Even after two weeks, the dank cold pricked her skin. The fetid smell of unwashed bodies and uncovered waste buckets assailed her nose, and the moans and cries of her cellmates pounded in her ears.  The pallor and certainty of death enveloped her more completely than the thin blanket she had stolen when they had come and pulled the Comtes de Cossi from their dungeon.

Sarah MacKenzie huddled in the soiled hay; her tattered traveling skirt tucked around her legs, and tried to dream of happier times back in Oxfordshire.

Rolling meadows replaced the dim bleakness of the prison.  She saw herself walking along the hilltop toward him.  Long and lank with an almost tragic air about him, the second born and namesake of Harmon, Lord Rabb, Earl of Avon, lay under an ancient chestnut tree, a shaft of hay dangling from his lips.  She had always loved him and had always known it was hopeless. 

The daughter of Lord Rabb’s solicitor, she and her sister, Harriet had come to live at the manor house when her father had died suddenly, leaving his orphaned daughters in his oldest client’s guardianship. The Earl had welcomed them lovingly and had generously given them rooms in the family’s wing of the huge house. The size of the dowry left to both girls was such that marriage to even the third son of landed gentry was nearly out of the question.  Neither girl had minded.  Harriet had already set her sights on the Reverend Mr. Roberts in the village and Sarah had decided that if she couldn’t have Harmon as husband, then she wouldn’t marry at all.  She made herself of service to the Earl when his wife died and had assumed the day to day management of the large manor house.

It had worked out beautifully for several years.  She and Harmon would walk along the green hills, or talk quietly in the huge library late into the night.  It was with Harmon that she could discuss the events of the day, the troubles in France, the awful things being done to the aristocracy there in the name of Liberte’. It was Sarah who covered for him with casual lies when Rabb would disappear for days, even weeks, on end. “No, My Lord, I believe he went down to London for the week on business.” Or, “I’m sure he said he was going up to Edinburgh to visit his cousin, sir.”  And, it was Sarah who would wait anxiously for his return from across the channel. 

After one such trip his oldest friend, Lord Clayton Webb had driven up at dawn in a 4-in-hand. They had been gone for eight days and Sarah had begun to worry.  Even the Earl had noticed something was wrong.  When Webb jumped out of the carriage and ran around to help the wounded Rabb down, Sarah thought her heart would stop.  The old Earl came up behind her, and only Webb’s quick thinking had saved them all.  “Carriage accident in London, sir.  Harmon was thrown from the cab and fell upon an iron fence.  Sliced him clean through.” 

She had nursed him back to health and it had been the happiest time she could remember.  But the Earl was nobody’s fool and he kept a closer watch on his errant son.  As soon as the boy was up and walking with the aid of a cane, the elder Rabb began to plan a series of balls and parties designed to re-introduce his son back into society.  Sarah had been stoic; she knew that one day he would have to marry, and she attended each ball and watched while he danced with numerous pretty, silly daughters of neighboring landowners. 

At one such dance, Lord Webb asked her to dance, but Sarah knew he was just being kind.  Even while holding her lightly, his eyes always searched out and followed the twirling, laughing daughter of the reclusive retired admiral of the fleet who lived in a neat manor in Oxford proper.  Few people ever saw the tall imposing man. Gossip in the salons of London and the drawing rooms of the countryside swore he helped break the terror of piracy along the African Coast.

That night, Admiral Chegwidden stood to one side studiously ignoring all advances by mothers with older daughters they wanted to marry off. With just the smallest of smiles, he was able to ward off the advances of several widows who also eyed him with feral hunger.  He watched his beautiful, fiery daughter enjoy herself with several young men who constantly found reasons to stop by his house in town.  But he wasn’t worried about any of them.  No, he only worried about one man; a man he knew would only bring her heartache. 

The dry death rattle from only a few feet away momentarily roused Sarah from her pleasant memories.  Only two weeks before, such a sound would have caused her to run to the person and weep. Now the tone was only one of many in the cacophony of the night.  She pulled the blanket tighter around her noticeably thin shoulders, curled into a protective ball and again, tried to summon up the dreams.

It was harder now.  Hunger gnawed at her, but she had grown almost accustomed to the feeling.  Now something was warring within her, trying to keep the memories of that night away.  The pain of it hit again as fresh and hard as it had over two years ago, the night that so many lives changed – so many games begun.  Sarah groaned softly at the memory. 

The swirling colors returned.  She had been surprised when Lord Clayton had taken her advice and asked Francesca Chegwidden to stroll in the garden with him.  At first, she watched with gentle happiness as they crossed through the tall French doors. Her happiness changed to shock when she saw the Admiral furiously stalk after them.  Sarah had followed as quickly as she could without attracting embarrassing attention only to find herself nearly nose to nose, or at least forehead to nose with the irate father.  Somehow she had convinced Admiral Chegwidden that while it might not seem gentlemanly in the Admiral’s eyes; Lord Webb had only the most honorable intentions toward his daughter.  Sarah had patiently explained that the entire time Lord Clayton had danced with her, he had done little else but profess his undying respect and admiration for Miss Chegwidden.  Sarah remembered how her breath had come in gasps.  “And…I’m quiet sure that…he will tell you so himself.  Just as soon as the bleeding stops and we find a doctor to set his broken nose.”

