Surrender. Brenda Joyce

began. Somehow, she felt certain that this man would get them safely out of France and across the Channel. “They are at the Abelard Inn. But I am coming with you.”

      “Oh, ho!” His gaze hardened. “You are hardly coming, as God only knows what might arise between the docks and the inn. You can wait here.”

      She breathed hard. “I have already been separated from my daughter for an hour! I cannot remain apart from her. It is too dangerous.” And she was worried that, if someone discovered her party, they might take Henri prisoner—and Aimee, as well.

      “You will wait here. I am not escorting you back to that inn, and if you do not do as I say, you may take back your necklace, and we will cancel our agreement.”

      His gaze had become as sharp as knives. Evelyn was taken aback.

      “Madam, I will guard your daughter with my life, and I intend to be back on my ship in a matter of minutes.”

      She inhaled. Oddly, she trusted him, and clearly, he was not going to allow her to come.

      Aware of her surrender, he opened a drawer and removed a small pistol and a bag of powder with a flint box. He closed the drawer and his stare was piercing. “The odds are that you will not need this, but keep it with you until I return.” He walked around the desk and held the gun out to her.

      Evelyn took the gun. His eyes had become chilling. But he was about to aid and abet traitors to the revolution. If he was caught, he would hang—or worse.

      He strode to the door. “Bolt it,” he said, not looking back.

      Her heart slammed in unison with the door. Then she ran to it and threw the bolt, but not before she saw him striding across the ship’s deck, two armed sailors falling into step with him.

      She hugged herself, shivering. And then she prayed for Aimee, and for Henri. There was a small bronze clock on the desk; it was five-twenty now. She went and sat down in his chair.

      His masculinity seemed to rise up and engulf her. If only he had let her join him to retrieve her daughter and husband. She leaped up from his chair and paced. She could not bear sitting in his chair, and she wasn’t about to sit on his bed.

      At a quarter to six, she heard a sharp knock on the cabin door. Evelyn rushed to it as he said, “It is I.”

      She threw the bolt and opened the door. The first thing she saw was Aimee, yawning—she was in the smuggler’s arms. Tears began. He stepped into the cabin and handed Aimee to her. Evelyn hugged her, hard, but her gaze met that of the captain’s. “Thank you.”

      His glance held hers as he stepped aside.

      “Evelyn.”

      She froze at the sound of Henri’s voice. Then, incredulous, she saw him being held upright by two seamen. Laurent, Adelaide and Bette were behind them. “Henri! You have awakened!” she cried, thrilled.

      And as the seamen brought him inside, she set Aimee down and rushed to him, putting her arm around him to help him stand.

      “You are not going to England without me,” he said weakly.

      Tears fell now. Henri had awoken, and he was determined to be with them as they started a new life in England. She helped him to the bed, where he sat down, still weak and exhausted. Laurent and the women began bringing in their baggage as the two seamen left.

      Evelyn continued to clasp her husband’s hands, but she turned.

      The Englishman was staring at her. “We are hoisting sail,” he said abruptly.

      Evelyn stood, their stares locked. His was so serious. “It seems that I must thank you another time.”

      It was a moment before he spoke. “You can thank me when we reach Britain.” He turned to go.

      It was as if there was an innuendo in his words. And somehow, she knew what that innuendo was. But surely she was mistaken. Evelyn did not think twice. She ran to him—and in front of him. “Sir! I am deeply in your debt. But to whom do I owe the lives of my daughter and my husband?”

      “You owe Jack Greystone,” he said.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Roselynd on the Bodmin Moor, Cornwall

      February 25, 1795

      “THE COUNT WAS a beloved father, a beloved husband, and he will be sorely missed.” The parson paused, gazing out on the crowd of mourners. “May he rest eternally in peace. Amen.”

      “Amen,” the mourners murmured.

      Pain stabbed through Evelyn’s heart. It was a bright sunny day, but frigidly cold, and she could not stop shivering. She stared straight ahead, holding her daughter’s hand, watching as the casket was being lowered into the rocky ground. The small cemetery was behind the parish church.

      She was confused by the crowd. She hadn’t expected a crowd. She barely knew the village innkeeper, the dressmaker or the cooper. She was as vaguely acquainted with their two closest neighbors, who were not all that close, as the house they had bought two years ago sat in solitary splendor on the Bodmin Moor, and was a good hour from everyone and anyone. In the past two years, since retreating from London to the moors of eastern Cornwall, they had kept to themselves. But then, Henri had been so ill. She had been preoccupied with caring for him and raising their daughter. There had not been time for social calls, for teas, for supper parties.

      How could he leave them this way?

      Had she ever felt so alone?

      Grief clawed at her; so did fear.

      What were they going to do?

      Thump. Thump. Thump.

      She watched the clods of dirt hitting the casket as they were shoveled from the ground into the grave. Her heart ached terribly; she could not stand it. She already missed Henri. How would they survive? There was almost nothing left!

      Thump. Thump. Thump.

      Aimee whimpered.

      Evelyn’s eyes suddenly flew open. She was staring at the gold starburst plaster on the white ceiling above her head; she was lying in bed with Aimee, cuddling her daughter tightly as they slept.

      She had been dreaming, but Henri was truly dead.

      Henri was dead.

      He had died three days ago and they had just come from the funeral. She hadn’t meant to take a nap, but she had lain down, just for a moment, beyond exhaustion, and Aimee had crawled into bed with her. They had cuddled, and suddenly, she had fallen asleep....

      Grief stabbed through her chest. Henri was gone. He had been in constant pain these past few months. The consumption had become so severe, he could barely breathe or walk, and these past weeks, he had been confined to his bed. Come Christmastime, they had both known he was dying.

      And she knew he was at peace now, but that did not ease her suffering, even if it eased his. And what of Aimee? She had loved her father. And she had yet to shed a tear. But then, she was still just eight years old, and his death probably did not seem real.

      Evelyn fought tears—which she had thus far refused to shed. She knew she must be strong for Aimee, and for those who were dependent on her—Laurent, Adelaide and Bette. She looked down at her daughter and softened instantly. Aimee was fair, dark-haired and beautiful. But she was also highly intelligent, with a kind nature and a sweet disposition. No mother could be as fortunate, Evelyn thought, overcome with the power of her emotions.

      Then she sobered, aware of the voices she could just barely hear, coming from the salon below her bedroom. She had guests. Her neighbors and the villagers had come to pay their respects. Her aunt, uncle and her cousins had attended the funeral, of course, even though they had only called on her and Henri twice since they had moved to Roselynd. She would have to greet them, too, somehow, even though their relationship remained unpleasant and strained. She must find her composure,