And he knew he must wake up.
He felt cotton beneath his hands, not dirt, not blood. He fought the bloody river and saw Nadine smiling at him, her eyes shining, the moon full and bright behind her. He had kissed her—except, that wasn’t right, because Nadine was dead....
Nadine was dead, and he was lying in a bed— Where was he?
Terribly drained, Dominic realized that he had been dreaming. His memories remained jumbled, and dread and fear filled him, but he fought the rising panic. He had to think clearly. It was a matter of life and death.
It wasn’t safe for him to remain in France now.
Someone knew who he really was.
And he recalled being ambushed outside Michel’s apartments. He tensed with more fear and alarm, fighting both emotions. And all of his memories of the past year and a half returned forcefully then. He had gone to France to find his mother and fiancée and bring them home to England. He had never found Nadine, but he had found his mother, hiding above a bakery in Paris, her townhome destroyed. After seeing her safely aboard a Britain-bound ship at Le Havre, he had returned to Paris, hoping to find Nadine.
He had never meant to stay in France, gathering information for his country. Although his mother, Catherine Fortescue, was a Frenchwoman, his father was the earl of Bedford and he was an Englishman to the core. Dominic Paget had been born on the family estate at Bedford. An only child, he had been educated at Eton and Oxford. With William Paget’s passing, he had inherited both the title and the earldom. Although he took up his seat in the Lords several times a year—he felt a duty to the country as a whole, for he must also look after Bedford’s interests—politics had never interested him. In fact, several years ago he had turned down a position in Pitt’s ministry. His responsibilities were clear—and they were to the earldom.
He hadn’t discovered what had happened to Nadine. She had last been seen in the riot that had destroyed his mother’s home. Catherine feared that she had been trampled to death by the mob. When he had returned to Britain, he had been concerned enough about the revolution in France to meet with several of his peers, including Edmund Burke, a man with great political connections. The information Dominic had gleaned while he was in France was so unsettling that Burke had introduced him to Prime Minister Pitt. But it was Sebastian Warlock who had persuaded him to return to France—this time with one single ambition: espionage.
It was impossible to determine who had learned the truth about Jean-Jacques Carre—the identity he had assumed. It could have been any one of dozens of Parisians, or even a mole planted amongst Michel’s command. But someone had discovered that Carre was no print-shop owner and no Jacobin. Someone had learned that he was really an Englishman and an agent.
His tension escalated wildly now. He was frighteningly weak—and thus vulnerable. Pain stabbed through his back with every breath he took.
Was he with friends—or foes?
Was he still in France?
Afraid and fully alert, he noted that he was not shackled. Very carefully, he opened his eyes, just enough so he could peek out through his lashes.
He did not change the pattern of his breathing. He did not move a single muscle, other than his eyelids. He sensed he was not alone. He wanted whoever was with him—whoever was guarding him—to think he was asleep.
The vague outlines of a small bedroom came into his line of vision. He saw an armoire, a window. A moment later, he smelled the tang in the air, and tasted its salt.
He was near the coast, but what coast?
He fought fiercely to retrieve every possible memory. Had he dreamed of a long journey in the back of a wagon, mostly by night? Had he dreamed of the rocking of a ship, the creaking of masts, the whisper of canvas—and being in the throes of a terrible agony? What happened to him after he had been shot? Hazy images tried to form, and suddenly he thought he remembered a woman with titian hair, hovering over him, bathing him, caring for him.
And then a woman moved into his line of vision, bending over him. He glimpsed titian hair, her pale visage, an ivory dress.
She murmured, “Monsieur?”
Dominic recognized the sound of her voice. So she had cared for him; it had not been a dream.
He could not assume that she was a friend and an ally. Could he defend himself if necessary? Escape? He was so exhausted, so weak! Who was she and why had she nursed him through his illness? Was she a friend of Michel’s? How had he come into her care? He debated waiting her out—sooner or later, she would leave him, and then he could decide what predicament he was in. His first order of business would be to search the room, then the house. He had to discern his location. And he needed a weapon with which to defend himself.
On the other hand, she could not be alone. She had to have comrades. When she left, someone else might be sent to guard him, and it might even be a man.
He opened his eyes fully and looked into the startled gray gaze of the woman.
She was seated in a chair, pulled up to his bedside, a writing tablet on her lap, a quill in her hand. She started and whispered, “Monsieur, vous êtes reveillé?”
He had no intention of answering her, not yet. Instead, he took a quick inventory of his surroundings. He saw that he lay in a narrow bed in a room he did not recognize. The chamber was a modest one, simply furnished, and it was hard to discern if he was in a bourgeois’s or a nobleman’s home. If the latter, they were impoverished.
One window let in the daylight—it was early afternoon. The sunlight was gray and weak, not at all like the bright summer sunshine in the Loire Valley.
How had he gotten to this bedchamber? Had he been taken in a wagon and then a ship—or had that been a dream? Damn it, he did not recall anything after being shot in the alley in Nantes! The only thing he was now certain of was that he was on the coast—but where? He could be in Le Havre or Brest, he thought, but he was uncertain. He could be in Dover, or Plymouth. Even if he was in England, he had to protect his identity. No one could ever guess that he was a British agent.
But she had spoken to him in French.
She spoke again. He became absolutely still, focusing on her, as the woman repeated what she had said before. “Sir, are you awake?”
Her color was high, a question in her eyes. Although she was speaking French, she had a slight accent. He felt certain she was English. And that should relieve him—except, he did not like the fact that she was speaking in French. Was she partly French, as he was? Or did she assume him to be a Frenchman, for whatever reason? Had she met him when he was undercover? Did she know the truth or any part of it? Where did her sympathies lie? If only he could remember more!
And why the hell was he stark naked beneath the thin sheets?
She suddenly got up. He watched her warily as she walked across the room, noticing that her figure was very pleasing, not that he really cared. She might be an ally—or she might be the enemy. And he would do whatever necessary to survive. Seducing her was not out of the question.
He now saw that she was putting the tablet and the parchment on the table, placing the quill into an inkwell there. She took up a cloth, dipping it in a basin of water. He did not relax. The hazy images became more focused, of this woman bending over him and bathing him with the cloth…of her face, close to his, as he prepared to kiss her....
He had kissed her. He was certain of it.
His interest sharpened. What had happened between them? Surely this was to his advantage.
She returned, her face pale except for two bright splotches of pink on her cheeks. She sat, wringing out the cloth, as he watched her closely, waiting to see what she would do next. His body stirred.
In France, living on the verge of death every day, he had lost all the morality he had