Page 39

“He thought me perfect,” she said. “It was very hard to live up to his image of me. I feared what he would think if he knew how I had lied. Tomorrow, I always assured myself, tomorrow would be a better day. I would tell him then.”

But her secret had paled before the greater events sweeping through the country. The Bastille had fallen the day after their wedding, the repercussions of that event slowly spreading throughout France.

Yet for a long time the village of Merevale had remained untouched.

The people on the Egremont estate were devoted to Jean-Claude, suspicious of any wild idea coming from such a ‘foreign’ place as Paris.

It had been Jean-Claude himself who had let the Revolution within the chateau walls.

Enthusiastically embracing its principles of equality and freedom, he had voluntarily resigned his title and talked joyously of a liberated France governed by a constitutional monarchy.

His happiness had known no bounds when he had been elected to the second national assembly.

“And so we came to Paris,” Belle said. “I had just passed my eighteenth birthday, but I already had seen far more of the ugly face of men than Jean-Claude. From the first day we rode through the streets, I sensed something seriously amiss. Most of the noble speeches only served to disguise the ambition of hard and ruthless men.”

But for Jean-Claude’s sake she tried to quell her doubts and uneasiness, a task that became harder and harder as the weeks sped by and the violence of the Revolution grew.

Frenetic mobs invaded prisons massacring priests and aristocrats.

The Tuileries was attacked, the king and queen arrested.

More and more the moderate voices in the assembly such as Jean-Claude’s were being drowned out by the roars of the fanatics.

“Each day,” Belle said, “I looked into Jean-Claude’s eyes and saw his belief in the goodness of men, dying a little more. And there was no way for me to recapture those dreams for him, hold them fast, although I would have given my life to have done so.”

You did, Angel, far too much of it, Sinclair longed to assure her, but he knew she would not want to hear that.

Overcome by her recollections, she doubled her hand into a fist, pressing it against her eyes. With her words, she had painted a picture for Sinclair, but not the one she wanted him to see. Her tale roused not a particle of sympathy in him for Jean-Claude.

Someone should have smacked his noble lordship awake, Sinclair thought savagely.

He doubted that Jean-Claude could have suffered overmuch, passing through the Revolution in a rose-tinted dream.

But Belle, ever the realist, facing all the horrors with her eyes wide open—how many scars she yet carried, how many pain-filled memories were seared into her soul.

Hunkering down, Sinclair closed his hand over hers. Her skin felt so cold. He tried to chafe some warmth back into her.

After a moment she lowered her fist from her eyes.

Once more in control, she resumed her story.

“Jean-Claude managed to continue his work in the assembly until the trial and condemnation of the king. Even to the very last, Jean-Claude did not believe the people of Paris would let the execution happen.”

Using Sinclair’s hand for support, Belle levered herself to her feet.

Sweeping the curtain aside, she beckoned him to join her at the window, pointing toward the distant street corner.

“Down there on the morning the sentence was to be carried out, Jean-Claude mounted one final plea to the crowds to attempt a last-minute rescue as the coach went by.

“I was terrified that the mob would turn on him, and I tried to make him stop. It scarce mattered. The cheers, the drums beating were so loud when the king’s carriage passed that no one even heard what Jean-Claude was saying.

“The rest of that day I held him as he wept in my arms. It was shortly after that Jean-Claude discovered the truth about me. I suppose it was bound to happen one day. An Englishman traveling in Paris had once visited Mama backstage at the theater and he remembered seeing me. When he told Jean-Claude the truth, it nearly killed him.”

Her voice faded to silence. For a long time Sinclair said nothing, but she was aware of how close he stood to her, drawing comfort from his nearness.

“How long did you stay in Paris after Jean-Claude had gone?” he asked.

“Until the summer of ninety-eight. The Terror was at its worst then, so many innocent people proscribed.

Baptiste and I got a little reckless trying to help and were caught.

I was imprisoned in the Conciergerie, an experience I never care to repeat.

That I would be found guilty was a foregone conclusion.

