Swept Away (43 page)

The berth was narrow, built like a shelf sunk into the wall. The desk was closer, larger, and, with an impatient sweep of his arm, he cleared the surface of paper and writing implements, heedless of the ink that sprayed across the floor. He eased her down, gleaming and soft in her nudity, and his mouth broke roughly away, abandoning her for as long as it took him to fall on his knees before her. His hands skimmed up her thighs parting them while his lips, his tongue pushed hungrily into the soft, dark vee.

The shock jolted her like the touch of a spark to powder and the explosion was instantaneous. Each spearing thrust of his tongue caused her body to arch up against him, to tighten with spasms that quaked through to the tips of her toes. And each time she quivered and strained against him, he worked her harder, brought her higher, until she was nearly blinded by the brilliance of her frenzy.

When she was still breathless and orgasmic, he straightened and tore away his own clothes. He lifted her legs and draped them over his shoulders then thrust himself so deep inside she had to reach out and grip the edges of the desk to keep from flying clean out of her skin. The pleasure was fierce, almost excruciating in it’s intensity and he gauged the force of each stroke on the strength of her cries. He watched her face, watched the wildness come and go through a series of clutching implosions, all the while whispering words of encouragement, some in French, some in Spanish, some in a guttural language she had never heard before but was as rhythmic and primitive as the passion raging through her.

When his entire body was rock hard and glistening with sweat, he surrendered with a hoarse, ragged groan. He knew he could not have held back much longer. It was like thrusting into velvet, into silk, and he felt his body stretch and burst, stretch and burst, filling her with the heated rush of his ecstasy. Their cries, their mouths came together and they continued to rock with the waning waves of pleasure. They rocked and strained and arched to chase after every last drop of his strength and when the fury passed and the heat melted away, she collapsed beneath him, her body going limp in his arms, unable to do much more than let him ease her gently back onto the desktop.

“Sweet gracious God,” she gasped. “Sweet gracious God.”

Emory’s body was still rife with tremors, the blood was still reckless in his veins as he lifted his head from the curve of her shoulder. He was about to respond with something equally witty and profound, but a soft click from the shadows behind them made him turn and glance over his shoulder. His lips drew back in a snarl and he was set to soundly curse whoever had dared come into his cabin without permission, but no one was there. The door was closed. Nothing looked disturbed, nor were there any footsteps beating a hasty or embarrassed retreat along the companionway.

A cool, slender hand crept up to his cheek and dragged his head back around. When he saw the luminous look of wonder in her eyes, he forgot about whatever had distracted him and focussed all his thoughts and energies on the soft pink mouth that waited for him.

CHAPTER 25

The letter Emory had stolen off Napoleon’s desk that last night in Aix was from his younger brother Jerome. It had been delivered to Bonaparte earlier that afternoon by a harried courier who had ridden so hard and so relentlessly, his horse had toppled over and died an instant after he dismounted. Emory recalled he had been surprised to see the dispatch later, lying openly on the desk with the other papers, and at the first opportunity he had slipped it into his pocket, assuming it had to be of some monumental importance. He had read it on board the
Intrepid
and nearly tossed it into the fire in disgust, for the risk he had taken in stealing it had been enormous only to discover it contained mostly references to family matters. It discussed the health of their mother, Madame Mère, and the stir it had caused in the village after Napoleon had visited Malmaison to say farewell to her and his two illegitimate sons. There was also mention of his four year old heir, l’Aiglon--the little eagle, and the possibility of him being released into his grandmother’s care. There was some agitated discussion about money and pensions and the fact that while some fools might trust the promises of the allied armies to let Madame Mère live out her days in peace, the sooner they were all on board a ship to America, the better. Arrangements were being made, permissions to leave France were being negotiated. They would naturally look forward to Colonel Duroc joining them in due course. All was well. Duroc had already departed for the coast and would likely arrive in advance of this letter. A great deal of gold had been paid to
le Renard
to guarantee his safe passage, not only in Aix, but in England.

All was well. The phrase had been underlined twice for emphasis. To the best of his recollection, Emory did not remember seeing a Colonel Duroc any time that last day or evening, but there were so many officers coming and going, he could not have hoped to identify them all even if he had not suffered a blow to his head. And who the hell was Le Renard? It was obviously a code name but although Emory had poured through every dispatch, letter, and document he had locked away in the strongbox, there was no mention of any foxes. No wolfs, hawks, or herons either for that matter.

After leaving the fog-bound harbour of Gravesend he read and reread the letter until his eyes ached. For the two days they were under full sail, he picked it apart word by word until he knew it by heart, hoping that somewhere in the rows of florid script there would be a clue as to how Napoleon Bonaparte planned to escape his captors.
That there was a plan in motion, he had no doubt. That the letter provided some sort of key, he was also certain else why had Cipriani beaten him half to death in order to get it back? Why had he not just killed him, wrapped chains around his ankles and dumped his body in the Gironde?

Who was Colonel Duroc? And who the bloody hell was the Fox? Was he responsible for the forged dispatches, and was he also involved in this new scheme to save the emperor from exile?

Emory had studied the letter from every angle trying to detect a hidden code, but nothing leaped out and smacked him in the face. The clues were there, he knew they were there, he just could not see them. His French was excellent, but there were always slight nuances that affected the meaning or intent of a phrase so he had Annaleah read the letter aloud in an effort to jog some elusive memory free. But she proved to be more of a hindrance than a help when he found himself watching the way her mouth moved around the words, the way the wings of her eyebrows drew together in concentration, the way the candlelight shone through the cambric of her shirt and outlined the full shape of her breasts. More than half the time they started out in very serious discussions about codes and translations, they ended up naked in a tangle of damp linens.

