Page 20 of The Count’s Charade

She could feel herself flushing, and her voice went gruff. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you know.”

His arm moved quickly, and before she could snatch it away, Henri had hold of her hand. With surprising strength in one so weak, he pulled her closer. Grace had no choice but to perch on the bed, acutely aware of his grip.

“Ma chère, it will not aid you to tell this officer of the parish that these are the men who wish to kill me. You know it. You have said it, Grâce. When he knows I am French, he must arrest me, no? It is duty. He does not know if I am a spy. You also, who have saved me, you do not know.”

Grace wanted to protest that she did know. Only an obstruction was sitting in her throat, and she had all to do to swallow it down, never mind speak. She scarce knew her fingers had tightened on his, nor that the struggle in her breast was visible.

Watching the colour fluctuating in her face, Henri saw there was none of the comforting sweetness in her features at this moment. It occurred to him he had mistaken her age. Without the smile, there was maturity. A creature lacking conventional beauty, and cursed by some mischance of fortune. Yet what a spirit lurked within.

The thought died as she spoke again, a husky note in her voice. “You must do as you think right, Henri. But so must I. You have said you owe me your life. Well, I have not saved you to see you lose it, and I will do whatever I have to do to preserve you. Do you understand?”

A surge of feeling swept through Henri’s breast. A spirit indomitable! He could not resist the temptation to test it.

“Even if you discover that I am a spy, enfin?”

To her own dismay at the recognition of it, Grace answered him out of a set determination. “Even then.”

The darkness hung heavy within the curtains about Grace’s bed. It was a hot night. Had it not been for the need to silence gossiping tongues, she would have left them undrawn. Only Mab, she knew, closely questioned Jemima daily. The maid would undoubtedly report on Grace’s actions and movements, now that it was no longer necessary for one of them to remain by Henri’s bedside through the night. Closed curtains around the bed signified modesty to Mab, who would faithfully discharge her duty by disclosing this fact to any who dared question what went on at night in the little house at Wonts.

Not that it prevented Mab’s complaints. What she would say did she know her erstwhile charge was prepared to harbour a spy against her own country, Grace dared not imagine. Not that she believed for a moment Henri was a spy. To have realised that it made no difference could not but fill her head with question.

Here was a man she had known but a few short days. Only it was far from an ordinary acquaintance. She had been thrust into an intimacy that had nothing to do either with inclination or choice. Nothing to do with friendship. Yet she felt as close to him as if she had known him for years. He could mean nothing to her, yet he meant too much. It was illogical, unreasonable and ridiculous.

Only because she had been instrumental in bringing him back from the brink of death? Because of those cursed papers that she did not understand, of which she dared not break open the seals? Impossible. Then why was it she felt inordinate relief when Mayberry did not come to the house today as expected? If he had conferred with Ffrith, he must have had a good account of the patient. Perhaps he was occupied with other matters. He was a conscientious parish officer, re-elected every year since Grace had come to live here, and he had his farm to run as well.

It appeared as if he had refrained from going to Sir James. Or had he? Grace would not be at all surprised if the latter descended upon her tomorrow, along with Mayberry. And she was no nearer finding an argument that would permit her to hold Henri here.

An unexpected thud from the room across the hall interrupted her thoughts. It was muffled, but Grace had no doubt of its origin. Too closely did it resemble that neglected sound that had signalled Henri’s arrival in her lean-to. He must have fallen!

She was out of bed on the thought, dragging back the curtains. It did not occur to her to waste time hunting for her boot. Nor did she trouble to stop to light a candle. There was enough light filtering in from the edges of the drapes at the window for her to see her way. Stumbling with the extreme limp that afflicted her barefooted, Grace made what haste she could, throwing herself across the landing and through the half-open door of Henri’s room.

The drapes were fully open, and in the grey light that spilled on to the floor beyond the foot of the bed, Grace saw him struggling to rise and cursing.

“Henri, what in the world are you doing?”

She was at his side in a moment, leaning to lend her shoulder as she slipped one arm about his bare back.

“Diable, but I am weak like a baby!”

“And had no business getting out of bed,” Grace scolded. “I should not have left you unwatched. Have you hurt your shoulder? Come, let me help you.”

But without her boot, Grace had no purchase, and Henri slipped from her grasp. She tried pulling on his good arm, but he proved too heavy for her.

“Leave me,” he panted. “I will rest a moment, and then try myself.”

A voice from the doorway interrupted them. “’Sakes alive, Miss Grace, what’s to do?”

“Jemima!” cried Grace, relieved. “Come and help us. Our patient has had the misfortune to fall.”

Reinforced by Jemima’s strong arm, the two women managed to heave the Frenchman on to his feet and guide him back to the bed, where he was glad enough to sink down. It was the maid who called Grace’s attention to his apparel.

“Bless me, sir, what was you thinking of? Half dressed he is, Miss Grace, and in the middle of the night!”

Grace stared in a bewildered way at the lower half of Henri’s body. He was naked to the waist, but had managed to drag on his breeches. The fall was fastened only on one side, his drawers showing beneath. He must have fallen when he was attempting to do up the last buttons. Her gaze rose to his face and found him frowning and conscious. Realisation dawned and a wave of distress overspread her bosom, threatening to overwhelm her.

But Jemima was standing there in her dressing gown, blinking under her nightcap. Instinct came to Grace’s rescue, and she managed to control her tone.