Seduction by Brenda Joyce

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
    H AD 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