Seduction. Brenda Joyce
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“Jack brought him home a few hours ago.” He was grim. He turned to take up his horse’s reins. His back to her, he said, “I don’t know who he is. I am guessing that he must be a smuggler. In any case, I need you at home. Jack is already gone to get a surgeon. We must try to make the poor fellow comfortable, because he is at death’s door.”
GREYSTONE LOOMED AHEAD. It was a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old manor house, cast in pale stone, with high sloping slate roofs. Set atop rugged, near-white, treeless cliffs, against barren, colorless moors, surrounded only by a gray, bleak sky, it seemed stark and desolate.
Sennen Cove was below. Its wild tales of the adventures, mishaps and victories of smugglers, customs agents and revenue men were partly myth and partly history. For generations, the Greystone family had actively smuggled with the best of them. As deliberately, the family had looked the other way as the cove was laden with illegal cases of whiskey, tobacco and teas by their friends and neighbors, feigning ignorance of any illegal activity. There were evenings when the customs agent stationed at Penzance would dine in the manor with his wife and daughters, drinking some of the best French wine to be had, sharing the latest gossip with their hosts, as if the best of friends; on other evenings, beacon fires blazed, warning the smugglers below that the authorities were on the way. Jack’s ship would be at anchor, and the cove would explode with action as casks and cases were rushed into hiding in caves in the cliffs and Jack and his men fled the scene, the armed British authorities rushing down from the cliffs on foot, firing upon anyone who had been left behind.
Julianne had witnessed it all from the time she was a small child. No one in the parish thought smuggling a crime—it was a way of life.
Her legs ached terribly. So did her back. She rarely rode astride anymore, much less sidesaddle—her only option in her muslin dress. Keeping her balance at a brisk pace on the hired hack had been no easy task. Lucas had cast many concerned glances her way, and he had offered to pause for a moment so she could rest several times. Afraid that Amelia would linger with their neighbors and that the dying stranger was in the manor alone, she had refused.
The first thing she saw as she and Lucas trotted up the manor’s crushed-shell drive was the pair of carriage horses turned out behind the stone stables, which were set back from the house. Amelia was already home.
They hurriedly dismounted. Lucas took her reins. “I’ll take care of the horses.” He smiled at her. “You will be sore tomorrow.”
They were no longer arguing. “I am sore now.”
He led the pair of geldings away.
Julianne lifted her pale skirts and rushed up the manor’s two front steps. The house was a simple rectangle, longer than it was tall or wide, with three floors. The topmost floor contained attics and, once upon a time, living quarters for the servants they no longer had. The front hall remained in its original form. It was a large room, once used for dining and entertaining. The floors were dark gray stone, the walls a lighter version of the same stone. Two ancestral portraits and a pair of ancient swords decorated the walls; at one end of the hall there was a massive fireplace and two stately burgundy chairs. The ceilings were timbered.
Julianne rushed through the hall, past a small, quaint parlor with mostly modern furnishings; a small, dark library; and the dining room. She started up the narrow stairs.
Amelia was coming down. She held wet rags and a pitcher. Both women faltered as they saw one another. “Is he all right?” Julianne cried immediately.
Amelia was as petite as Julianne was tall. Her dark blond hair was pulled severely back, and her expression was characteristically serious, but her face lit up with relief now. “Thank the lord you are home! You know that Jack dropped off a dying man?” She was disbelieving.
“That is just like Jack!” Julianne snapped. Of course, by now, Jack was gone. “Lucas told me. He is outside with the horses. What can I do?”
Amelia turned abruptly and led the way up the stairs, her small body tight with tension. She marched quickly down the hall, which was dark, the wall sconces unlit, family portraits dating back two hundred years lining the corridor. Lucas had taken over the master suite long ago and Jack had his own bedchamber, but she and Amelia shared a room. Neither one cared, as the room was used only for sleeping. But the single guest chamber that remained had been left mostly untouched. Guests were rare at Greystone.
Glancing grimly at Julianne, she paused before the open door of the guest bedroom. “Doctor Eakins just left.”
The guest room looked out over the rocky beaches of the cove and the Atlantic Ocean. The sun was setting, filling the small chamber with light. The room contained a small bed, a table and two chairs, a bureau and an armoire. Julianne faltered, her gaze going to the man on the bed.
Her heart lurched oddly.
The dying man was shirtless, a sheet loosely draped to his hips. She didn’t mean to stare, but stretched out as he was, little was left to the imagination—the man was very big and very dark, a mass of sculpted muscle. She stared for one moment longer, hardly accustomed to the sight of a bare-chested man, much less one with such a powerful physique.
“He was on his abdomen a moment ago. He must have turned over when I left,” Amelia said sharply. “He was shot at close range in the back. Doctor Eakins said he has lost a great deal of blood. He is in pain.”
Julianne now saw that his breeches were bloodstained and dirty. She wondered if the bloodstains had come from his wound—or someone else’s. She didn’t want to look at his lean hips or his powerful thighs, so she quickly looked at his face.
Her heart slammed. Their guest was a very handsome man with swarthy skin, pitch-black hair, high cheekbones and a straight, patrician nose. Thick dark lashes were fanned out on his face.
She averted her eyes. Her heart seemed to be racing wildly, which was absurd.
Amelia thrust the wet cloth and pitcher into her arms and rushed forward. Julianne somehow looked up, aware of how hot her cheeks were. “Is he breathing?” she heard herself ask.
“I don’t know.” Amelia touched his forehead. “To make matters even worse, he has an infection, as the wound was not properly cared for. Doctor Eakins was not optimistic.” She turned. “I am going to send Billy down for seawater.”
“He should bring a full pail,” Julianne said. “I’ll sit with him.”
“When Lucas comes in, we will turn him back over.” Amelia hurried from the bedchamber.
Julianne hesitated, staring at the stranger, then pinched herself. The poor man was dying; he needed her help.
She set pitcher and cloth down on the table and approached. Very carefully, she sat beside him, her heart racing all over again. His chest wasn’t moving. She lowered her cheek to his mouth, and it was a moment before she felt a small puff of his breath. Thank God he was alive.
“Pour la victoire.”
She straightened as if shot. Her gaze slammed to his face. His eyes remained closed, but he had just spoken—in French—with the accent of a Frenchman! She was certain he had just said, “For victory.”
It was a common cry amongst the French revolutionaries, but he resembled a nobleman, with his patrician features. She glanced at his hands—nobles had hands as soft as a babe’s. His knuckles were cut open and crusted with blood, his palms calloused.
She bit her lip. Being this close made her uncomfortably aware of him. Perhaps it was of his near nudity, or his sheer masculinity. She inhaled, hoping to relieve some tension. “Monsieur? Êtes-vous français?”
He did not move as Lucas said, “Is he awake?”
Julianne half-turned as her brother entered the room. “No. But he spoke in his sleep. He spoke in French, Lucas.”
“He isn’t asleep. He is unconscious. Amelia said he is with fever now.”