“Tranquillez-vous,” she pleaded. “Calmez-vous.”
Be still? Be calm? God above, he could not be calm. Not with her voice flowing over him like raw honey, her orange-blossom scent everywhere. His heart raced beneath the borrowed shirt he’d been given. Some few feet lower, his c**k stirred under the woolen blanket.
Well. Good to know the thing hadn’t frozen off.
God’s truth, man. You are an undeserving beast.
Let her go.
At last, his fingers went slack in her hair.
In a heartbeat, she’d jumped back. Then the two redcoats jumped on him. They dealt him a few blows—nothing he didn’t deserve. When they wrestled him to the floor, he made only feeble resistance. If he fought them, he would have to leave them dead, and he didn’t want to do that.
The big one held him down, pressing a knee into his kidneys and wrenching his arms behind his back. The young one lashed his wrists together with cord. Then, after a bit of conferring, they picked him up and slammed him into a heavy, straight-backed chair. They wound a rope around his chest four times, binding him to it.
He remained that way for several moments, struggling to master his breathing. Each time he gulped for air, the ropes took a sharper bite of his flesh.
He was aware of conversation on the other side of the room. They were debating what to do with him.
Eventually, his angel returned.
“They’d like to beat you,” she said in French, dropping into a chair some few feet distant. “But I’ve convinced them to let me try conversation first.”
He stared at her, carefully keeping his expression blank. Revealing no hint of comprehension.
“It’s safe,” she continued, anticipating his concerns. “It’s safe to speak this way. You can trust me. I won’t tell a soul. My Breton is poor, but my French is quite good.”
Her French was impeccable. He could have closed his eyes and imagined her to be a native speaker. But damned if he’d close his eyes when she was so near. At last, he could openly gaze upon every feature of her sweet, lovely face. Whimsical rose-petal lips and china-blue eyes, balanced by a sensible nose and intelligent brow.
She slid a glance toward their guards. “They won’t understand us,” she said. “They don’t have any French.”
Still he hesitated. Perhaps the guards didn’t speak French, but they might recognize the language when they heard it spoken. And if they knew he spoke French, they would inform Rycliff. He would be subjected to interrogation. He did not fear interrogation itself, but he could not afford further delays.
She met his gaze. “I know you can understand me. I see it in your eyes. I would like to understand you too.”
God. She spoke to the fondest wish of his heart.
“Et bien,” he said softly. “We will understand each other.”
She pulled her chair a bit closer, partially blocking the militiamen’s view of their conversation. Nevertheless, the guards remained too near. He would need to play this carefully. So long as they were being watched, he couldn’t say anything—in any language—that might be overheard, remembered and deciphered later.
She asked in French, “Why don’t you tell me who you really are?”
“My name is Corentin Morvan,” he answered. “I am a humble Breton farmhand.”
One eyebrow arched. She didn’t believe him.
“How did you come here?” she asked.
“I walked across the fields.”
“From the cove?”
He nodded.
“And how did you come to be in the cove?”
“By way of a boat.”
Her breath released in a little sigh of frustration. “You are teasing me.”
“I can’t help it. It is a great pleasure to tease a pretty girl.”
A blush warmed her cheeks. The sudden desire to touch her was nigh on unbearable. It made his skin tight and his fingers restless. He chafed against his bindings.
Her voice became stern. “If you don’t answer me honestly, I’ll alert Lord Rycliff to the fact that you speak French. Then he could pummel the answers from you.”
He shook his head. “No amount of pummeling could accomplish that. But for another sip of that wine and your slightest touch, mon ange? I fear I would betray my own mother.”
She offered him the cup of wine, raising it to his lips. He curled his neck to drink from it, holding her gaze as he sipped.
As she lowered the cup, the smallest trickle of wine escaped. She reached out instinctively, dabbing the errant droplet with her thumb. Her touch grazed the corner of his mouth.
A cascade of pure bliss shimmered through him. Like stars swirling in the black of night. Windmilling through the dark places of his body, his heart, his soul.
“You are too kind, mademoiselle.” He tilted his head and regarded her from a new angle. “It is ‘mademoiselle’? Not ‘madame’.”
Her lips quirked. “I am not married, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Betrothed?”
Again, she shook her head.