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Her Dangerous Viscount (Rakes & Rebels, Book 7) by Cynthia Wright (4)


Chapter 7

March 31, 1814


“She isn’t ill, is she? Or injured?” Captain Bumblethorpe peered anxiously at the lovely young woman who lay across his cabin bunk, unconscious.

“I doubt it,” Grey replied. “I think that a mixture of exhaustion and the excitement of our narrow escape from St. Malo are to blame.” He added wryly, “I doubt there’s cause for alarm, however. I’ll wager that she’ll be fully restored to good health after a few hours’ sleep.”

“I daresay you could use a bit of that yourself, my dear chap. Sorry I can’t offer you better accommodations, but as you know, my cabin is the only oasis of privacy on board.” He patted the younger man’s back with a beefy hand. “I hope Miss Beauvisage isn’t the sort of chit who carries on about propriety...?” Bumblethorpe ventured.

“We’ll worry about appearances in London,” Grey replied wearily, sitting down at the captain’s desk to remove his boots. “In the meantime, I’m exhausted.”

“Never fear. I’m the soul of discretion,” Bumblethorpe assured him. “Do carry on, old boy, and sleep if you can. We’ll be more than happy to ferry you across the Channel. This blockading nonsense can be frightfully boring, particularly as we all know that the war is virtually ended. In any case, the regent will probably thank me personally for delivering you safely back to British soil. Might even get a medal! I heard a rumor or two that you were dead.”

“That’s cheering.” Grey yawned, hoping Bumblethorpe would take the hint. “D’you suppose they’ll be glad I’m not?”

The captain laughed heartily. “You’ve always had a ready wit!”

“It will doubtless improve with sleep....”

“Right, then... I’ll leave you alone. You’re certain you don’t want food first?”

“I’m too tired to eat just yet.” Grey looked longingly at the bunk, then smiled at Bumblethorpe, who was backing out into the gangway. “My thanks, George. You’re a splendid host.”

“Sleep well, old boy.”

When the paneled mahogany door closed at last, Grey leaned back in the captain’s chair and sighed deeply. His body felt leaden and his eyes burned with fatigue, but he needed a few moments to reflect before he could surrender to sleep.

He stared at Natalya. Now that they were safely out of France, he no longer needed her help, but he had made promises to Nicholai Beauvisage that he meant to honor. Very soon, he would see England for the first time in four years. He ached for his homeland. The prospect of being reunited with friends and family, of revisiting familiar haunts, was almost more than he could fathom. How difficult it was to realize that freedom was his again!

Yet he could not forget Natalya during his homecoming. She was his responsibility, and a prickly one at that. Perhaps she’d spend her time writing while he investigated possibilities for her passage to America—and caught up on his own life.

Yes, his own life.... What of Francesca? he mused dispassionately. Would she still be at Hartford House, waiting dutifully for him, or were the rumors he’d heard true?

He almost hoped for the worst: hoped that Francesca had left him and that he’d be able to make a new beginning unencumbered by marriage to a woman he didn’t love....

“Please, don’t,” Natalya whimpered. She looked kittenish to him with her long-lashed eyes that tilted upward at the corners and that tangle of honey-colored curls. Seeing the way her little hands suddenly balled into fists as she slept, Grey felt his heart soften, and he went to her.

She was curled on her side, her bottom pushed against the paneled bulkhead. The boy’s costume she wore made her look both comical and endearing, Grey thought as he lowered himself tentatively onto the bunk next to her. Sensing his nearness, she reached toward him. Then, the instant her cheek found his chest, her features softened and she sighed.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “We’re both safe.”

He found those words strangely comforting. Cradling Natalya in his arms, he allowed his eyes to close. Almost immediately sleep overtook him and drew him under.

* * *

“Devil take it, Auteuil, you’re mad!”

Natalya’s heart jumped, her eyes flew open, and she would have cried out if her mouth hadn’t been pressed to Grey St. James’s shoulder. Totally disoriented, she struggled to get her bearings. Gradually she realized that she and Grey were alone and that he was talking in his sleep. But where were they? The rocking of their bed and the swooshing sound of water against creaking walls suggested a ship. Vaguely she remembered coming on board the British schooner in St. Malo Harbor. It was difficult to sort out dreams from reality.

