Balancing the tray on her hip, she quietly lifted the latch on the first door and eased it open. Empty and clearly disused. The next was the same, and the third had furnishings under Holland covers. No sign that prisonershad been kept here.
She was reaching for the fourth door when a deep voice with a harsh German accent snapped, “What are you doing?”
She ducked her head, her heart racing. “Forgive me, sir. Which is the room with the children?” She held out the tray in evidence of her errand and raised her eyes pleadingly.
To a tall man with an icy expression, in a dark blue military uniform, not a French one, with gaunt cheeks and a mustache.
And Darcy’s deep, dark eyes.
The tray slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers and smashed to the floor.
Little Alexandrine was reading aloud haltingly when Darcy heard doors opening and closing over her piping voice. He tensed. No one came to this floor except on errands to the schoolroom and nursery.
His heart began to pound. Someone was searching the house. How had they tracked him here? He had not used even the smallest bit of Talent in the months since he was shot, but somehow they had found him.
There was no escape, not with only one working arm. He would have to brazen it out. He stood, reminding himself to use the Prussian accent Mme. Hartung had so painstakingly taught him, and stalked out into the corridor.
A woman, a poor one by her dress and heavy with child, was sticking her head in one of the unused rooms. Looking for something to steal? It was a relief. He should be annoyed, but for him, a mere thief rather than Napoleon’s soldiers was the best news in the world. But with his fear suddenly gone, anger entered into its place, so he barked, “What are you doing here?”
She froze, the picture of guilt. Then she held out her tray of food. “Forgive me, which is the room with the children?”
Her voice resonated in him. It must be her accent, one from the south of France like Elizabeth’s, and she was much of Elizabeth’s height. Devil take it, why did he see Elizabeth in every woman? It only made him ache for her more.
Then she raised her eyes to his. Fine, dark eyes, so utterly familiar, but dulled by fatigue instead of sparkling with laughter.
And suddenly, filled with shocked recognition. The tray of food crashed to the floor.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
He wanted to believe it, wanted it more than anything in the world, but it was insanity. His mind had finally gone, from all his hopeless dread and loneliness. The impossible effort of pretending to be a Prussian nobleman, of not speaking a word of his native language in months. But every instinct shouted out to him that this was Elizabeth.
Her voice cracked as she said in English, “William? Dear God, is that you?”
His body realized the truth before his mind, striding forward to grasp her with his good arm and hold her to him, as if he could pull her essence into himself. Elizabeth was here!
It was so very, very right – and even more wrong. The coarseness of her dress, the smell of mud and harsh soap instead of lavender, but underneath that the ineffably feminine scent of Elizabeth. Above all, the strange shape of her, the bulge that was down between them.
His child.
It was beyond belief; it was heaven on earth.
His lips sought hers out, desperate for even more intimacy, and then he knew it was no mistake. He knew the taste of Elizabeth’s kiss, how their mouths fitted together, how her body shifted in his embrace. It truly was her.
The sharp pain in his shoulder brought him back to reality. That they were in Napoleon’s France, that Elizabeth was in danger, and he was making it worse by exposing her.
He stiffened, ending the kiss abruptly. But he could not bring himself to let her go, not so soon. “What are you doing here?” The English words felt strange in his mouth.
“Looking for you, of course.” She laughed softly, tears spilling from her eyes. Her fingers brushed his upper lip. “A mustache, my love? It tickles.”
That hit him with a true jolt. He had to protect them both. He forced his hand back to his side. “All Prussian officers wear them,” he said in his Germanic accented French. Then, in a low voice, he added, “There is a spy in the house. A maid who reports to the government.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “The lazy girl, the cook calls her.” But she must have realized the danger, for she stepped back.
Just in time, as footsteps pounded up the stairs. The maid burst into sight. “What happened? I heard a crash.”
He had to protect Elizabeth, no matter what. In his most haughty manner, he said, “Nothing of import. This clumsy woman dropped the tray.” From the corner of his eye he saw Elizabeth kneeling down to pick up the spilled food, her head lowered.
“Stupid girl!” cried the maid, kicking at a roll that had bounced across the floor. “Clean that up immediately.”
