Chapter 13
Maxim had known this conversation was inevitable, but he would have preferred to have been wearing more than a bathrobe over his nakedness when it took place. Not that it mattered; Heather would dislike him intensely at the end of it, whether he was wearing only a robe or completely naked.
Much had happened since Maxim arrived in Cornwall a little over a week ago. Foremost being the changes inside himself.
He had been reluctant to come back to Cornwall at all, for the obvious reason of his past relationship with Heather and her subsequent marriage to his father. But having spent this time with Heather, having made love with her, rendered him incapable of carrying out his mission of learning whether or not she was Napoleon’s spy.
Even if it should transpire Heather was that spy, Maxim knew he could not be the one to confirm or deny her guilt. If she was guilty, then not only would Heather once again despise him for his duplicity, but it would also deprive Ralph of his beloved mother. Either of those things would be unacceptable, and it flayed Maxim’s heart to think of them.
No, he could not do it, had every intention of returning to London and informing Stonewell of that fact.
Of having failed another mission.
But somehow, Maxim could not find it in his heart to regret having failed this one. The opposite. If it should transpire Heather was guilty, then Maxim knew he would do all within his power to ensure she did not hang for her crime.
“Maxim?”
He roused himself from the darkness of his thoughts. “Does all you now know about me cause you to fear me?”
She looked stunned. “I beg your pardon?”
He sighed. “It is a simple enough question. I have unexplained scars. Nightmares.”
Heather shook her head. “They are not reasons to fear you.”
His mouth twisted. “My unevenness of temper?”
“I have seen no evidence of that, only an acceptable response to any given situation.”
Maxim wanted to believe she spoke the truth. He needed to believe her, as she needed to trust him if he was to help her. “The reason I came to Cornwall was to seek out the person guilty of spying for Napoleon against the English Crown. Indeed, it was their actions that helped facilitate the Corsican’s escape from Elba and the bloody battles and deaths that followed that escape.”
Heather’s eyes opened wide. “You believe that spy to be here in Cornwall?”
Maxim’s jaw clenched. “Investigations, because of the timing of information passed to Napoleon’s loyal followers, have resulted in my superiors accumulating the names of eight ladies who might be this spy. Three of those ladies have already been cleared of blame. The fourth lady is a member of this household.”
“I… But… Your superiors?” As far as Heather was aware, the arrogant Maxim did not have any superiors, socially or in any other capacity.
He nodded. “The Duke of Stonewell and the Prince Regent.”
“I do not—” Heather stared at him. “You are an agent for the Crown…” she realized. “How long…?”
Maxim shrugged. “Ten years.”
Ten years?
Heather stared at Maxim as if she had never seen him before. And perhaps she had not. Not the true, the whole Maxim, the man who had worked in secret for the English Crown for so many years.
Had James known?
No, Heather knew he had not; her husband would have confided that information to her if that had been the case.
Maxim was an agent, a spy for the English Crown, first for King George III, and latterly the Prince Regent.
She felt the color draining from her cheeks as another thought occurred to her. “Your scars…”
A nerve pulsed in Maxim’s tightly clenched cheek. “Several months’ unscheduled stay in a French prison.”
Heather briefly closed her eyes at the thought of the torture he must have undergone to have produced such horrific scars. Admittedly, it was one of the explanations that had previously offered itself to her, but also one she had quickly dismissed, in the naïve belief English prisoners of war were not treated with such brutality.
“Why?”
Maxim’s mouth twisted. “I was in France on a mission but was taken prisoner before that mission could be accomplished.”
“I would have thought being in prison and tortured was excuse enough for that!”
“I should not have allowed myself to be caught.”
“Allowed yourself?” Heather repeated slowly. “I do not see how it was your fault you were caught.”
“We have a different point of view.”
“This the reason for the nightmares and the lit candle in your bedchamber at night?”
“Yes.”
Another thought occurred to Heather, one that caused her heart to stop. “When did this happen?”
“Six years ago,” Maxim stated flatly.
Heather staggered back until the backs of her shaking knees hit the side of the bed and she sat abruptly.
Six years ago.
After Maxim had spent the summer with her?
It had to have been, because he had not had these scars upon his body then. She would have seen them. As she had seen and caressed all of Maxim’s body during those long, hot summer months they had spent in each other’s arms.
Afterward, then.
And the reason she had not heard from or seen Maxim again until he returned to Cornwall almost a year later? The same reason James had been unable to find news of his son when he traveled to London to tell him of her pregnancy, and decided he must offer her marriage in his son’s stead.
Heather could barely breathe, let alone speak. “How many months?”
