She almost laughed at his list, but her smile faded. She’d locked the past away for so long that it was hard to imagine speaking. Yet he was right. He knew little about her while she’d seen vulnerabilities of his that no one else ever would.
She’d spoken truly when she told Rob that he and she were both too self-sufficient, too unwilling to need or be needed. Her relationship with Grey was different, and much of the reason for that was because he’d been willing to let her see his pain and fears and weaknesses. She owed him the same.
“Very well,” she said wearily as she moved out of his embrace. “But this will take time. If you open the door on the left side of the wardrobe, you should find various drinks to soothe the savage agent.”
Grey whistled when he opened the door and saw shelves of bottles and glasses. “Kirkland knows how to make guests feel welcome. What would you like?”
If she drank brandy, she’d pass out before she got through her story. “Port.”
“Then port you shall have.” As he pulled out the bottle, she folded into a chair and wondered bleakly if she was capable of unveiling the shadows of her past.
But if she could tell anyone, it was Grey. He’d also lived seasons in hell.
Chapter 28
When Grey handed Cassie the glass of wine, she asked, “Where should I start?”
“At the beginning, of course.” He knelt to start the fire laid on the hearth, then settled in the chair opposite her, close enough to touch. The firelight burnished his bright hair and sculpted the strong planes of his grave, patient face.
Cassie stared down into her wine, turning the glass around and around. “My father was English, my mother French. We made long visits to France to stay with her family. My nurse was a Frenchwoman because my mother wanted her children to speak French as well as we spoke English.”
When the silence became too long, he asked, “Children?”
“An older brother and sister. I was the pampered youngest.” She closed her eyes, remembering her father’s warm hug, her mother’s firm but gentle discipline. Her teasing big brother, her beautiful older sister, who had been excitedly planning for her debut.
“We were visiting France when the Reign of Terror began. The adults were concerned and the French relatives were debating whether they should leave the country. But most of the turmoil was in Paris and the Montclair estate was outside Reims, a safe distance away. There was time to decide the best course.”
“But you knew better, young prophetess,” he said when she fell silent again.
“I felt a terrible sense of approaching doom.” Cassie sipped numbly at her port, needing the sweetness and the fire. “I played with local children and overheard their parents’ talk. In the village, I saw radical speakers from Paris who ranted against the rich. I heard my mother’s family accused of vague ‘crimes against liberty.’ I tried to explain all of this to my parents, but because I was only ten, they wouldn’t listen. They wouldn’t listen!” Even after so many years, fury and anguish pierced her heart.
“It’s a tragedy that they didn’t listen to you,” Grey said quietly. “But not a tragedy of your making.”
Perhaps not, but she’d never stopped wondering if she’d spoken differently, given her warnings better, she would have been heard. “My father laughed and said soothing words and told me that in a month we’d be home again. By then, it was too late. The Terror had already reached out to destroy us.”
Once more he coaxed her when she fell silent, asking, “How?”
“I didn’t learn this till later, but a band of Parisian sans-culottes was traveling through the village on their way to join the army. They had a barrel of cheap spirits and shared their drink freely. The result was a great drunken riot with the sans-culottes whipping everyone into a frenzy. When their rage became murderous, they marched out to my mother’s family home.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “And … and they surrounded the house and set it afire.”
He caught his breath. “Were you inside?”
Cassie shook her head. “Josette Maupin, a young nursery maid from the Montclair house, often took me to visit her niece, who was my age and a great friend of mine. While I played with my friend, Josette would flirt with her young man. This wasn’t in the village, but a farm in the opposite direction.”
She drank more wine, her gaze on the past. “We went to the farm that day and stayed longer than usual. Coming back, we didn’t know there was trouble until we saw smoke rising. We both began to run. When we reached the edge of the lawn, we saw the house ablaze and surrounded by howling men who shouted insults at the filthy aristos. Anyone who tried to escape the house was shot.”
She swallowed hard, barely able to keep speaking. “My uncle tried to break out. He was carrying a child, my youngest cousin, I think. They were both killed. An old Montclair aunt jumped from an upper window to escape the flames. Even if she survived the fall, she couldn’t have survived the beating after.”
His face reflected her horror. “All of your family was inside?”
“Oui,” she whispered, slipping into French like the child she’d been. “I started to run screaming toward the house, but Josette stopped me. She had friends in the house and was crying as hard as I was. We stayed there in the ornamental shrubbery clutching each other as the house burned. She said we should leave, but neither of us could move. We stayed and watched as the house burned and burned and burned. It lit up the night sky for hours.”
“A funeral pyre,” Grey said softly. “With luck, many of the people inside died quickly of the smoke rather than the flames.”
She hoped so. Dear God, she hoped so. “Finally the burning house collapsed into embers and we crept away. Josette took me to her family, promising that I’d be safe. My expensive garments were burned and I was given a plain gown that belonged to one of her nieces. Her family was … so kind.”
That was Cassie’s first experience of disguise, for not only was she given a peasant girl’s gown, but Josette had used a color rinse to dull her distinctive hair.
