Natalya Page 2

  "Voila!" hissed Marie-Helene. "You see? He is a devil!"

  Natalya blinked. "I see nothing of the kind. Your imagination is driven wild by this ferocious weather."

  "Je t'implore, do not open the door to him!" the maid cried.

  As she crossed the stone entry hall, Natalya realized that Marie-Helene was scurrying in her wake like a child trying to hide behind her mother. She put her hand on the latch and warned, "You needn't cling to me if you're so terrified of this person. I can deal with him on my own."

  "Mais, non! I cannot leave you, mam'selle. I am here to serve you with my very life, if need be!"

  Natalya stole a brief glance heavenward and tried not to smile. "I'm sure I don't deserve such blind devotion. You'd better brace yourself, then. I'm going to open the door... now!" She was nearly laughing as she pushed back the bolt, lifted the latch, and dragged open the heavy door. Her eyes were sparkling with merriment, and a silken curl came loose to brush the side of her cheek.

  Then, Natalya focused on the stranger. Her body stilled and her smile faded, while the pounding of her heart grew deafening. Never before had she seen so striking a man. The effect was intensified by the angry twilight, which hurled raindrops, faster and faster, at the black-clad giant.

  Perhaps he wasn't really a giant, Natalya amended, ever aware of her tendency to embellish reality; but he was bigger than her father or Uncle Nicky, both of whom were tall and broad-shouldered. The stranger's size was made more menacing by his black cape, which swirled out over worn trousers stuffed into muddy black boots. Most arresting of all, though, was his proud head, with a profile that bespoke arrogance and danger. Natalya was struck by his wild, wet black hair, which was laced with silver, and by his pale face with its sculpted bone structure and steely eyes. He wore a trim beard, and his mouth looked sensual and hard all at once.

  "Bon soir, madame," the stranger said in a voice that sounded hoarse and tired. "I beg your pardon for this intrusion, but I have come a very long way to speak to your husband."

  Startled, Natalya exclaimed, "You're English!"

  "I'm afraid so," he admitted. "And you are... American?"

  "Yes. M'sieur Beauvisage is my uncle. My aunt is upstairs at the moment, but my uncle will be back directly. Would you care to come in and—" She heard Marie-Helene gasp and felt her tug urgently at the back of her shawl. Natalya gave her a quelling glance. "You must excuse our maid. She has taken it into her head that you are a dangerous character and—"

  The man turned his head sharply, as if he had heard an expected but unwelcome noise. "If you don't mind, I'll accept your invitation," he said hurriedly. "This weather is devilish."

  Before Natalya could step out of the way, he pushed past her, causing Marie-Helene to cry out. Natalya herself was beset by a sudden wave of apprehension as she realized that he now knew her uncle was not present. In the interest of fairness and good manners, she had written off his appearance to the rain and wind, but now she could see that beneath the cape his clothing was frayed, his hair and beard were overdue for grooming, and there was an evil-looking scar across the hand that reached out to push the door closed. When he turned again to look at her, she immediately recognized the threat in his gleaming gray eyes.

  Natalya wasn't surprised when he put his hand under his cape and drew out a long, sharpened dirk. At that moment, she became aware of the clatter of hoofbeats entering the courtyard of the chateau.

  "Do as I say," the man said curtly, "and neither of you will be hurt." He stared hard at the trembling Marie-Helene. "Compose yourself! When those men on horseback reach the door, they'll describe me, and you must tell them that you have not seen me, do you understand? You must be calm and convincing, little girl, else your beautiful mistress will feel my blade." He waited for the maid's crazed, wild-eyed nod, then lifted Natalya off the floor and carried her into a tower alcove just a few feet from the door. "Do not fight me," he ground out. "Be silent!"

  The hand covering Natalya's mouth was wet and smelled of horse and sweat and damp wool. His other arm clasped her waist, and now she felt the tip of the dirk press upward between her breasts, the steel cold through the thin muslin of her gown. His body seemed to surround her: powerful, musky, terrifying. As more unknown and potentially dangerous men pounded at the door, Natalya waited for her heart to explode.

