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hours every day.”
    There was more relief, but he remained wary.
    “You are staring,” she said hoarsely.
    He glanced at her hands, which she clasped tightly against her white muslin skirts. There was no wedding band, no diamond ring—there were no rings at all. “You have saved my life, mademoiselle, so I am curious about you.”
    Her elegant hands lifted. She crossed them over her chest, defensively—or nervously. “You were in need. How could I not help?” Then, “You have not told me your name.”
    The lie came as naturally as breathing. “Charles Maurice. I am forever in your debt.”
    She finally smiled at him.
    “You do not owe me,” she said firmly. She hesitated. “You must be hungry. I will be right back.”
    The moment he heard her footsteps fading in the hall, he sat up and tossed the covers aside, about to stand. Pain shot through his back and chest. He froze, moaning.
    And the room spun.
    Damn it!
    He refused to lie back down. It took him an endless moment to fight the pain, to will away the dizziness. He was in far worse condition than he had assumed. Then, slowly and carefully, he stood up.
    He leaned against the wall, exhausted. It took a moment for the room to stop turning. But the minute the room was still, he staggered to the armoire. To his dismay, it was empty. Where were his clothes?
    He cursed again. Then he moved to the window, his balance precarious enough that he knocked the chair over. There, he gripped the sill and stared past the barren cliffs at the ocean beyond them.
    He had no doubt it was the Atlantic Ocean he gazed upon. He knew the steel-gray color of those often stormy waters. And then he stared at the pale rock cliffs, the desolate, flat landscape. In the distance, he saw the silhouette of a lone tower. He was not in Brest, he thought. The landscape looked very much like that of Cornwall.
    Cornwall was renowned for its Jacobin sympathies. He turned, leaning against the sill for balance. The small table was before him, with her writing tablet, the inkwell, and the parchment page. He took two steps to the table, grunted hard and seized its edge to keep from falling down.
    Dominic cursed again. He wasn’t going to be able to run from anyone if he had to, not in the next few days. He wouldn’t be able to even seduce her, for that matter.
    His gaze found the parchment. She had been writing the letter in French.
    Dread arose. He seized it and read the first line.
    My dear friends, I am writing to celebrate with you the recent victories in the National Assembly, and especially the triumph of establishing a new Constitution, giving every man the right to vote.
    She was a damned Jacobin.
    She was the enemy.
    And now, the words seemed to gray on the pale page. Somehow, he managed to read the next lines.
    Our Society is hoping that more victories over the Opposition will come. We want to ask you how we can further aid our cause of equality and liberty in France, and throughout the Continent.
    The words were now blurring rapidly, and becoming darker, and he could not make them out. He stared blindly at the vellum. She was a Jacobin.
    Was she playing cat and mouse with him? he wondered. In France, everyone spied on their neighbors, looking for rebels and traitors. Was it now the same in Britain? As a Jacobin, was she hunting men like him? Hoping to identify British agents, and then intending to betray them?
    Or did she think him a Frenchman? Now, he must make certain she never knew he was an Englishman. And how much did she know? Did she know he had just come from France? He needed information, damn it!
    He was sweating and out of breath. Agitation was more than he could manage, in his state. Too late, he realized that the floor was undulating beneath him. He dropped the page, cursing.
    Dark shadows were closing in on him.
    It was hard to breathe. The room was spinning slowly, with all of its furnishings.
    He must not faint now.
    Dom finally sank to the floor. As he lay there, struggling