“Circumstances are different,” she said, trying not to melt back into him. “Don’t worry, you’ll recover soon from any mild possessiveness and return to casual affairs where it doesn’t matter who else the lady may be keeping company with.”

His arms tightened around her waist. “A casual affair is not what I want, Cassie.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to be special to you, Cassandra,” he said starkly. “At the beginning I didn’t care if you lay with me from pity or duty, but now I do care. I … I want to be more than just another assignment.”

She swallowed hard. “You are, Grey. Despite what you might think, I’ve never lain with men casually. Certainly not with men I’m escorting to safety.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He kissed the top of her ear. “But … the first time we came together, you said you’d lain with men for worse reasons than comfort and friendship. I wasn’t sure what that meant.”

He didn’t say the words as a question, but she knew it was one. “I’ve told no one my past,” she said in a low voice. “Not the whole sordid story.”

“Perhaps if you do tell someone, the burden will lessen.” His warmth was taking the chill off the evening. “Cassie, you know everything of importance about me, and I know so little about you.” He stroked his hand down her right arm. “Only that you are kind, sensual, dangerous, and fearsomely competent.”

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?”

She 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.