‘Of course,’ Eva flattered herself that the smile she managed was perfectly natural. To the confusion of our enemies and to the last night in Jack’s arms.
Chapter Fifteen
‘To victory,’ Jack said quietly in French, touching the rim of his glass to Eva’s.
‘To victory,’ she echoed. There was no private parlour at the Poisson d’Or, but there was a low-beamed room with tables set around. The noise level from the other diners was high enough for them to talk quietly without fear of being overheard, but they kept to French so there would be no unfamiliar rhythms of speech to draw attention to them.
Outside, the rumble of the distant guns continued. Inside everyone pretended not to notice it. Yet there was a febrile excitement in the air, an unease, a whisper of rumour. Did these people really want their emperor back? Eva wondered.
Where were the Maubourg troops? Following where Antoine led them into the midst of a battle or reluctantly marching north and not yet in danger? Were they convinced of the rightness of joining the Imperial cause, or was it simple obedience that kept them with him? If she had been in the carriage when they had stopped it, could she have won them round, convinced them to go back to the Duchy, their families and safety? Eva gave herself a mental shake; thinking what if and maybe was futile, but when they reached Brussels she would do what she could to ensure the men were found and treated well.
Up ahead was bloody battle, men dying and being wounded and there was nothing they could do. Wellington would win, of course he would, she assured herself. Anything else was unthinkable.
‘To victory, and to us,’ she added to the toast, touching the painful subject like someone with toothache who cannot resist worrying at the sore tooth. ‘It has be
en good, Jack, these last few days, has it not?’
‘It has.’ He watched her over the rim of his glass as he took a mouthful of wine before setting it down. ‘And it is not over yet.’ There was a familiar heat in his gaze, a heat that made her feel hot inside, roused the fluttering pulse of arousal so that she shifted on her chair. The anticipation of a night spent in that big soft bed made her mouth dry and she was uncomfortably aware of her nipples peaking against the restriction of her waistcoat.
‘One more night,’ she agreed, lightly. One more night and day while he was still hers and hers alone. One more set of memories to live on.
‘And then Brussels, and the journey back to England.’ Jack stopped speaking as the maid brought bread and a pitcher of water. He dropped his broad hand over hers and squeezed reassuringly. ‘Fréderic will be beside himself to see you again.’
‘If he remembers me,’ Eva said. It seemed to be her evening for probing all her worries.
‘He does!’ Jack lifted her hand in his and kissed her fingers, earning himself a sentimental smile from a plump bourgeoise sitting opposite with her family. ‘He told me so—not in so many words, but with what he said, what he mentioned of Maubourg and you. He has no doubts—lads of that age don’t. He knows he will see you again, he knows you are there waiting for him, and he feels quite safe. It is you who has suffered, knowing that you have missed those years of him growing, knowing you have had to trust him to the safekeeping of others.’
‘Thank you.’ Eva blinked back tears, dropping her cheek momentarily to rest against his raised hand. He smiled at her, then she saw his eyes focus beyond her, the laughter lines creasing attractively. ‘And who are you flirting with, might I ask?’
‘Behind us. A most respectable dame who obviously thinks we make a pretty couple.’
‘We do.’ Eva dimpled a smile. ‘Look, see the mirror to your right, you can see us in it.’ Jack glanced across. She was right—on the wall was an ancient mirror, probably something that had found its way from one of the great houses of the district during the Terror, for it was too fine for this workaday place
The old glass was soft and kind, framing them as a portrait of lovers, hands clasped, heads close. Eva, so feminine despite her severe man’s clothing, with her dark plait lying heavy on her shoulder. Him, just a man…Jack stared. That was him, it couldn’t be anyone else, but somehow the reflection looked different. Younger, more—he fought for the word—more complete. Which was nonsense. It had to be the flattering effect of the mirror. But Henry had said he had changed, and he felt different.
He stared deep into his own eyes, deep into the eyes of a man in love. Hell! Jack shut his eyes on the betraying image, turned his head sharply and released Eva’s hand. No, that was not going to happen, he could not let it, it was impossible and there was nothing there for him but misery.
But the trouble was, he knew it was too late. That warm centre of contentment, that feeling of completeness that threaded through the desire he felt for Eva, that stab of black misery that hit the pit of his stomach when he thought of leaving her—he had never felt those things before.
The bustle of the inn dining room faded around him as he sat there. He had fallen in love, the one thing he had sworn he would never do. And he had fallen in love with the most inappropriate, most unobtainable woman he could have chosen, short of one of the royal princesses. He felt his lips part without conscious volition and tried to control his instinct to say the words, here, now, at once.
‘Jack? What is it?’ Eva was staring at him, her lovely mouth curving into a smile that was half-amusement, half-concern. He must be gawping at her like the village idiot, that fatal declaration trembling on his lips.
‘Nothing.’ Everything. My heart. My world. My soul. ‘Nothing at all important, just a thought that struck me. This chicken is good, is it not?’
‘It is pork.’ The smile became a teasing grin as he clenched his hands around knife and fork to stop himself reaching across the table and pulling her to him. ‘Does champagne always have this effect on you?’
No, you do. ‘No. It is not the champagne, it is pure, unadulterated desire.’ He made himself match her bantering tone and found himself smiling as the ready colour stained her cheeks. She was so deliciously modest and reserved, yet when they touched she was utterly abandoned in her lovemaking. It was like her whole character. Outwardly she could be aloof, autocratic, reserved; inwardly she was warm, vulnerable, loving. ‘We will take another bottle upstairs—I have wicked thoughts about what we can do with the contents.’
The brown eyes watching him opened wide with speculation that was both shocked and titillated. Jack called up reserves of self-control he had never had to apply to his own feelings before and made himself focus only on the here and now. This meal, this tension between them and the sound of cannon fire which was becoming fainter and less frequent as the darkness drew in, became the whole of the world. Jack felt the urgency draining out of him, to be replaced by a sense of anticipation that was thrumming through his body with almost orgasmic intensity.
He was going to make love to Eva tonight, and when he did it would be astonishing, even better than all the times before, and yet that was not all he wanted any more. He wanted—no, he needed—to watch her, see her in minute detail. He needed to learn the way she wrinkled her nose at a flavour she did not like, how she smiled when she thanked the maid for some small attention, how the colour of her eyes changed in the candlelight, how the tiny mole at the corner of her left eye moved when she frowned at him in mock-anger at a teasing word.
He packed away the pictures of her at every moment, the sound of her voice when she chuckled, the throaty laugh of real, uninhibited amusement, the sudden, serious, expression that kept transforming her face and which he could not persuade her to explain. All of these impressions he saved, learned, as he would a map of enemy territory or a complex brief from a client, storing them away for the time when they would be all he had of her. All he could ever have.
Eva pushed away her plate with a little sigh of repletion. He poured the last drops of the champagne into their glasses and gestured to the maid for another bottle. ‘Shall we go up?’
Their chamber had been cleared of bath tub and shaving water. The puffy white eiderdown on the big wooden bed had been turned down invitingly and candles burned on the dresser and beside the bed. On the washstand a bunch of June roses made a blotch of warm colour in the pale room.