Her head throbbed, her mouth tasted like cotton, and her stomach rumbled; she was on the verge of nausea. Through the narrow transom above the bunk, a soft, rosy-amber shaft of sunlight slanted in. Was it still early morning, or was twilight already stealing around them?

Natalya was rather disconcerted to realize how comforted she was by Grey’s presence. She was unused to leaning on a man, and it went against her principles, but this adventure seemed far removed somehow from her real life.

“No!” he shouted suddenly, and his long, lean body jerked against hers.

Natalya wrapped her arm around his back and patted gently, feeling the sharpness of his shoulder blades. “It’s all right, Grey,” she whispered. “You’re only dreaming.”

His eyes opened, so piercing as they stared into hers that a shiver ran through her body. “Dreaming,” he repeated, his voice thick with sleep. “Of course.”

She looked at the angry scar across his hand. Was a souvenir from Auteuil? Just then, they both seemed to become aware of their intimately entwined limbs and disengaged hastily. Grey pushed himself up against the pillows, rubbed his eyes with long fingers, then studied Natalya with a slight, mysterious smile that made her blush.

“What amuses you?” she demanded, Auteuil and the scar flying from her thoughts. “You may as well know that I can’t remember a blessed thing since we boarded this ship, so if I did something horrendously embarrassing, I’d appreciate it if you would make me aware of my... lapse.”

“I find it interesting that you assume this sudden onset of amnesia must be a result of wicked misbehavior on your part,” Grey remarked, laughing. “I know I shouldn’t tease you, and I apologize. You’ve had a devil of a time and deserve only my gratitude and highest praise. You’re an extraordinary woman, Natalya.”

She digested his kind words, then narrowed her eyes. “And...?”

“What do you mean?” Grey ran a negligent hand through his hair and lounged against the pillows.

“There’s nothing else? Nothing I should know about?”

“If you are concerned that you may have climbed the mainmast, wantonly displayed your admittedly display-worthy charms, and then recited poetry for the entertainment of the crew...” He paused, eyes twinkling, as Natalya waited with an expression of mingled suspicion and alarm. “You may rest easy. You were not nearly that diverting. Moments after you had been deposited on the Essex’s quarterdeck, you fainted. It wasn’t your finest moment, but I hardly think that you need feel ashamed.”

“I thought you’d decided not to tease me,” Natalya said, with a trace of petulance, then declared, “I vow, I’ll never touch calvados again!”

“I imagine that some food might lift your spirits—and mine,” Grey said. The sight of her brightening face gave him an odd sort of pang in the middle of his chest. She was looking enchanting, sitting on Bumblethorpe’s bunk in her voluminous white shirt and old man’s breeches. Her face had a warm, winsome appeal accentuated by her unexpected, incandescent smiles. Her honey-gold hair was a disheveled mass that framed her delicate face and tumbled riotously down her back. Obviously Natalya’s beauty was even more apparent in the absence of artifice. Grey decided that it was fortunate for him she was so advanced in years. An unmarried woman of twenty-six could only be a spinster or a worldly mistress. He might find her attractive, but nothing could come of it.

Still... it was difficult not to think about the other, more intimate discoveries he had made about Natalya when he had cuddled her in his arms in sleep. In spite of all she’d been through, she smelled as if she’d just had a bath scented with meadowsweet. And there had been the warm, firm pressure of her breasts against his chest… Upon awakening, he had had to suppress an unconscious urge to open her shirt and nestle between the pale, warm curves—

“I’m utterly famished!” she announced suddenly, scrambling off the bunk to pace across the cabin. “What time is it? How long will it be until we arrive in England? And where will we land?”

Rather disgusted with himself for his mental lapse into lechery, Grey sat up and reached for his boots. “I’ll go above and see what we might eat.” Pulling on the second boot, he stood up. “And I would guess that it’s about sunset, which means that we ought to be nearing the English coast. I’ll have to ask Captain Bumblethorpe where he intends to put us off the Essex.”