“Josette married her sweetheart and moved to his family’s farm, which was still farther away. I went with her under the name Caroline Maupin and was described as an orphaned cousin. Catherine St. Ives was dead.”
“How long did you live as Caroline?”
“Almost six years. I never forgot that I was English and I planned to go back to England when the fighting finally ended, but most of the time I was just a girl busy with day-to-day life on a farm very like that of the Boyers. They treated me as a member of the family, for there was always work for a pair of strong hands.” She finished her port and set the glass aside so she could rub her cold hands together.
Quietly Grey leaned forward and took her hands in his warm clasp. “What happened then?”
She drew a ragged breath. “There were people in the area who knew I was Catherine St. Ives, but they didn’t report me because I was only a child. That protection disappeared when I grew up. I don’t know what happened. Perhaps there was a promised reward for information about enemies of France. Perhaps I slighted a potential suitor.
“For whatever reason, I was reported to the local gendarmerie as an English spy.” She gave a burst of near hysterical laughter. “I was fifteen! I lived on a farm and milked cows and made cheese. What did I know of spying?”
“Facts don’t matter where there is fear and hatred,” he said, his hands tightening over hers. “You were arrested?”
“In the village square on market day. I was selling cheese and eggs.” She drew a shuddering breath, barely able to speak, then spat out the words in a torrent. “I was taken to Reims, judged and condemned, raped by two guards, and thrown in a cell to rot.”
“Dear God in heaven.” Swearing in two languages, Grey scooped her from her chair and cradled her shaking body on his lap, his body the only warmth in a world of cold, bleak memory. “How did you escape?”
Sh
e buried her face against his shoulder, struggling not to dissolve into tears. If she started to cry, she feared she’d never stop.
“After a year or so, a new guard arrived who rather fancied me. He’d talk through the grill in the door. When he was sober, he’d promise me special treatment if I was kind to him. When he was drunk, which was more common, he threatened to take what I wouldn’t give him.” His foul breath had seemed to fill the whole cell as he described all the things he wanted to do to her.
“I’d reply that I’d be sweet as marzipan if he’d let me out of the cell. He laughed at that. I knew his patience was running out, so one day I accepted his offer. He waited until it was after midnight, then came into my cell. I let him have his way with me.” She gagged at the memory before finishing in a raw whisper, “When he was done and sweaty and half asleep, I killed him with his own knife and escaped.”
Saturated by unbearable memories, she dissolved into wrenching, uncontrollable sobs. She was barely aware when Grey lifted her from his lap and transferred her to the bed. Lying alongside her, he wrapped his warm body around her cold, shaking limbs, her back tucked against his front as he murmured soothing words into her ear.
She cried until there were no more tears left and she felt as dry as dust. But as she finally fell into the sleep of utter exhaustion, she realized that in Grey’s arms she felt safe for the first time since her father died.
Grey held Cassie close as the last light faded from the sky and the fire burned down into embers. His muscles were stiff from not moving, but he didn’t want to disturb her. Didn’t ever want to let her go.
He’d taken her strength for granted, drawing on it as if she had limitless reserves. He never once thought of how that strength had to be hard won. He was a selfish fool.
Finally, she stirred in his arms. “How are you?” he asked softly.
“Water?” she asked for in an almost inaudible whisper.
He rose and fumbled his way across the room. After lighting a lamp, he filled a glass with water from the pitcher and carried it to the bed, then raised her to a sitting position so she could drink. When she’d emptied the glass, she lay back on the pillows again, dark shadows under her bleak eyes.
Since the room was cold, he rebuilt the fire. Then he found a folded blanket in the wardrobe and spread it over her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stroked her back. She looked like a crumpled child, not a supremely capable woman. “I’m sorry I pressed you to talk about your past.”
“I’m not sorry,” she said unexpectedly. “Speaking of what happened released some of the pain. Put more distance between then and now.”
“Then I’m glad you told me.” Though her memories would give him nightmares. “Sometimes I’m ashamed of my sex. You’ve been treated abominably by men.”
“Yes, but I’ve also been treated very well by other men. Kirkland has been a combination of friend and brother, almost a father sometimes. There have been others.” She sighed. “Women can also behave very badly.”
“I’m amazed you will allow any man to touch you.” His hand came to rest on the curve of her hip. “Grateful, but amazed.”
“I had a craving for touch just as you did.” She laid her hand on his. “It took a long time, but I found that with a man I trusted, I could tolerate the intimacy because I needed the warmth. With time and kindness, I came to enjoy the intimacy as well.”
He looked at her tired eyes, realizing that there were mysteries in her past that he’d never know. That he had no need, or right, to know. Softly he said, “You are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known.”
“Merely good at surviving.” Her lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile. “I was once told that I didn’t have a shred of feminine delicacy.”
Grey was surprised into a laugh. “I hope you took it as a compliment. How did you find Kirkland?”
