She winced slightly as he wrapped a dressing around her arm.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and she knew he wasn’t only asking about her injury.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
His eyes glowed with concern, and he leaned in, capturing her lips in the softest of kisses. He seemed to realize that with only the slightest provocation, she would shatter into a million pieces.
Feather-light, his lips skimmed across hers then to her cheek where he captured a tear that trailed down.
“Your Majesty, I bring news,” Lucien Montforte announced from the doorway.
He bowed when she looked up. She motioned him over, and Merrick moved to sit beside her on the settee.
“Jacques Montagne was found dead in his cell.”
Isabella blinked in surprise remembering Jacques’ earlier prediction that he wouldn’t live. “How?” she demanded.
“Suicide. He hanged himself.”
She shook her head. Either he hadn’t been able to live with his guilt or he realized Stephane had not been successful in his bid for the throne.
“That’s not all, Your Majesty. We found a letter of confession in his cell. He requested ink and paper not an hour before he was found dead.”
“What does it say?” Merrick spoke up.
“The plan to free Bonaparte is real. There are detailed plans and dates listed in the letter,” the captain replied.
“I need that letter,” Merrick said grimly.
The captain held out the paper, and Merrick rose, retrieving it from the captain’s outstretched hand.
Isabella watched the transformation from her gentle protector to a man with the defense of his country uppermost on his mind. He spoke in low tones to the captain as they studied the letter. She should be listening, planning with them. As queen, the protection of her own nation should be at the forefront of her thoughts.
Instead, her entire being was focused on Father Ling’s words.He is who he is.You are who you are.You would not be happy with half a man.
She closed her eyes, her heart screaming a litany of nos. Father Ling was right. What she hadn’t understood then was crystal clear to her now.
She opened her eyes and balled her fingers into fists. Nothing in her life, not the deaths of her parents, not Stephane’s betrayal, had prepared her for what she must now do. “You must return to England,” she said softly, careful to keep the tremble from her voice.
Merrick turned to her, his eyes heavy with regret. “Yes. Bonaparte’s planned escape could spell disaster for England. For France, if it is not prevented. I must carry what I know to the regent. To Castlereigh.”
She nodded, too afraid to betray herself by speaking.
“But I shall return, Isabella.”
He stared at her, determination rigidly set into his features. She knew he spoke the truth. He would not lie to her, betray her. Which made it all the more difficult for her to lie tohim.
She could not allow him to give up what made him who he was. Even for her. Everything she most admired about him would be forfeit. How long would they exist before he regretted his decision to leave England? To give up his life’s pursuit?
Half a man. No, she couldn’t accept anything less than his entire being. And half of him would always belong to England.
“No,” she said.
Simon stared at her, sure he hadn’t heard correctly, but the painful thudding in his chest told him he had.
“You don’t want me to return.”
He said it, not as a question, but as a statement.
