The Falcon and the Sparrow (26 page)

He flattened his lips. She was right. He had only known her but a month, but truth be told, he felt as though he had known her all his life. “Your father saved my life once.” He raised his brows. “I owe him.”

“Is that why you offer to help Marcel—as payment on a debt?”
She snapped her gaze to his, harshness replacing the sorrow. “That is why you hired me?”

“At first, yes.” He looked away, not wanting to face the sudden anger in her eyes, much preferring the tenderness of only a moment ago. “But I find you to be very good for William.”
And for me.
He shook the thought from his head as rapidly as it had come, not ready to admit the effect she had on him, not ready to taint the memory of his wife with these unwelcome and befuddling feelings.

“We are descendents of French nobility, sir, and as well you know, also of british Admiralty.” She tossed her quivering chin in the air. “We will not be subject to your charity.”

Chase stared at her wide-eyed and couldn’t help but chuckle. She had shocked him once again. One minute she behaved as a frightened, timid sparrow; the next, strength welled up in her that reminded him of a lioness protecting her young.

She stood. “I’m sorry to disturb your evening, Admiral, and though I am grateful for your concern, you should not be in my chamber.”

But despite the harsh tone of her voice, he knew fear still held her captive. He sensed a distress that went beyond simple concern for her brother, and he longed more than anything to come to her rescue—to becalm her fears and remove all her difficulties.

She began to sway. He reached for her arm. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

“There’s nothing to be done, I’m afraid.” Her tears returned, glistening in the candlelight, and he felt a shudder course through her.

He took a step toward her and pulled her into his arms. To his surprise, she melted against his chest, her soft curves folding into him as if they were made for each other. Sobs wracked her body. He ran his fingers through her hair, allowing her to release her sorrow. He didn’t know how to comfort her, didn’t know how to help her, but one thing he did know: His sister was wrong. This frightened woman was innocent of any wrongdoing.

Her sobs quieted, and he cupped her chin and lifted her face. Glittering eyes met his as their breath intermingled. No deceit, no
malice, nothing but a chaste yearning for love and comfort beamed from within them.

Without giving it a thought, he lowered his lips to hers. Soft and warm, they met his in a moist caress. Heat flamed inside his belly. He drew her against him as their kiss grew hungrier.

She pushed off his chest and jerked away from him. Raising a hand to her lips, she glared at him.

Chase clenched his jaw. Why had he done that? shame spread an icy film across his passions. He had not kissed a woman since Melody—had not wanted to kiss a woman since Melody. Yet as he looked at Dominique, at her quivering lips, at the innocent spark of fervor in her eyes, and as the feel of her surrender still pulsated through him, he would gladly have done so again.

“I have never kissed a man before,” She declared, breaking the silence.

“Indeed?” He smiled. “You are quite good at it.” He planted his hands on his waist and looked down. What was wrong with him? How had this woman bewitched him? The bulwark he had so carefully erected around his heart began to crumble, allowing his enemies entrance: love, care, concern. But they never came alone. Terror and torment bit at their heels: terror at losing the one he loved and the torment of already having done so.

“I would ask you to leave, Admiral.” She wrapped her arms around her chest.

He stepped toward her. “Forgive me, Domin—Miss Dawson. I have no excuse for my behavior.” He sighed. “I fear I have only frightened you further, which was the last thing I wished to do.”

“A condition you can rectify by your absence, sir,” she retorted in a shaky voice.

“Not until I know you have calmed.” He reached toward her, his only hope to reassure her of his noble intentions, not wanting to leave her with the impression she had anything to fear from him.

In a flash of white lace and silk, she leapt for the bed, grabbed his sword, and thrust it out before her. The tip of the blade wobbled inches from his chest. Her face scrunched in determination in the candlelight, but her eyes darted furiously between his. “For the last
time, I beg you to leave.”

Chase grinned and retreated, forcing down a sudden burst of indignation. “I surrender, Miss Dawson.” He chuckled with arms extended. “I am your humble prisoner.” He gave her a mock bow. Perhaps he should just leave as she requested, yet his pride would not allow a woman to get the best of him. How dare she hold a sword to him in his own house? Especially when he’d come to her chamber to save her.

Fear skittered across her eyes, melting his fury. She was truly afraid of him—or of something, and he found he could not allow that. He did not want her to think that he meant her any harm.

The sword oscillated before his chest as the muscles in her arms were no doubt straining beneath its weight.

In a quick move, he shoved the blade aside with his forearm, slicing his shirt and the skin beneath. While she fumbled to recover, he grabbed the hilt from her hands with ease.

He held it, point down, by his side. Her rapid breathing filled the room as she stared at him aghast.

“I must say, I have never quite had that reaction after a kiss.” He gave her a devilish look then tightened his lips.

“What do you intend to do?” she asked as if just realizing she had held a sword to her employer and was now alone with an angry man.

“I intend to leave, as was always my plan.” He grimaced and snapped the hair from his face. “I am not the sort of man to force himself on a woman.”

“And yet you did.”

“I believe your response indicated otherwise.” He gave her a half smile, pleased when he saw her face reddening.

“I was distraught….” She shifted her stance and gazed over the room. “I had a nightmare.”

“Sleepwalking again, Miss Dawson? Or perhaps this time sleep kissing?”

“How dare you?” She squared her shoulders.

“Rest assured, Miss Dawson, I will dare not attempt it again.” He bowed and sauntered from the room, closing the door behind him.

T
he rasp of heavy fabric and the glare of sunlight startled Dominique from a fitful sleep. She sprang up in bed, momentarily dazed as memories from the night before shoved their way into her consciousness. A spark of terror brought her fully awake as a voice rang from her right.