  "Shh. Don't move," the stranger whispered, his breath madly ticklish against her ear. "If you're very good, perhaps I'll give you a kiss after they've gone."

  This sudden burst of teasing humor, so peculiarly and arrogantly male, made Natalya long to sink her teeth into his palm. Never had she met a man whom she despised more!

  Chapter 2

  March 27, 1814

  Two men, as stormy in appearance as the sky, were looming over Marie-Helene, shouting questions and demanding answers. Somehow she rose to the occasion, shouting right back at them.

  "Tell us! You have seen him, haven't you?" cried one of the intruders, a tall, thin, balding man. "There is no mistaking St. James. He's huge, with black brows and flashing gray eyes, and his hair is black as a raven's wing, with strands of silver. He is terrifying to behold!"

  "No, no! No one has been here all day except you," Marie-Helene insisted.

  "Let us speak to your master, then."

  "He is not here. He's gone to Saumur. No one in the chateau has been near the courtyard for hours, except for me, and I have seen nothing."

  "You lie at the peril of your own life, ma petite," warned the other man with bright auburn hair. "The one we seek is an escaped prisoner, an enemy of France, a thief and a murderer! He would think nothing of invading this beautiful chateau, raping you and your mistress, and then"—he drew his finger across his neck, eyes wide—"slitting your throat!"

  Natalya flinched involuntarily, and the stranger tightened his grip. The fist that held the blade pushed against the softness of her left breast. Suddenly she was aware of the heat of his flesh, aware of the fact that she had not been this near a man, for this long, in years. Wedged between his powerful body and the stone wall, Natalya was forced to turn her face upward, brushing the rough curve of his cheekbone with her temple. She felt the warmth of his breath. It smelled, not unpleasantly, of ale and tobacco. The realization that this was very much a flesh-and-blood male seemed to intensify her fear. Had he been serious about kissing her? His tone had been rather light and mocking, but what if the men at the door were telling the truth? Was this horrible Englishman capable of rape... and murder? Never had she felt more vulnerable, confused, and terrified; and because all three were emotions she abhorred, she was angry as well. How dare he hold her captive, cause her such fear, threaten her, and then make jokes in the next breath?

  "I tell you, this monster you describe has not been here!" Marie-Helene insisted, stamping her foot.

  The redhead glared at his companion. "The gatekeeper was snoring when I approached to question him, so there's no way of knowing for certain if this one is lying."

  "No sign of St. James's horse," the other man pointed out.

  "M'sieur Beauvisage will be returning home at any moment," Marie-Helene cried out. "If he finds you here, making such trouble, he will be furious!"

  Sighing, the auburn-haired man glanced at his companion and admitted defeat. "We can hardly search the chateau, can we, Poujouly?" He shrugged. "D 'accord, ma petite, we'll go, but do not forget our warnings. If Grey St. James appears at this door, do not admit him. He is dangerous—and an enemy of our emperor. He must be returned to prison with all possible haste. Tell your master what I have said... and if you should happen to see St. James, do give him this message from Jules Auteuil. Inform the criminal that he shall not escape." His voice shook for an instant. "We will not stop until he is back—"

  "In our care," Poujouly finished. His mouth curved slowly upward, then twitched.

  "Au revoir, messieurs," Marie-Helene rejoined impatiently. "I have work to do."

  Natalya's body had begun to ache after being force
d for so long into an awkward position, and she was feeling short of breath. When she heard the door close, she squirmed, but her captor only tightened his grip. They remained immobile until they heard the Frenchmen mount their horses and ride off down the drive. Finally, after the sound of hoofbeats had died away, Marie-Helene appeared in the alcove.

  "I did as you said, m'sieur. Now, release mademoiselle!"

  Natalya made a muffled sound behind the Englishman's hand, and, abruptly, she was freed. She sagged against the stone wall and looked over to find his dark head bent as he casually replaced the dirk in its sheath.

  "I must say, I'm glad that's over." His tone was conversational, and he laughed wearily. "I appreciated your cooperation... Excuse me, mademoiselle, but I'm afraid we've not been properly introduced. I do not know—"

  "This is unbelievable!" Natalya cried, outraged. "You can't really mean to behave as if you didn't just threaten our lives a few moments ago?"

