The Falcon and the Sparrow (25 page)

Silence enveloped the room as all eyes widened. Her father raised a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. A slight giggle slipped through her mother’s lips, and she looked away. Then suddenly they all broke into laughter and fell into each other’s arms.

Even within her deep sleep, Dominique felt herself smile. She tossed to the other side of her bed and tried to plunge back into the sweet memories of another life long since passed.

Marcel’s face appeared out of the shadows. Black grime smudged his gaunt cheeks. Rips banded his once-pristine linen shirt, and the lace at the cuffs hung in tattered strips. “I found us something to eat.” His blue eyes glowed with promise as if they were sitting down to dinner over roast pork and potatoes. “ ’Tis not much, but it will help get us through the night.” He held out two pieces of moldy bread and a half-eaten apple.

Dominique took a scrap of bread and forced a smile. She swallowed against a burst of shame and studied her brother. At seventeen, he should be pursuing a noble education, learning how to wield a sword with the other young upstarts, and flirting with young ladies in satin gowns and bouncing curls. Instead, he scoured the streets like a vagrant, an orphan begging for morsels of rotten food—not like the son of a british admiral, not the like the descendent of French nobility.

He flung a torn burlap sack across her shoulders. “This may help ward off the cold.” He blew on his hands and rubbed them together, gazing up into the strip of starry sky above them. “At least it will not rain tonight.”

“Thank you, Marcel.” Dominique glanced around the dark alleyway deep in the heart of Paris and inched closer to the barricade of drums and crates they hid behind. A rat scampered toward them
and stopped, sniffing at the food in their hands. Marcel booted it away and sat beside her, wrapping his arm around her back and pulling her toward him.

Dominique coughed and held a hand to her nose against the stench of waste slithering through the alleyway. She supposed she should be used to it by now, but tonight it seemed to solidify in the air around them, just like the despair that threatened to swallow her whole. Her thoughts drifted to her mother, her death still a festering wound putrefying Dominique’s heart. She had promised to take care of her brother but had failed miserably. What was to become of them now?

“Do not fret, sister.” Marcel bit into the apple. “I will take care of you. I will find a way to restore our fortunes—never fear.”

His optimism under such duress only added to her shame. As the eldest, at one and twenty, she should be the one taking care of her brother, not the other way around, but after four months of living on the street, she had neither the energy nor the desire to press onward. When she had been accosted in the alley last week by a man promising to buy her and Marcel dinner, she had nearly forfeited her virtue and would have if Marcel had not fended off the beast. After that, Dominique had lost the will to go on. And if it were not for Marcel, she would curl up in a hole somewhere and allow herself to die.

The gloomy alleyway faded, and her rags transformed into a glorious gown of royal blue velvet. Marcel, decked in a ruffled white shirt and dark pantaloons, stood before her. “I promised I would take care of you, did I not?” He flashed a perfect set of white teeth and ran a hand through his curly dark hair. At that instant, Dominique thought him very handsome, even if he was her brother.

Over his shoulder, Cousin Lucien’s slick smile reminded Dominique of a snake about to strike.

A burly arm shot from behind Marcel. Candlelight gleamed off a steel blade.

“You will do as I say, or your dear brother will die,” Lucien hissed.

Marcel’s deep blue eyes bored into her, fury and fear brewing within them. The blade cut into his throat. A trickle of blood spilled down his neck and stained his white shirt, blossoming like a deadly rose.

“Marcel! Marcel!” she screamed. “Marcel, I will save you, I promise.”

“Marcel!” She wrestled against what felt like a thousand sweaty hands. “Marcel!”

“Dominique.” The deep voice intruded on her nightmare, softly at first, then louder and louder. “Miss Dawson.” Strong fingers gripped her arm. “Wake up.”

Dominique bolted upright. Her ragged breath came in spurts that matched the rapid beating of her heart. Nothing but darkness surrounded her. No sound but her own breathing. She pressed her hands against the moist sheets on her bed.

“Dominique.” Someone touched her arm, and she sprang from the bed, peering into the shadows. Milky light filtered through the window, outlining the large figure of a man standing on the other side of her bed. He skirted around the oak bedpost.

“ ’Tis me, Miss Dawson, the admiral.”

She shrank back from him and rubbed her eyes, forcing back the haunting images of her past.
The admiral?
What in the name of all that was holy was he doing in her chamber? Terror heightened the wild beating of her heart.

He halted before the foot of the bed. His face was lost in the shadows. “Forgive me. I did not intend to frighten you, but you were screaming the name Marcel.”

“Screaming?” she whispered and tried to shake the fog from her mind.

The admiral took another step, and the dark shadow of his arm rose toward her. A memory, one now fresh in her mind, stormed through her—a memory of another man in a dark alley of Paris coming at her in the night. She screamed and jumped back. “Stay away!”

He froze. His heavy sigh filled the room as he retreated and stumbled into the desk by her bed. He moved to the coal grate
and knelt. Dominique eyed the door. Could she run? Ridiculous— the admiral wouldn’t hurt her, would he? Then why was she so frightened? snatching her robe from the back of a chair, she flung it over her shoulders and pulled it tight about her. Did he know what she was doing here? she drew a deep breath.
Do I truly know?

Candlelight flickered over his handsome face from the other side of the room. His bare feet thudded on the wooden floor as he made his way back to her—slow, measured footsteps as if he were afraid to wake her. And when she gazed into his chocolate brown eyes, she found only concern within them.

He set the candle down on the high-back dresser, where it cast a circle of flickering light around them, highlighting his broad chest that peeked from behind an unbuttoned shirt he must have donned in haste. A pair of trousers hung loosely on his hips. “Are you all right, Dominique?”

