Seduction. Brenda Joyce
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whispered.
“Death is a part of war, Julianne. Even you know that.”
“How can you be so casual about it?” she cried.
He almost told her that he did not feel casually about the subject at all. But he would never tell her any such thing. “Everyone dies sooner or later, whether in war or from sickness or from old age.”
She stared, stricken. “I must ask you something, Charles, and it is difficult for me.”
Although wary, he looked calmly at her.
“How long has it been since you lost Nadine?”
He instantly understood. “It has been a year and a half, Julianne.” He saw the flicker of relief in her eyes, and that twinge of guilt came again. Was she truly in love with her revolutionary war hero? “There has been so much death, in these past few years. One learns how to accept it rather quickly.”
She stood up and walked over to him and lay her shaking hand on his shoulder. “Do you still love her?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.” She turned partially away. “I shouldn’t have asked. That was selfish of me.”
He stood, pulling her into his arms, and her soft, voluptuous body inflamed him. It was becoming hard to think clearly. “You had every right to ask.”
She was trembling. He could feel the same insane urgency in her. He turned up her face. “I have become very fond of you, Julianne.”
“So have I,” she gasped. “I am so glad…Jack brought you here. I am so glad…that we are friends.”
He looked at her parted lips, very carefully. It was becoming hard to think coherently. “But we are more than friends, no?” he asked softly.
“We are more than friends,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Soon, I will return to France.” Finally, he was speaking the truth.
The tears brimmed. “And I will miss you.”
And as they stared at one another, he heard a door downstairs slam.
He could not believe her sister’s timing. It would not serve him or his deception to have Amelia walk in on them now. But there was no turning back now. Surely, one kiss would not hurt either one of them.
Dominic bent over her, touching his mouth to hers. And very carefully, he feathered her lips with his. As he did, he was blinded by a flood of hot desire.
She gasped, seizing his shoulders, opening for him.
The desire brought a shocking anguish. And as he claimed her mouth, hard, the memories of blood and death, of rage and hatred, of distress and despair engulfed him. A part of him was in France, in agony, another part of him was with her, in ecstasy. He could not pull away. He could not check himself now. Nor did he want to.
He deepened the kiss, demanding everything from her, and she mated fiercely with his tongue.
And he thought, she should know better than to trust a stranger.
AMELIA AND JULIANNE had gone into the town of St. Just together for some groceries. Dominic stood at the top of the stairs, unbeknownst to them, and watched the sisters exit the house.
Julianne had been concerned about leaving him alone for an hour or two but he had reassured her.
She had accepted his promise that he would rest. He had appeared stoic, but inwardly, he had been thrilled.
Spying was inherent in his nature now. Everything he had learned about Greystone, the family and the area and its denizens, he had learned from Julianne. He was eager to go through the house, prying into the family’s lives and affairs. He didn’t expect to find very much, but one never knew. Jack Greystone held the most promise. He might claim not to care about the war, and be a simple smuggler, but he could be actively involved.
He entered a woman’s bedroom. He saw the two beds, the two small bed stands, each with its own candle, the clothes hanging from the wall pegs, and knew the sisters shared the chamber. Julianne wore white muslin, exclusively, while Amelia favored gray frocks as if to make herself drabber than she actually was.
Within ten minutes, Dominic had made a thorough search of the room. He found some old journals, a few toiletries, spare candles and a sheath of letters, hidden in the armoire, under a pile of shirtwaists.
He paused, taken aback. The stack was tied with a blue ribbon, and his immediate assumption was that the letters belonged to Julianne.
He glanced at the top one—and realized he was looking at love letters written to Amelia. Oddly relieved, he put the letters back where he had found them.
The next room belonged to Jack. He was certain of it. It smelled like ships and the sea.
He began a rapid, thorough search. He found nothing of interest until he looked under the mattress, where he found a dozen navigational charts. The charts had been meticulously sketched. He was getting the inkling that Jack Greystone had made them himself. He sat on the bed, looking closely at the first chart, which detailed a cove at Land’s End, right down to hidden reefs and rocks. He went through them quickly then. The man had charted the entire Cornish peninsula, from Cape Cornwall, just above St. Just, to Penzance.
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