Natalya watched Grey reach the passageway. In the soft glow of twilight, he was looking handsome and rested. When he glanced back over one broad shoulder and gave her an unexpected smile before exiting, she was shocked to feel herself shiver all over.

* * *

“What are you reading?” Natalya asked as she took another bite of tangy cheddar cheese and tore off a fifth generous chunk of baguette.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to speak with your mouth full?” Grey had finished his plate of bread, cheese, apples, and smoked salmon. Now he sipped a glass of fine Grenache wine and perused the booklet Oiseau had pressed into his hands when they’d said farewell on the fishing boat.

“Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s criminally rude to read when sharing a meal with someone else?” Natalya countered.

“Touché.” He held up the pamphlet for her to see. “It’s quite extraordinary. Chateaubriand has just published this review of Napoleon’s offenses, called Des Buonaparte et des Bourbons.”

“I’m not surprised,” she replied, with studied nonchalance. “Today is the fifth anniversary of the execution of Rene Chateaubriand’s brother, Armand. Do you know the story?”

“Vaguely. Refresh my memory.” Each time he was reminded of her intellect, Grey felt a twinge of surprise.

“In 1809, Armand was arrested for sending dispatches from the emigre Bourbon princes to their agents in France. Rene wrote to Napoleon and asked for mercy for his brother, to no avail.”

Grey began to nod. “Yes, I remember. Armand Chateaubriand was tried, found guilty, and then shot, wasn’t he?”

“Yes! Rene recounted the episode to us when he visited Chateau du Soleil last year, and the memory of his face, his voice, will never leave me. He said that Armand was killed on Good Friday, and that he himself arrived just a few moments after the shots were fired. He found his brother lying dead, his skull shattered, and... as he put it, ‘a butcher’s dog licking up his blood and his brains.’”

“I heard from prison that Chateaubriand had been in seclusion these past five years, writing quietly, but by no means forgetting what Bonaparte did—not only to his brother, but to France,” said Grey.

“All along, Rene has been incensed by Napoleon’s limits on freedom of the press. He’s been aching to speak out, but waiting for the right moment.” Brushing crumbs from her fingers, Natalya reached for her wineglass. “He told Uncle Nicky that when the end of Napoleon’s empire was at hand, he feared the proud French would make a last show of resistance in spite of their secret wish to be rid of Bonaparte. I’ll wager that this pamphlet is Rene’s way of urging France to be reasonable and welcome the Allies.” She leaned forward, her eyes agleam. “Do tell me what he’s written.”

“Well, you are quite right. Chateaubriand contends that ‘God Himself marches openly at the head of the Allied armies,’ and then he goes on to list Napoleon’s crimes, claiming that only a man with a ‘nature foreign to France’ could have done such things.” Grey smiled at Natalya

“How sly of Rene,” she exclaimed, reaching for the pamphlet and scanning its pages. “By assuring the French that Napoleon is not really one of them, he gives them permission to withdraw their loyalty from him now.” She looked up. “I hope that his approach helps to end this madness at last!”

“You love France.”

“How could I not? The land charmed me instantly—and I have lived there five years. There has always been a bond, perhaps because my father is French—”

A loud crashing noise on deck interrupted Natalya. Grey jumped to his feet and went out to investigate. Moments later he returned, pale but calmer, to report that part of a yardarm damaged in battle had broken loose and fallen to the deck.

“There’s no cause for alarm,” he assured her.

“You’ve turned positively white! Did you think we were under attack?” Natalya asked, without thinking. “Were you afraid that those men had somehow followed us?”

“Nonsense. You have the overactive imagination of a novelist.” Grey gave her a quelling look. “To return to the situation at hand, George tells me that he is taking us as far east as Dover and we’re nearly there. We’ll go ashore with the tide in early evening, spend the night at an inn, hire a coach in the morning, and then be in London by midafternoon.” Smiling to himself, he dropped onto his chair and stretched out his long legs. “I own I am pleased to be going home. For the past few years, I’ve learned to block out thoughts of my old life, and now that I no longer have to, I’m anxious to return.”