“Yes,” was all she could muster amidst the conflicting emotions raging within her, especially at the sound of her Christian name upon his lips.

“You were screaming.” He ran a hand through his loose mahogany-colored hair that reached just below his shoulders.

“I was?”

“Quite loudly, I might say.” His lips curved in an enchanting smile.

Dominique hugged herself and lowered her gaze. “Forgive me for waking you.” She didn’t know what else to say. His close presence in her bedchamber at night, coupled with his evident care for her, played havoc with her already reeling emotions.

“I was not asleep.” He touched her elbow, and the smell of brandy and spice washed over her like a heady perfume.

“You are trembling.” His dark gaze latched onto hers.

Dominique swallowed and eased down into the chair he led her to, thankful for the support beneath her. Her head was beginning to spin, and the last thing she wanted was to swoon into the admiral’s arms again—especially against his bare, muscled chest.

He squatted beside her chair. His eyes softened as they met hers. Gone was the harsh commanding sheen, the cold protective barrier
that always shielded his gaze. Was it the alcohol that lowered his defenses? Dominique tightened her robe about her chest and felt her breath catch in her throat under his intense perusal.

He raised his hand, all the while keeping his gaze upon her, and gently brushed a finger over her cheek, sweeping away a loose curl. She closed her eyes beneath his tender touch, ashamed that she did not move away, ashamed that she allowed him to be so familiar, but somehow unable to pull herself from him.

“What frightened you so?” His deep, sultry voice slid over her like warm butter.

Dominique snapped her eyes open and shifted in her chair. She tried to awaken from the spell he cast upon her, no doubt conjured by his strong, protective presence and the tender emotional state left to her from her nightmare. She gazed over the chamber, anywhere but into those caring brown eyes. His sword lay on the foot of her bed. He had charged in here to protect her, no doubt believing some villain named Marcel was accosting her. His chivalry only added to the warm tingle that now radiated through her.

How could she betray this man—this strong, courageous, honorable man? Twice she had found herself alone in a bedchamber with him, completely at his mercy. Yet he had never made an inappropriate move toward her, had always behaved the gentleman. She raised her gaze to his, unable to avoid searching his unguarded eyes. Heartache and betrayal cried out in agony deep from within him, but kindness and love also took residence there. He had a good heart.

And she would destroy it.

She would betray him and not only ruin his career, but leave his heart shattered once again.

Yet what choice did she have? Right at this very moment she was supposed to be meeting the Frenchman—would be meeting the Frenchman if her plans hadn’t changed.

And she fully intended to meet him again. Betray her country and betray this man.

To save Marcel.

“Who is Marcel?” Chase asked.

Dominique lowered her gaze. “My brother.”

Chase rubbed the back of his neck as relief swept through him.
Her brother. Of course.
When he’d first heard her screaming, he’d thought the worst. Grabbing his sword, he had burst into her room to fend off the attacker. The fury that had enflamed him at the thought of someone hurting Miss Dawson both surprised and frightened him. But once he realized she was only dreaming, the second-worst thing occurred to him—that this Marcel was a lover, that his sister had been right.

Why did he feel so relieved to be wrong? What difference would it make to him? He allowed his gaze to wander over her. The white lace of her nightdress curled around the edges of her silk robe. The glow from the candle, as if seeking something worthy of its light, shimmered over her in caressing waves. Her chestnut hair trickled down her shoulders onto her lap, and Chase swallowed a longing to run his fingers through the silky strands. ’Twas the brandy again, no doubt. He must curb his drinking when Miss Dawson was around.

“If I may ask, where is your brother?” He silently cursed himself for not inquiring before—for not ensuring that the son of his friend, Admiral stuart, was also under good care.

She lifted her swimming eyes to his. “He is in France.”

No place for the son of a british admiral. “How old is he now?”

“Eighteen.”

Chase shifted his weight onto his other foot and leaned an elbow on his knee. “May I ask how he provides for himself?”

“A distant cousin took us in after…” Dominique pressed the back of her hand to her nose.

“I see.” Chase yearned to take her hand in his, to offer what comfort he could, but he only looked away, allowing her a moment. “Then why does he need saving?”

“I beg your pardon?” She swiped a tear threatening to escape from her eye.

“You were screaming that you would save him.”

His statement seemed to blast through her resolve, opening a floodgate of tears that now streamed down her cheeks.

Against all propriety, he took her trembling hand in his. “Forgive me. I have upset you again.”

She allowed his tender grip at first then suddenly jerked her hand away. Wiping her face, she averted her gaze. “My apologies, Admiral. I am not sure what has me so overwrought. Perhaps I am simply tired.” She gazed at him, her amber eyes brimming with emotion—fear, sorrow, but something else that caused Chase’s heart to flip. “As I have said, Admiral, ’twas a bad dream, nothing more.”

Chase rose and took a step back. What was he doing lurking about a woman’s bedchamber at night—especially this woman’s? He should have left as soon as he discovered she was only having a dream, but the picture of her writhing upon the bed in agony had wrapped a cord around him and held him in place. He drew a deep breath, hoping to quell the peculiar yearning within, and decided to address the problem at hand. “We should send for your brother immediately. He should not be in France.”

Dominique blinked. “But he has no land, no title, no trade. What would he do here?”

“I would hire him. A footman, perhaps?”

She opened her mouth, no doubt to protest, but he held up a hand. “I know ’tis beneath him, but it would get him out of our enemy’s territory before they muddle what is left of his reason with their warped philosophies. Perhaps I could get him a commission on board one of my ships.”

Miss Dawson’s chest rose and fell as rapidly as a fire bellows, and he couldn’t tell whether she was grateful or whether he had frightened her again. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed up at him. “You are too kind, Admiral. I don’t…I do not understand. You barely know me. You do not even know my brother.”