  "I wasn't serious, though." He gave her a surprisingly appealing smile. "Don't you see, there wasn't time to explain properly, so the only way I could be certain you'd do as I said was to sufficiently frighten you both. I really had no choice."

  Natalya was aghast, particularly when she saw Marie-Helene softening. "You—you—I can't think of a name bad enough to call you! Whatever the crime was that you committed, you deserved to be caught by those men! You deserved to be shot—guillotined—drawn and quartered—"

  "Please!" He held up a hand, laughing. "Don't go on."

  She refused to be disarmed. "Your behavior was despicable, sir. I must ask you to leave." Lifting her chin, she walked regally into the entry hall. Marie-Helene stood between them, looking back and forth with trepidation.

  "I came to see Nicholai Beauvisage," the man said, his voice deep. "I cannot leave until I have spoken to him."

  "I'm afraid that's impossible," she declared, without turning back to look at him.

  Another voice answered Natalya. "Impossible? Hardly."

  She gasped and spun around to find her uncle Nicholai and his son, James, standing in the doorway to the courtyard.

  * * *

  Not a moment too soon, Grey St. James thought wryly as he walked toward Nicholai Beauvisage and introduced himself. The pace of the past two days had been unforgivingly brutal, and his reserves of charm were low. Another second and he'd have been hard-pressed to scrape together a credible response for the intense mademoiselle.

  "St. James," Nicholai repeated thoughtfully, drawing off his gloves. "Have we met before? Is your father the Earl of Hartford?"

  Grey nodded. "Yes, and yes. I was visiting at Father's London home the last time you and your wife stopped for tea a few years ago."

  "Of course! You're the elder son, aren't you. I can't tell you how pleased I am that you found us. You know, your father spared my brother Alec's life during our revolution in America, and we've been indebted to him since." Nicholai, who was still vigorous and handsome at fifty-three, looked the Englishman over with clear green eyes. "If there is anything I can do for you, you need only ask. I hope I won't sound rude if I observe that you look rather less... yourself than when we last met in London."

  St. James gave a laugh sharpened with irony. "You're very tactful, sir, and kind. My circumstances have changed drastically in the last year. To be perfectly frank, my life is in danger, and I do need your help."

  "I hope there is time for you to have a long hot bath, and then join us for dinner before my assistance is required," Nicholai said calmly. "My manservant will attend to your needs after which we'll discuss your situation over some good wine and hot food, all right?"

  Grey closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. "My prayers have been answered."

  Nicholai patted him on the back, then glanced back at his son. "Ah—I've been remiss. Grey, I would like you to meet my son, James. James, this is Grey St. James, Viscount—"

  "I don't use my title," Grey said. "Life is much simpler without it. Hello, James. I'm glad to meet you."

  James Beauvisage put out his hand and tried to match the Englishman's grip. At fifteen, the youth was blessed with shining chestnut curls, clear gray-blue eyes, and a ready smile. He had much of his height, but he had yet to fill out and was at that precarious age when he was no longer a boy but not yet a man. "How do you do, sir?" he said politely.

  The trio started to walk toward the gallery as Nicholai brushed dirt from his buckskin breeches and muttered, "God, I need a bath. It's not a day to be on the roads, hmm?"

  Natalya remained in the entry hall, fuming. When her uncle didn't miss her, she cleared her throat before the men were out of earshot.

  Nicholai glanced back. "What is it, little Talya?" When she tensed, blushed, and glared in response, he took a guess. "Don't say that you have not been formally introduced to our guest! My dear, I do apologize." Eyes twinkling, he beckoned her over. "Grey St. James, may I present my niece, Natalya Beauvisage?"

  She wanted to make a scene, but somehow she suffered through her uncle's introductions, giving St. James what she hoped was a poisonous smile as they ascended the long, winding stairway to the second floor. Upstairs, Nicholai presented the Englishman to Lisette, who was now clad in a chemise frock of pale yellow muslin. Her blond hair was caught up with tortoiseshell combs so that loose curls framed her lovely face, and around her neck she wore an exquisite gold locket that contained a miniature of her husband and a lock of his hair.

