, that one of my finest soldiers allows for something like this to happen? Do you have any idea of the ramifications? I gave you a simple order to keep an eye on one prisoner, and instead I find you locked up in a cell wearing nothing but your underthings. It’s disgraceful!”
“I was attacked, my lord,” Pierre stammered.
“You were attacked?”
Pierre shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Speak!” Bertrand yelled, becoming increasingly enraged from just looking at his lieutenant. “How did this happen?”
“There was a woman . . . she looked distressed . . . hurt. One minute she was running toward me and the next . . . I suspect she must have been aided by one of her friends, but it’s difficult for me to say, my lord.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, because I was unconscious at the time, my lord,” Pierre told him regrettably.
“Unconscious?” Bertrand stared at his lieutenant with complete and utter dismay. “Unconscious? How the bloody hell did you manage to render yourself unconscious?”
“Oh no, my lord, you misunderstand,” Pierre quickly added.
“Oh?” Bertrand pinned the man with a stare. “Then by all means, please enlighten me.”
Pierre took a deep breath, somewhat shakily. “As I was saying earlier, I was attacked. The woman practically lured me toward her with her deceiving ways—as I said, she looked injured. I thought it prudent to try and help her, and before I knew it . . .” He gave a helpless shrug.
“No no no . . .” Bertrand raised his hand to silence him. “Please, for the love of God and all that is holy, do not tell me that you—one of my finest lieutenants—was bested by no more than a mere slip of a woman.” He turned to glare at Pierre, hoping that he might deny it, but he could not. Indeed it did seem as if Sandrine Laurant, or whoever she was, had not only deceived this man, but that she or one of her companions had also knocked him out cold before humiliating and disgracing him in the worst possible way by stripping him of all his clothes. This did not reflect well on him. Indeed, it was an outrage that Bertrand could not allow to go unpunished.
“She must have been a very skilled actress to pull it off,” he muttered as he sank down into his armchair.
“She was quite believable,” Pierre remarked.
“I should certainly hope so—for your sake. As it is I’ve a good mind to have you stripped of your duties for the foreseeable future. Perhaps, it will do you good to scrub a few floors as a reminder of your irresponsible actions.”
Pierre paled, but said nothing, apparently, reluctant to anger his commander any further.
Bertrand groaned. The woman was most likely English if her primary objective had indeed been to find the spy and aid him in his escape. But the fact that she’d escaped together with the doctor was unnerving to say the least. He’d ridden all the way to the bloody Bois de Boulogne before he’d realized that the carriage he’d been pursuing had long since been abandoned. It was deplorable.
Bertrand raked his fingers through his hair and considered the matter once more. They were up to something, and he could only hazard a guess as to what that something might be. She had to be found immediately and stopped before she could do more irreparable damage.
“You may leave,” Bertrand told Pierre with a wave of his hand.
Visible signs of relief flooded the man’s face as he scrambled to his feet, only too eager to escape any further punishment that he might receive.
“Oh, and Lieutenant Dupont?” Pierre froze—his hand already on the door handle. “Have Colonel Martinet sent for, will you? I wish to have a friendly word with him.”
Affirming the orders he’d just been given with a curt nod, Pierre departed from the room.
Bertrand reached for his carafe and poured himself a glass of red wine, then leaned back in his chair to await the colonel. He had made his decision, and could not help but feel as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders—in spite of whatever reservations he might have. The fact of the matter was that Sandrine Laurant would soon be dead and would trouble him no more. He couldn’t help but smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Over the course of the next three days, it became increasingly clear to Michael that Alexandra was trying to avoid him. She was always in her brothers’ company, and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was a tactical maneuver on her part, with the primary goal of keeping him at bay. If so, it worked.
The rest of the time she would always succeed in slipping away before he managed to approach her, spending an annoying amount of time alone in her room in whichever inn they happened to be staying at.
Michael, was beginning to grow increasingly desperate at the sudden change in their relationship and eventually felt completely out of sorts. Though he had a faint inkling of what lay behind Alexandra’s sudden retreat, he wasn’t ready to accept it. He needed to talk to her, but it was impossible for him to have a moment alone with her. He knew that she probably planned it that way—that she was intentionally avoiding him (though it was a painful admission to make), but he wouldn’t continue to let her do it—not indefinitely. He’d long since admitted to himself that he loved her more than he’d ever hoped to love anyone and once they reached England he would marry her.
The thought filled him with nervous trepidation.
They’d become friends in Paris and grown close, especially during the week when she hadn’t been able to leave her bed because of her own carelessness. He smiled at the memory of it. They’d talked for hours on end during those days and he’d shared thoughts with her that he’d never shared with anyone else before. He knew that she was an honorable woman and that she wouldn’t run from her responsibilities, but he was beginning to ask himself if he would make her face them even if it wasn’t in her heart to do so.
On the fourth day, he finally managed to catch her alone. She must have let her guard down because he found her completely by herself, taking a walk in the garden behind the inn they’d arrived at just half an hour earlier. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.
He heard her catch her breath as if to protest, but she finally shook her head.
They walked for a while without either of them saying a word. “I miss you, Alex,” he then confessed as they passed under a large oak.
“I’m sorry, Michael, but I can’t allow anything to distract me from our goal, and neither should you.”
“Why are you doing this?” It hurt that she wasn’t being honest with him.
“I already told you, I—”
He held up a hand to stop her, his face suddenly set in stone and his mouth drawn tight in a grim line. “I know. I heard you. I just thought I’d give you a chance to tell me the truth, Alex.” He paused for a moment as he searched her face, looking for some small sign that she cared—some trace of the affection she’d so readily shown for him in Paris. There was a glimmer, but it came and went so fast that he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it or not. “Take your time. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to talk.”
He turned to leave, but she stopped him. “I’m honor bound to marry you, Michael, but I thought I’d ask you all the same.”
“Ask me what?” A cold sliver ran down his spine. He suddenly knew what was coming, but he didn’t want to hear it and he certainly had no desire to face it.