“Most of the time I wasn’t a field officer,” he replied. “Because I know several languages and could draw maps, I became an exploring officer, doing reconnaissance behind enemy lines. For that kind of work, I wore my uniform for the most part so if I was captured, which I was a time or two, I’d be treated as a prisoner of war rather than a spy.”
Noting his caveat, she asked, “Did you also act as a spy on occasion, wearing civilian clothing and risking a spy’s death?”
He nodded. “When that seemed necessary, yes. Once in Portugal I was captured with several Englishmen. We were all condemned as spies and sentenced to be shot at dawn. One of the other men was your friend Hawkins. Working together, we all managed to escape.”
“And I’m glad of it! If not for Hawkins, I’d still be a slave, or dead.” She shrugged. “More likely the latter. My owner, Gürkan, was growing tired of me. When that happened with one of his slaves, it never ended well.”
He winced at her calm words. He had also learned that detachment was essential for survival. “Often I worked alone, and you’re probably right—that’s a strong reason why I yearn for companionship now. Traditionally, husbands and wives see a great deal of each other. I find the idea appealing.”
“That’s only true if they get along well,” she pointed out. “I fear giving up my freedom. What if we don’t like each other well enough to be companions?”
“That could happen,” he admitted. “But I’m willing to chance it. Are you?”
Her brow furrowed. “I risk more if this marriage of... of friendship fails.”
She was right. He asked, “What would it take to make you more comfortable with the idea of a marriage of friendship?”
She considered. “As we discussed earlier, we need to know each other better. We need to talk and spend time together.”
“Those are very reasonable suggestions.” He smiled and offered his arm. “And we can begin by sharing a meal. Our luncheon should be ready by now.”
Her eyes lit up as she took his arm. “Lead on, sir! Is your wine cellar as French as your food?”
“I’ll be surprised if it isn’t.” As they headed downstairs, he felt cautiously hopeful that he and Suzanne might have a future together.
* * *
There was little conversation over the meal. Suzanne was grateful that Simon didn’t distract her while she was enjoying the best meal she’d had in years. The beef bourguignon was marvelously flavorful and so tender that the chunks of meat almost dissolved in her mouth. There hadn’t been time to make fresh bread, so a baguette had been split and spread with butter and garlic and finely chopped chives, then grilled till it was crisp and fragrant.
It was simple peasant food—and sublime. She emptied her bowl twice and considered asking for a third serving, but regretfully concluded that she didn’t have room to eat any more.
Simon smiled as he leaned forward to top off her glass with a red Burgundy wine perfectly suited to the food. “I like to see someone enjoy a good meal.”
“It’s the best food I’ve had in many years. Meals in the harem were lavish and sometimes very fine, but they were not French.” She chuckled. “It would almost be worth marrying you for Madame Mercier’s cooking.”
“She is definitely an asset to the house. I believe a lemon tart and coffee will appear eventually. Will that be enough to tip the balance?” he asked with mock hopefulness.
“No, but I shall enjoy them.” She turned her glass, admiring the deep crimson of the wine as light reflected through it. “In our discussions, we must be honest with each other, no matter how appalling the truth is. Will you swear to that?”
His gaze was steady. “I have spent too many years keeping secrets. I pledge always to be honest with you unless the truth belongs to someone else.”
“That is fair.” She studied his face. “What did you think when we first met all those years ago? Surely you didn’t fall in love with me at first sight.”
“No, I knew you were not for me, and even at that age, I saw no reason to pine for the impossible,” he replied. “But I thought you were enchanting and was honored to become your friend. I vaguely hoped that someday, when I was ready to marry, I’d find a girl like you.” After a silence, he added in a quiet voice, “When I heard you were dead, I lit candles for you.”
She was touched by his words. “Strange how the world works,” she mused. “Here we are discussing the possibility of marriage, though I’m only a faded echo of the enchanting girl I was then. Look hard before you commit to a future with me, milord.”
“You no longer have the dewy perfection of fifteen,” he agreed. “But you are so much more interesting now.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Her mouth curved. It hardly seemed fair that men tended to improve with age. Simon had been an attractive young fellow, and he’d matured into a strong, handsome man who would draw glances from any normal female. She was no longer normal, but she did find him pleasing to face across a dining room table.
He asked, “What did you think of me when we met? Not ‘enchanting,’ I’m sure!”
“No, but charming. Intelligent, a good companion.” She tried to recall that first meeting. “I thought that Jean-Louis must have been like you when he was your age. Though in that, I was wrong.”
“In what way? I didn’t know him well.”
She hesitated, wondering how to describe her late husband without saying more than she felt like discussing. “I think you are more interested in your surroundings and the people around you than Jean-Louis was. He was very much a French aristocrat while you have become a man of the world.”