  Nonplussed by the sudden appearance in her home of such a bedraggled, dangerous-looking stranger, she nevertheless managed to greet him warmly. Then, enlisting the aid of Nicholai's manservant, Honore, she hurried off to show St.

  James to a bedroom and arrange for his bath and fresh clothing.

  Natalya waited impatiently for her young cousin to retire to his own bedchamber. By the time she was finally alone with Nicholai, he was already peeling off his damp coat, now-limp cravat, and shirt. Marie-Helene had been dispatched to heat water for two baths, and she and another serving girl would be returning any moment with the first steaming pitchers.

  "Uncle Nicky," Natalya burst out, "I must speak to you about that... person!"

  "This isn't the most opportune time," he replied mildly, sitting down to pull off his top boots.

  "You don't understand, you must send him away immediately! He's a criminal, escaped from prison, or some such thing. There were men here, looking for him, and they said that he's an enemy of the emperor, and—"

  "My darling niece, don't you realize that St. James is an Englishman and France is at war with England?" Beauvisage laughed gently. "Of course he's the enemy, and regarded as a criminal, especially if he was able to harm France in any way. But, you know that I have always tried to remain neutral. My loyalties are really American, after all, and I've no right to judge Grey St. James." He watched two maids pour steaming water into the porcelain tub and waited until they had left the room to continue. "Talya, you don't give a damn for Napoleon. I should think that you'd be congratulating St. James if he's managed to be a thorn in that tyrant's side. And, apart from that, the Beauvisage family owes a debt to his father. I wouldn't dream of turning Grey out."

  "But he threatened me to keep me quiet while those men were here. I was afraid for my life! I cannot believe that you could take his side over mine."

  He came over to her and patted her cheek. "It's nothing to do with that, and I think you know it. Must I make a choice? I have come to trust my instincts about people. Let's allow St. James to bathe and have a hot meal, hear him out, and then decide, all right?"

  Furious, Natalya bit her lip and started toward the door.

  "Talya, this is between the two of you, isn't it? There's no reason for you to be angry with me," her uncle reminded her.

  "I cannot bear to be near that man. He is insufferable." She paused in the doorway and added, "You may give him my place at dinner, Uncle Nicky, because I won't be there." With that, she swept from the room and narrowly missed slamming her hem in the door
.

  * * *

  "I must say, you do look transformed, Mr. St. James," Lisette proclaimed. "Will you have more feuillete solognote?"'

  Grey glanced at his dwindling portion of puff pastry filled with pheasant and partridge. "Perhaps I should wait for a moment. It's been a long time since I have eaten so much delicious food."

  Sitting across from the Englishman, Natalya longed to mimic his polite tone or engage in some other shockingly rude behavior designed to drive him from the chateau. She had changed her mind about staying in her room during dinner when it occurred to her that St. James would be free to lie and connive as much as he pleased if she weren't present to monitor the conversation. Her first sight of him in the vaulted dining hall had made her glad she'd reconsidered.

  It was hard to believe that this could be the same man who had appeared so menacing and uncivilized just two hours earlier. Honore had done a splendid job as barber, and now Grey's clean, gleaming hair was cut into the current windswept style. His ragged beard had been shaved, uncovering a chiseled jaw and arresting mouth. In truth, although pale and in need of some added weight, Grey was magnificent to behold, from his keen eyes to the expert knot of his borrowed cravat. His strong good looks only intensified Natalya's antipathy.

  For his part, Grey was more than a little intrigued, and even amused, by Natalya Beauvisage. Holding her lush body in his arms earlier had reminded him painfully of appetites too long suppressed through no choice of his own. She was exquisitely lovely, self-assured, intelligent, and obviously well past the age when similarly blessed maidens took husbands. Was hers off in the war? Dead? Yet she was American... and still had the name Beauvisage. What the devil was she doing in France? Knowing that it would make her furious, Grey decided to inquire openly.

  "I hope you won't think me too bold, but I've been wondering, Miss Beauvisage... are you a spinster?"

  Her mouth dropped open and she gasped. "What... an extraordinary thing to say!"