Natalya studied him pensively. “I know exactly what you mean. I feel the same way—about holding back on thoughts of home. Now I worry that everything I long to rediscover may have changed, that nothing will seem quite the same…”

St. James arched a black brow and averted his face. “It hasn’t been that long... and I wasn’t dead after all. I trust that my loved ones and friends have kept a spot in their hearts for me. They’ve more sense than to credit a lot of nonsensical, hysterical rumors. I have no doubt that they’re expecting my return.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Natalya reached out to pat his hand, but Grey lifted his wineglass at the same instant. She watched as he drained it, then stood. Restlessly he strode across the low-ceilinged cabin.

“I’m going up on deck to wait this out. Would you like to come?”

Natalya beamed. “Indeed! I’ll be with you as soon as I put on my shoes.”

“You’d better wear my cloak, too. The ocean breeze is chilly.”

Minutes later, enveloped in the worn black wool of Grey’s cape, Natalya emerged from the dark gangway with its fumes of pitch and bilge water onto the H.M.S. Essex’s main deck.

She barely remembered her arrival on board that morning, but now she was fully alert and quite determined to take in every detail in case she ever needed to write a scene set on board a warship.

The barrage of sights, sounds, and smells was exciting and impressive. Her eyes swept over scrubbed decks and spotless brasswork, triple lines of guns, and masts and yardarms high overhead that were nearly obscured by a forest of ropes. Smart-looking officers oversaw the movements of sailors clad in reefer jackets with mother-of-pearl buttons, straw hats, and loose white canvas trousers. They surged over the decks and ratlines, unfazed by the rocking of the ship. Natalya closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the piping of whistles, the rushing of waves, the clanking and creaking of pulleys, the trampling of feet. Her nostrils were filled with the smells of tar, brine, and cold moist air.

“What an adventure this is!” she cried suddenly, trying to grasp Grey’s arm through the folds of her cloak. “I am so very grateful to you for making this extraordinary experience possible.”

“What a minx you are.” His bemused eyes held a glint of silver as they stared at her searchingly. “Do you not realize that I would still be trapped in France right now if not for you? I should be expressing my gratitude to you on bended knee.”

“Then why aren’t you?” Natalya demanded, her laughter laced with mischief.

Grey smiled and drew her forward. “Perhaps another time,” he replied in a drier tone. “At the moment, we should join Captain Bumblethorpe on the quarterdeck. The English coastline is at hand, and the view should be excellent from there.”

As they were climbing to the higher deck, a voice bellowed from a platform on the main mast, “Land ho!”

Bumblethorpe trundled forward to meet them. “Ah, my dear lady, what a pleasure it is to see you up and about, and looking so pink-cheeked and lovely!” He caught her elbow through the cape and led her to the polished rail, pointing with one stubby, weathered finger. “Behold, the white cliffs of Dover!”

Natalya gasped, and behind her she heard Grey’s sudden intake of breath. “How lovely,” she murmured, struck by the sight of the vast promontory, rising up before the churning whitecaps. The cliffs were burnished by sunset in hazy tones of lilac and gold. “It’s exquisite. I’ve never been to Dover before. The last time I sailed to England, we docked at Falmouth.”

“I happen to think this is an especially pretty place to arrive,” Bumblethorpe told her. “The beaches here are quite the rage lately, and the Dover Road to London is profoundly historical, not to mention beautiful.”

Natalya nodded politely as the rotund captain chattered on happily, but her eyes were drawn to Grey. He stood a short distance behind them, staring over her head toward the Dover cliffs. The rosy light of the sinking sun softened the rugged contours of his face and the hard set of his mouth... but his eyes! Natalya had never seen the like. His eyes caught the fading rays of the sun and positively gleamed with intensity as he beheld the majestic coastline. At last, becoming aware of Natalya’s scrutiny, Grey glanced down at her and appeared to give himself a mental shake.

“It’s been a long time,” he muttered.

Natalya didn’t answer. The aura surrounding him surpassed that of a man who simply missed his homeland. She sensed that there was more at stake for Grey St. James than a mere desire to see beloved friends and places from his past.

It was becoming clear that Grey had secrets of some weight. Whatever he kept from her about the bad blood between him and Auteuil was probably the least of it, she realized. A little thrill ran down her spine.

The adventure was just beginning.

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