she said, “Of course not.”
He seemed pleased by her answer. She realized they were staring at one another—continuously—helplessly. Somehow, Julianne looked away. Her cheeks seemed to burn. So did her throat and chest.
She helped him settle the tray on his lap and sat back as he began to eat. A silence fell. He was ravenous. She stared openly, beginning to think that he found her as intriguing as she found him. All Frenchmen flirted…but what if he had the same feelings for her as she had for him?
Her heart leapt erratically. She became aware of the shadows in the room, the flames in the small hearth, the dark, moonlit night outside—and the fact that it was just the two of them together, alone in his bedchamber, at night.
When he was done, he lay back against his pillows, as if the effort of eating had cost him, but his gaze was serious and searching. Julianne removed the tray to the table, wondering what his intent regard meant.
It was very late, and it was improper for her to remain with him. But he had just awoken. Should she leave? If she stayed, would he kiss her again? He probably didn’t even recall that kiss!
He said softly, “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
She colored, about to deny it. Then she changed her mind. “I am unaccustomed to spending so much time in a stranger’s company.”
“Yes, I imagine so. It is obviously late, but I have just awoken. I would like your company, mademoiselle, just for a bit.”
“Of course.” She trembled, pleased.
“Would it be possible to borrow your brother’s clothes now?” His smile came and went, indolently.
That would certainly make her feel better, she thought. She went to retrieve the clothes, handed them to him and left the room. In the hall, she covered her warm cheeks with her hands. What was wrong with her? It was as if she was a young girl, when she was a grown woman! He had been delirious when he had kissed her. He seemed lonely now. That was all. And she had a dozen questions for him—even if she kept thinking of the pressure of his lips on hers.
Behind her, the door opened, revealing Charles, now clad in Lucas’s breeches and a simple lawn shirt. He didn’t speak, which increased her tension, and he waited for her to precede him into the chamber. He moved her chair back to the table, but held it out for her. The silence felt even more awkward now than before.
He was a gentleman, she thought, taking the seat. He would never take advantage of her and attempt another kiss.
He sat in the second chair. “I am starved for news, mademoiselle. What happens in France?”
She recalled his delirium and wanted to ask him about the battle he had spoken of. But she feared that might distress him. Very carefully, she said, “There has been good news and bad news, monsieur.”
“Do tell.” He leaned toward her.
She hesitated. “Since defeating the French in Flanders, Britain and her Allies continue to send troops to the front lines along the French–Belgian border, strengthening their position. Mainz remains under siege, and there are royalist rebellions in Toulon, Lyons and Marseilles.”
He stared, his expression as hard as stone. “And the good news?”
She searched his gaze, but could not find a flicker of emotion now. “The royalists were crushed near Nantes. We do not know yet if their rebellion has been ended, once and for all, but it seems possible.”
His expression never changed; it was almost as if he hadn’t heard her.
“Monsieur?” Impulsively, she blurted, “When will you tell me the truth?”
“The truth, mademoiselle?”
She found herself incapable of drawing a breath. “You were delirious.”
“I see.”
“I know who you are.”
“Was it a secret?”
She felt as if they were in the midst of some terrible game. “Monsieur, you wept in my arms in your delirium, that you lost so many men—soldiers—your soldiers. I know that you are an officer in the French army!”
His stare never wavered.
She reached for his hand and gripped it. He did not move a muscle. “I have wept for you, Charles. Your losses are my losses. We are on the same side!”
And finally, he looked down at her hand. She could not see into his eyes. “Then I am relieved,” he said softly. “To be amongst friends.”
CHAPTER THREE
HAD HE THOUGHT that he was amongst enemies? “I have cared for you for an entire week,” Julianne said, removing her hand from his.
His green gaze was on her face now. “I feel certain you would care for any dying man, no matter his country or politics.”
“Of course I would.”
“I am a Frenchman—you are an Englishwoman. What should I have thought, upon awakening?”
She began to realize the predicament he might have thought himself to be in. “We are on the very same side, monsieur. Yes, our countries are at war. Yes, I am English and you are French. But I am proud to support the revolution in your country. I was thrilled to realize that you are an officer in the French army!”
“You are a radical, then.”
“Yes.” Their gazes remained locked. His eyes were not as hard as before, but still, she felt oddly uncomfortable, as if she had been pushed off balance, as if she were in an important—no, crucial—interview. “Here in Penzance, we have a Society for the Friends of Man. I am one of the founders.”
He now sat back in his chair, seeming impressed. “You are an unusual woman.”
She couldn’t smile. “I will not be held back by my gender, monsieur.”
“I can see that. So you are a true Jacobin sympathizer.”
She hesitated. Was she being interviewed? Did she even blame him? “Did you think that you were in a household filled with enemies?”
His smile did not seem to reach his eyes. “Of course I did.”
She hadn’t had a clue as to his distress; he had been a master at hiding his thoughts and feelings. “You are amongst friends. I am your friend. In my eyes, you are a great hero of the revolution.”
His brows lifted. And now she knew he had relaxed. “How much more fortunate could I be? To wind up in your care?” Suddenly, he reached for her hand. “Am I being too direct, Julianne?”
She went still. He had never called her by her name before; he hadn’t even called her Miss Greystone. It had always been “mademoiselle.” Yet she did not protest. “No.”
And he knew that she had just allowed him an intimacy—and perhaps opened the door for even further intimacy.
He did not release her hand. It was late and dark and they were alone. “I hope you are not afraid of me,” he said softly.
She slowly looked up from their clasped hands. “Why would I be afraid of you, monsieur?”
He met her gaze. “Hero or not, I am a stranger…and we are alone.”
She didn’t know what to say. His stare was unwavering, intense. “I enjoy our conversation, monsieur,” she finally said softly. “We have so much in common.”
“Yes, we do.” He was pleased. Then, “I am glad you think of me as you do, Julianne.”
“What else could I possibly think?” She managed a fragile smile. “You are fighting for equality in France and the freedom of all men, everywhere. You have put your life in jeopardy