“Almost eleven.”
The relief of knowing Maxim had not abandoned her after all was completely nullified by the knowledge Heather had believed he had merely been trifling with her, and had married his father because of that belief. That not only had she married another man, she had also denied Maxim knowledge of his own son these past five years.
A denial she knew Maxim could not, would not, ever forgive her for.
If she were to now tell him the truth…
Could she do that?
Dare she do that?
Tears stung her eyes at the thought of doing so. Not only would Maxim hate her for the deception, but he might—no doubt would—insist on acknowledging Ralph as his son and heir, and take him into his own household in London. As he would have every right to do.
Her frown was pained. “Why did you never tell me?”
He snorted. “The whole point of being a secret agent for the Crown is that it remains that way, secret.”
“Even from your lover? Your own father?”
He nodded. “Even then.”
Heather’s hands were shaking so badly, she had to grasp them tightly together so that Maxim should not see their trembling. “I wish I had known.”
“You should not even know now,” Maxim dismissed in a hard voice.
“Then why did you—” Heather’s eyes widened as another thought hit her with the force of a blow. “What lady do you suspect in this household of being a spy for the French?”
That nerve pulsed again in his cheek, his eyes once again that dark, unfathomable gray. “Can you not guess?”
Her.
Maxim, the Duke of Stonewell, and the Prince Regent, all believed her to be guilty of spying for Napoleon? Of aiding his escape and causing the deaths of hundreds of English soldiers?
How many others believed that?
Did the Marquis of Wessex?
The other six Sinners?
Heather could not believe Maxim would have kept his secret activities from the seven gentlemen who were his closest friends. Perhaps those other men might also be agents for the Crown. They were certainly close enough, their friendship exclusive enough, for that to be the case.
Her shock was quickly followed by anger.
How dare Maxim, or any of his friends, believe her capable of betraying England and aiding in the deaths of English soldiers.
Perhaps because she met clandestinely with French ships in the dead of night.
Or because she preferred to wear a French perfume that has not been available in England for years.
Or that she wore silk undergarments she also admitted had been made in France.
Indeed, she had owned up to the latter two, and Maxim had caught her returning from one of those rendezvous with a French ship on his very first night here.
Maxim watched through narrowed lids as the emotions flitted quickly across Heather’s face. Shock. Anger. Followed by a dawning realization of how guilty her actions made her look. Lastly came acceptance.
But acceptance of what? Her guilt? Or only the façade of guilt in both her actions and demeanor?
It no longer mattered to Maxim which of those it was. He could not and would not accuse Heather of treason. Nor would he allow anyone else to do so. Not unless he was standing at her side when that accusation was made.
Which was why he was returning to London. To speak first with Stonewell, and then with the Prince Regent, before resigning as an agent for the Crown. After which, they could do what they willed, imprison him for treason if they wished, but Maxim would not be a part of Heather’s downfall. Indeed, he would do everything within his considerable power to ensure it did not happen.
But to do that, he first needed to know whether or not Heather was guilty, not for himself, but so that he might protect her. “Is your lover the Frenchman whom you pass information to?”
She blinked, her expression remaining blank for several seconds before a frown marred her brow. “I do not have a lover—”
“You claimed otherwise—”
“It was a ruse,” she dismissed. “An excuse for my absence in the middle of the night. I am a smuggler, not a spy.”
“I shall pretend I did not hear the first part of that last statement,” he drawled.
Heather snorted. “We both know that was what I was really doing the night you arrived. That my absence had nothing to do with meeting a lover. I have no lover,” she repeated firmly. “Unless you include yourself. Which, considering the real reason for your being here, is now suspect, to say the least.”
Maxim bridled. “You believe I made love to you as a means to gain information from you?”
Heather stood up. “I have no idea why you made love to me. Nor do I care,” she continued determinedly.
His mouth thinned. “Your reasons for making love with me are just as suspect.”
She raised haughty brows. “In what way?”
“You might have done so in an effort to distract me from my mission here.”
“I had no knowledge of your mission,” she scorned. “I told the truth when I said I do not fear you, Maxim. I have never done so, nor will I ever. But I do pity you,” she stated in a hard voice.
He tensed. “I do not need your pity—”
“You do not need anyone or anything, it would seem. You never have,” she bit out tautly. “I am not your spy, Maxim. I would never betray my country or the Crown. Believe that, do not believe that, I no longer care. I do not wish to see you again. I intend to spend my evening sitting with Ralph. I advise that you be gone from Treganon House before I come downstairs in the morning.” She turned and swept from the room.