Barrimore read the letter, but claimed his French was strictly upper class. He knew of no one in Whitehall who might choose the name Fox or le Renard or any derivative thereof to conduct secretive missions with the French but he assured Emory, upon returning to London, he would leave no stone unturned to unearth the traitor’s identity. For Emory’s part, he did not think that would be necessary. He suspected whoever the traitor was, he would be in Torbay when they arrived.

“Duroc,” Emory muttered. “Who the devil is Colonel Duroc and why does the name sound so blasted familiar?”

“Possibly because you have said it a thousand times,” Annaleah suggested, “even in your sleep. And this despite my very best efforts to distract you.”

She was distracting him now, for she was seated in his lap, a cool white thigh on either side of his own. The ghost watch had been tolling four bells when she had wakened and seen him sitting at his desk, the letter and the papers with his scribblings spread out in front of him. She had padded barefoot across the cabin without him even looking up, though he had certainly noticed when she slipped naked onto his lap and curled herself against the warmth of his body.

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled faintly of rum from having bathed in the only container available: a sawed-off barrel Diego had improvised from stores. Her skin smelled of woman, soft and warm, and of the two hours he had spent making slow, sweet love to her earlier.

“I feel as though we are still sailing in a fog,” he murmured. “We can’t see what is ahead of us, we don’t even know what to look for.”

She sighed again and nestled deeper into the curve of his shoulder. “Perhaps the plan has been foiled already. I cannot see how any plot to remove him from the
Bellerophon
could possibly succeed. You saw for yourself, the ship is in the middle of the harbor surrounded by a ring of boats filled with soldiers. No one can sneak aboard without being seen; no one can sneak off. When we left there were a hundred small boats in the bay day and night. There must be two or three times as many now, and even supposing a man could find a way to slip over the side, someone would be bound to see him in the water.”

“Napoleon cannot swim. He is deathly afraid if his bathwater is too deep.”

“Well, then, the only other choice is a raid from the sea, but that seems hardly likely. It would take an armada to steal him away from the British navy, and that would be an outright act of war. One would then have to ask why in heaven’s name he surrendered in the first place.”

Emory leaned his head back against the padded leather headrest of the chair and absently stroked his hand through her hair. “That is another question I’ve been asking myself: Why did he seem so unconcerned when he announced his intentions to go peacefully into custody? He acted far too casual for a man facing possible execution.”

Anna wriggled a little closer and slipped her hand down between their bodies. “Perhaps he knew Parliament would not condone the use of the axe. Perhaps he assumed the obvious: That they could not cold-bloodedly murder a man who had thrown himself upon their mercy.”

“After Elba, he vowed he would never endure prison again. General Montholon even feared he might take his own life after Waterloo.”

“It would have saved a good deal of trouble if he had.”

Emory shook his head. “He would think it an ignoble, cowardly way to end things.”

“I did read once that he considered himself godlike. Maybe he believes he cannot possibly fall victim to mortal complaints, that he will just reappear in another guise and claim to be resurrected from the dead. Frankly,” she paused and wriggled some more, guiding him where he was most wanted, “I think he is just mad. They should lock him away in Bedlam where he can be emperor of all the other madmen.”

Emory sat forward abruptly, his hands tense where they grasped her around the waist and lifted her off his lap. He snatched up the letter and stared at it for a moment, a look of sheer and utter amazement coming over his face.

“I don’t believe it,” he murmured. “I don’t bloody believe it! Duroc, you bastard! How did you think you would ever get away with it!”

With a surge of energy, he leapt up and went over to the bed, quickly jerking his breeches over his hips, hopping from one foot to the other as he stamped into his boots.

“What is it? What did I say?” Anna asked.

He glanced over at her and his gaze flicked to the gallery windows. The sky was a pearly gray along the horizon, the sea still inky black beneath, but it would be full dawn soon and if his calculations were correct, they should be less than forty nautical miles off Torbay.

He came back to where Anna stood and took her face between his hands, kissing her hard enough to leave her lips stinging. “Have I told you that I love you?”

“I’m very pleased to hear it again, but--”

“And that you are brave and beautiful and clever and I plan to fill you full of children so they can all be as brave and beautiful and clever as you.”

“Get you on board the
Bellerophon
?” Barrimore knuckled the sleep out of his eyes and hung his legs over the side of the wildly swinging hammock. “You must be mad.”

“Perhaps I am, but if I am right, I can clear my name and make a hero out of you at the same time.”

“Right about what? What the devil are you on about? And what time is it for pity’s sake?”

“Half gone four bells. The winds are in our favor, the currents are good; we should make port well before noon. My question is, will Captain Maitland honor a white flag?”

Barrimore’s eyebrows shot upward. “You plan to sail the
Intrepid
into port? The harbor batteries will blast you out of the water.”

“Not if you can convince them it would be in the country’s best interest to let us on board the
Bellerophon
.”

“Me?”

“Hell, if I’m wrong about this, you will still be the hero, Barrimore. You will have captured the notorious Emory Althorpe single-handedly and brought him in to stand trial.”

“Believe me,” Emory said, “you will both think far more highly of my sanity if I keep my thoughts to myself until we are on the
Bellerophon
.”