“Sorry to wake you, miss.” Larena finished tying the curtains aside, then turned and smiled. “But you planned to take William to the park before his tutor arrived.”

“I did?” Dominique stared aghast at the red-haired woman. “Yes, of course.” She rubbed her eyes against visions she hoped came only from a nightmare. One glance over the room, and her heart squeezed. The admiral had been in her chamber last night. She pictured him standing by the foot of her bed, his shirt open, his hair in wild disarray around his shoulders, a handsome smirk on his face.

And she’d kissed him—passionately.

Panic sliced through her.
Sacre bleu.
she’d drawn his sword on him.

“What troubles you, miss? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Far worse, I’m afraid,” Dominique gasped.

“Is something amiss?” Larena approached the bed as Dominique tossed her legs over the side. “Did something happen last night?” The chambermaid’s round face pinched. “I thought I heard voices,
but then again, this house is full of voices at night, so I paid them no mind.”

“The admiral,” was all Dominique managed to say as a clump of shame and horror rose to constrict her throat.

“Yes, what about him?”

“I had a dream, a nightmare.” Dominique shuddered as the harrowing vision of Marcel with a knife to his throat replayed itself in her mind. “And the admiral came.”

“To your chamber? Oh dear.” Larena moved to sit on the bed then hesitated.

“Please.” Dominique patted the quilt beside her. “Yes. I must have screamed, and he thought I was being attacked.”

Larena sat down, and a tiny smirk danced across her lips. “Oh, to be sure.” She gave her a sideways glance.

“You couldn’t possibly think he had other intentions?” Dominique wrung her hands together in her lap, remembering the way he’d pulled her into his arms, remembering the way she had surrendered so readily. Heat flushed over her.

Larena patted her hand. “I know the admiral to be a decent man.” She nodded reassuringly but then offered Dominique a sinister wink. “But a fair warning to you: He is a man nonetheless.”

“He kissed me,” Dominique blurted, unsure why she disclosed so much to Larena. She supposed she needed a friend, a woman who could tell her that these new, overwhelming sensations within her were silly and trivial, a part of the frivolous dalliance betwixt the sexes.

Larena stood. “I am all astonishment, miss. ’Tis so unlike him.” She adjusted her cap and stuffed a curl back into it. “I told you about depending on men. Even the good ones are not to be trusted.” She stomped to the grate, poked at the embers, then shoved more coals into the opening.

“I do not mean to impugn the admiral.” Dominique feared she had misspoken, tarnishing the admiral’s reputation with his staff. “I believe him to be a good man, a lonely man, perhaps. He did not mean to kiss me, I am sure.”

Even as she said it, a warm quiver raked over her. Why had
she succumbed so easily to his seduction? Why had she fallen into his arms like a common hussy? Those arms, so strong and warm, surrounding her like iron guards. She had felt safe, almost loved, for the first time since her father had died. Though she greatly admired the admiral for his intelligence and commanding spirit, she had witnessed another side of him last night, a tender side that made her heart burn within her.

“Miss, your face is as red as a beet. Do you have a fever?” Larena scanned the room then plucked Dominique’s robe from the bottom of the bed and tossed it over her shoulders.

Dominique laid the back of her hand over her cheek. A fever. That must be it. There was no other possible explanation for her behavior. “Perhaps I
am
coming down with something.”

“Taking advantage of a poor frightened girl—he should be ashamed of himself.” Larena clicked her tongue. “If only Melody could see him now.”

Melody. His wife. Dominique wondered what sort of woman had caught the admiral’s heart. “What was she like?”

“Melody?” Larena disappeared into the dressing closet. “She was a wonderful lady.” Her voice bellowed from within. Moments later she emerged with garments in hand. “You would have liked her.”

“Am I anything like her?” Perhaps that was why the admiral had kissed Dominique. Yes, it made perfect sense. A lonely dark night, a bit of brandy, and a woman who reminded him of his wife. Any explanation besides the one that kept making her heart leap. Because she didn’t want her heart to leap. She didn’t want to care about the admiral or about William or Larena or about any of these people. In two weeks she would have to betray them all, along with her country.

“Nay, miss.” Larena laid a chemise, petticoat, and stays on the end of the bed and studied Dominique. “She was taller than you, larger boned. Her hair glowed like sunshine on a clear day—the envy of all London, I might add. Her eyes were sparkling blue like William’s. Yes, she was a strong one, but then, she would have to have a formidable constitution to put up with the admiral.” She chuckled. “Smart, too. She wrote poetry and read voraciously.
Milton, Alexander Pope, Fielding.” She smiled off into the distance then waved a hand through the air. “Well, what can I say? before she married the admiral, and afterward, as well, all the gentlemen in town adored her.”

Dominique sank onto the bed. She was nothing like Melody. “He misses her terribly, doesn’t he?”

“I doubt he will ever be the same.” Larena placed her hands on her round hips. “Now don’t be getting your hopes up, miss. That man will only hurt you. He is not to be depended upon, at least not anymore. He will sail right out to sea the first chance he gets and leave you and William behind without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“I have no hopes, Larena, but to be the best governess for William.”
And to save Marcel.
Dominique hung her head, realizing what a fool she had been to allow her naive feelings to steal her thoughts and intentions away from her real purpose here—if only for a moment.

Larena nodded in satisfaction. “I am most pleased to hear it. No sense in entangling yourself with a man when you have proven that you can provide for yourself.”

Dominique remembered her earlier conversation with the chambermaid. “Surely there has been someone in your life whom you depended on, someone you trusted?”

Larena shook her head, sending her fiery curls springing around her freckled face.

“Your parents, perhaps, your father?”

“My father was a brute of a man, a cobbler by trade. He beat my mother and wasted his wages on harlots and drink. My mother died more of a broken heart than the consumption.”