Maxim stood alone in the middle of the bedchamber, feeling more alone than he ever had in his life before.
Even during those long months in the French prison.
Or in the long weeks afterward, physically healing, before he could go to Heather.
How removed he had felt from the only family he had after learning Heather had married his father.
All those things paled into insignificance when put beside that look of contempt in Heather’s eyes just now as she left the bedchamber.
He believed Heather when she said she was not Napoleon’s spy.
He also knew she had no reason to lie about not having a lover, French or otherwise.
Most of all, he knew without a doubt that Heather now despised him with every particle of her being.
But no more than he despised himself.
Taking into account Heather’s desire not to see him again, it was not even light the following morning when Maxim left his bedchamber in order to visit Ralph’s room before he left Treganon House. No matter what Heather now thought of him, felt toward him, Maxim could not leave without saying goodbye to Ralph. That would be totally unfair to the little boy he had grown so fond of, and whom he believed had grown fond of him.
What Maxim had not expected was to find Heather still in Ralph’s bedchamber. She was fast asleep, sitting in the chair beside his bed, one of her son’s much smaller hands held tightly in one of her own, as if even in sleep she needed the reassurance of his well-being. The young nursemaid—Jane?—was fast asleep on a cot in the corner of the room.
Maxim’s chest tightened as he softly approached the bed to gaze longingly at Heather and Ralph.
Ralph’s face was made pale by the bandage wrapped about his head, but otherwise, he appeared to be sleeping peacefully.
Heather…
Heather was so beautiful, it made Maxim’s chest ache to look at her. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her cheeks were pale, her russet gown creased, and yet she had never looked more beautiful to him than she did at this moment.
Her brow was smooth and untroubled, lids and long lashes covering eyes that had last shot daggers of contempt at him. Her lips were slightly parted as she breathed softly, and so kissable, it was all Maxim could do to stop himself from gathering her up in his arms and carrying her off to the bedchamber he had so recently vacated for the last time.
As if she would let him!
Heather had made it clear earlier she did not want him near her ever again, intimately or otherwise.
“Maxim?”
He turned as Ralph softly spoke his name. Another brief glance at Heather showed she had not been woken by her son’s voice. Maxim moved to stand on the other side of the bed, speaking as softly as Ralph so as not to disturb Heather’s sleep. “How are you feeling?” He took Ralph’s other hand into his own.
The little boy gave him a tired smile. “My head aches a little, but otherwise I am well. Why are you here and fully dressed in the middle of the night?”
“It is almost daybreak,” Maxim assured him.
Ralph winced as his frown reminded him of the stiches at his temple. “Are you going away?”
The hurt in Ralph’s expression deepened the ache in Maxim’s chest. “I have to return to London.”
“Will you be coming back? For my birthday next month, at least?” Ralph added hopefully.
Maxim could think of nothing he would have enjoyed more than to return and spend Ralph’s birthday with him here. But it was not to be, and there was no point in giving the little boy false hope. “I am not sure where I will be in a month’s time.”
The boy’s face fell. “Mama said as much earlier when I asked her.”
Maxim glanced at the still-sleeping Heather. “Did she?”
“Yes.” Ralph nodded. “She explained that you carry out very important work for the continued safety of England. But that I must not tell anyone because it is a secret. But I may tell you, mayn’t I?” he added anxiously.
Despite everything, despite what she now felt toward him, Heather had chosen to say nothing to disillusion her son where Maxim was concerned. She had instead made him sound like a hero rather than the duplicitous bastard she now believed him to be.
Maxim was not sure he deserved her consideration. Any more than he had deserved her concern for him yesterday, when she had sent a bath, hot water, and refreshments to his bedchamber.
“Yes, you may tell me,” he reassured the boy softly. “You will take care of your mama while I am gone?”
Ralph grinned. “Always.”
Why was it so hard to say goodbye, Maxim wondered with a frown. For so many years he had needed nothing and no one, and yet after only days in their company, the thought of leaving Heather and Ralph felt as if he was ripping his heart from his chest. It was certainly as painful.
Perhaps because that was exactly what he was doing?
Maxim drew in a sharp breath as the truth hit him between the eyes with the force of a blow.
He loved them.
Heather.
And Ralph.
A love for both of them, which now filled his heart to overflowing.
With that knowledge came the sudden cleansing of all the bitterness and pain Maxim had carried with him for so long. His imprisonment and months of torture. Learning he had lost Heather to his father. The long years of aloneness and anger that followed.
All gone, he realized slightly dazedly.
Swept away by a sea of love as strong as the flow of the tide into Treganon Cove.