“I wanted to return to England, and since there was no legal way to cross the channel, I looked for a cooperative smuggler,” she explained. “It took time. I worked at different jobs along the coast, usually as a barmaid, until eventually I found Marie.
“When we came to trust each other, I told her I wanted to go to England and learn to become a spy against Napoleon. After she discussed me with her brother, Pierre delivered me to the Nashes in England on his next crossing. They sent me on to Kirkland, and three days later I was in London telling him he needed me as an agent.”
“And he was wise enough to take you on.” Grey studied her weary face. He’d thought her plain when he first saw her, but he had long since stopped judging her appearance. She was simply Cassie, unique and unforgettable. A woman who made him feel both desire and tenderness. “Are you hungry?”
She frowned. “I do believe I am.”
He rose from the bed. “I’ll find my way down to the kitchen and steal some food.”
“No need to steal. There will be soup on the hob and cold meats and cheeses and bread in the pantry. If Mrs. Powell is there, she’ll flirt with you.”
“I should hope so.” He ventured a smile. “I shouldn’t like to think I’ve lost my touch. I’ll bring up a tray, we’ll eat, we’ll sleep properly, by which I mean not fully dressed, and tomorrow we’ll decide how to amuse ourselves in London.”
“I shall like that.” She caught his hand, her gaze intense. “But before we sleep, I want you to help me forget, if only for a little while.”
He never received a greater honor in his life. He suspected he never would. “It shall be as you wish, my lady vixen. Tonight we give each other the gift of forgetting.” He kissed her hand before reluctantly releasing it. “And tomorrow, we will each be another day further from our demons.”
Chapter 29
Cassie woke with a smile the next morning, Grey’s golden head on her breast, and his arm around her waist. He’d done his generous, passionate best to separate her from her tormented memories, and he’d succeeded. She felt lighter and freer than she had since her childhood. The past couldn’t be altered, but now it felt more like … the past.
Their night hadn’t involved large amounts of sleep, but Cassie and Grey were both in a good mood for carefree roaming across London. The sun had even come out for them, which Cassie privately thought a good omen.
They set off early to nearby Covent Garden market. There they drank steaming hot tea and ate sweet buns from a stall while they watched carts of fresh foods rattle by to feed the city. The bustle was cheerful, the scents of vegetables and early flowers a pleasant contrast to the usual city smells. Spring was arriving, and the market grew steadily busier and brighter.
When they’d seen enough of the market, they boarded the plain carriage Kirkland had provided. The driver drove them west through the city by a twisting route that took the coach past many of London’s great landmarks, from churches and palaces to the quiet squares of wealthy residential Mayfair.
As he gazed at buildings lining the Strand, Grey said, “I’ve ridden or walked down here countless times, yet it seems new and wonderful all over again. The Strand reminds me that I’ve come home. I’ve always loved London.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Cassie said with a smile. “I know a pleasant waterside tavern down in Chelsea. I thought we might dismiss the carriage and eat very English food at the tavern, then hire a boat to take us downriver again.”
“I like that idea.” He looked thoughtful. “I think I’ll ask the driver to take us past Costain House to see if the knocker’s up and my family is in town.”
“If they’re in residence, will you want to climb the steps and rap on the door?” she asked. “Return of the prodigal?”
His face shuttered. “Not yet.”
The knocker at Costain House wasn’t up, which spared Grey any second thoughts, but Cassie thought it was progress that he was interested in his parents’ whereabouts. After traveling through Mayfair, they headed down to Chelsea, where they consumed good Brit
ish ale and hot meat pies with flaky crusts.
As Grey finished his third pie, he said, “If I had any doubts, this beef and onion pie would prove I’m home.” He brushed crumbs from his lap. “I’m looking forward to seeing the city from the water.”
“If you like, tomorrow we can go east to the Tower of London and the great shipping docks.” Cassie got to her feet, feeling full and satisfied. “What do you think of that skiff down there? The one painted yellow.”
“The boatman looks sober, and I like the cheerful color,” Grey replied. “Let’s see what outrageous amount he’ll try to charge us.”
The amount quoted was indeed outrageous, but it didn’t take long to bargain down to a rate that satisfied everyone. As the boat skimmed along the river, Grey said, “Much more comfortable than the last boat ride we took.”
“So true.” Cassie shuddered at the memory of their fraught journey across the channel. “Look, here comes a chicken boat!”
They sailed by a dinghy filled with cages of screeching, indignant chickens. A small red feather blew into Cassie’s hair. Grey removed it and tucked it in his pocket, saying playfully, “A token of my lady! I shall cherish this chicken feather forever.”
The comment dimmed Cassie’s mood a little as she wondered if he actually would keep the silly feather. Probably not. She didn’t think she’d leave many traces in his life. No matter. They were enjoying a lovely day now.
After the boatman set them off, they walked the rest of the way back to Exeter Street. As Cassie pulled out her key, Grey said, “I’m tired and looking forward to dinner and a quiet evening.”
She guessed that being around so many people had caused the fatigue. “You did well,” she said as she inserted the key in the lock. “You didn’t run screaming once.”