“I would have taken that long ride down the Rue St. Honoré myself except that Robespierre was so obliging as to make himself unpopular. Shortly after he was executed, those he had had arrested were set free. I didn’t wait for anyone to change their minds.

I left Paris the same day and have never been back until now. ”

She rested her head against the cool pane of the glass.

“I returned to England and lived the best I could until I met up with Merchant. I decided it was better to become a royalist spy than turn whore. So there you have it, the whole dismal story of my life. Not very impressive, is it? I sometimes feel as if it would have made no difference to anyone if I had not been born at all.”

Sinclair stepped behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. He began to knead the tension from her muscles. “I doubt if those whom you helped save from the guillotine would say that.”

“Perhaps not,” she murmured, soothed in spite of herself by Sinclair’s touch. “But I so wish the good memories would outlive the bad. At least that would be something to hold on to on a long dark night.”

Sinclair turned her to face him. “You could hold on to me, Angel.”

He made no move to force her, only beckoning her with his eyes. Belle responded to that unspoken call, winding her arms about his neck. How good it felt to be held by him, his fingers stroking her hair.

Belle sensed that he would have restrained himself to just that, offering her comfort alone. It was she who sought more. Raising her face, she invited his kiss.

He brushed his lips against her brow, her temples, her cheek. Belle closed her eyes, savoring the warm contact, dreading that he might stop, draw away as he had done earlier today after being interrupted by Paulette.

“Sinclair,” she whispered. “Help me, please. Help me make it through this night.”

Never in her life had she begged, never had she asked such a thing of any man before. But she felt no shame, no wish to call back the plea that had escaped her. She knew that Sinclair would understand.

He pressed his mouth to hers in a gentle kiss, then swooped her up in his arms to carry her upstairs.

From the beginning Belle had refused to allow herself to imagine what it would be like to make love with Sinclair. If she dared any thought at all, she supposed that because the physical attraction between them coursed so strong, they would come together in a feverish rush.

She was bemused when Sinclair’s first action upon entering her bedchamber was to tuck her into bed, pulling a coverlet snugly about her shivering form.

While she watched from the bed, he gathered logs and rekindled the fire upon the hearth until the flames crackled, sending out waves of heat to ward off the chill of the room.

A smile, part amusement, part gratitude tugged at Belle’s lips. What an eminently practical man Sinclair was. When he had the fire going, he went about the room, lighting lamps and candles, until the chamber glowed, the shadows dispelled. It was almost as if he knew-

The flickering firelight illuminated the strong line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes and the intensity of his eyes.

Mesmerized, Belle studied his every movement as he piled on more logs, the way the muscles of his back rippled beneath his linen shirt, the striking contrast the white fabric made against his bronzed skin.

He spread out a downy coverlet and piled pillows before the hearth before returning to her side to offer her his hand.

“Milady?” he said, his teasing drawl coming out hoarse.

Belle slipped her hand in his and followed him as though she walked in a dream.

They stood facing each other before the fire.

Although he did no more than trace the contours of her cheek with his fingers, Belle felt the beginnings of desire flicker to life inside of her, a desire that seemed to run far deeper than the wants of her flesh.

She had a strange feeling that she had been waiting a long time for this moment.

Sinclair brushed back her hair, allowing the strands to cascade over his fingers as though reveling in the feel of it.

“Belle,” he said, his face more solemn than she ever remembered. “I don’t want to take advantage of—” He drew in a deep breath. “What I am trying to say is, you don’t have to offer yourself to me to make me stay with you. I could simply hold you in my arms until morning.”

“Could you?” she challenged softly. She ran her fingers slowly up the hard plane of his chest, feeling the thud of his heart beneath the crisp linen of his shirt.

His lips crooked into a reluctant smile. “No, likely not, but it was a most noble impulse.”

“I don’t want you to be noble, Sinclair.” She wound her arms about his neck, pressing close to him. “Not tonight.”

He caught her hard against him, his mouth descending over hers. He coaxed her lips apart, invading her with the fiery sweetness of his tongue, swirling in slow tormenting circles. The heat of his body seared her even through her nightgown.