Sarah remembered clearly the way the enraged Admiral had stood there in the garden. His hands were fisted at his hips, glaring at the impertinent girl who dared to stand between him and the prostrate rogue. In his eyes, the rogue had compromised his daughter’s good name.  Francesca knelt next to Lord Webb, trying to staunch the flow of blood with a completely useless bit of lace.  The growl had sent unfamiliar shivers down Sarah’s spine.  “Francesca!  Get your wrap.  We’re going.”

Even after all this time Sarah could remember thinking <<<Evidently, I’m not the first woman to stand up to the Admiral.>>>

The voice was quiet and lilting but very firm.  “No, papa.  He’s hurt.  Why did you have to hit him so hard?  We were only talking.”  Francesca reached down and daintily patted Lord Clayton’s shoulder.  “There now.  We will get you inside and find that nice Dr. Hardy and get him to look at you.”  She moved to help him up, but Chegwidden finally reached down and offered a hand to the prone man.  Sarah thought a look passed between them, but she could not be sure.  Webb’s frilly shirt was ruined, covered in blood – much like it had been two weeks ago, when the soldiers left him on the road to die. They  had dragged Sarah down from her horse to bring her before the Committee of Public Safety.

She cried in her sleep.  So much pain and loss were set in motion that night.

While the Admiral and Francesca got Clayton up the back stairs to the bedroom he was using for the weekend, Sarah slipped back in to find Dr. Hardy.  She had stood watching in amusement as the man made his way up the stairs when the Earl called for everyone’s attention.  She remembered the announcement.  She remembered the sheepish look on Harmon’s face.  She even remembered the satisfied look on Lady Renee’s face when the engagement was announced.  What Sarah could never remember was how she had gotten out of the house and across the meadows.  All she knew was  that Rabb had found her under the huge, old chestnut tree many hours later. He had stood above her, refusing to take her in his arms, and tried to explain that they had always known this day would come and that it had to be this way.  She got up and went quietly back to the house – she seldom spoke to him again. 

One month later, she accepted the first proposal that Lord Rabb arranged for her, a fairly well to do merchant sea captain, Michael Brumby.  The wedding, three months later, was a small affair officiated by the Rev. Roberts and attended by Harriet, Lord Webb and his fiancée, Francesca Chegwidden. 

Michael had been a loving husband who made few demands on her and set her up in a small house in an almost fashionable neighborhood of tradesmen, lawyers and bankers.  Three months after the winter wedding he had set sail for the West Indies.  And on the morning of what would have been her 6-month anniversary, Lord Clayton and Francesca brought word that his ship and all hands were lost at sea. 

A shaft of light from the tiny barred window high up on the wall fell on her grimy cheek.  She snuggled deeper into the foul smelling straw, because as bad as the nights were in this hellish place, daytime was worse.  It was during the day that the soldiers came and took their victims off in the small tumbrels to the guillotine.  A cup rattling on the bars finally got her attention and she got dizzily to her feet.  Breakfast was a horrid gruel but it was all that she would get until nightfall – if she survived the day.  She looked at the filthy people surrounding her; once so beautiful in their fine linens and silk and outrageously ornate powdered wigs.  <<<How many times had Rabb and Webb and the others risked everything to save these pathetic people?>>>

She waited while the names for the day were called out.  She wasn’t sure if she was happy or sad that, for at least today, she would keep her head.  She wished that she could see Harriet again.  She wished that she could tell Francesca how sorry she was.  What she no longer wished was to see Rabb again.  Rabb had made his choice and she couldn’t damn him for it, but Webb was married too.  Webb had a baby on the way too.  But Webb had accepted the risk to try and save the Dauphin and now Clay lay dead in a Paris street and Rabb was home with his petulant pregnant wife.  And the Dauphin?  Who knew?  They had never made it to the orphanage where he supposedly was being kept. 

Late that afternoon, she forced herself to walk among her fellow prisoners, her cup tied to her belt and her thin blanket clutched about her shoulders.  She felt a stir among the prisoners and she turned toward what was drawing their whispers.  She spotted him immediately standing, glaring in at her.  The blue uniform was dirty and ragged, the face scarred and the teeth almost black.  The patch over the one eye made the glare of the other doubly evil.  She stood in rigid horror.  The voice croaked out, “Citizeness Lebel.  The Committee has ordered your execution!  You will come with me.  Now.”  Her knees started to shake and she didn’t think she could make it but she forced herself to hold her head high.  She looked around her and found the young girl who had been brought in with her small baby two days ago.  She walked up to her and dropped the blanket in her lap.  She stepped unsteadily through the prison cell doors and followed the vile soldier up the stairs.  When they reached the top of the stairs, he paused as if to catch his breath and wheezed out something she couldn’t understand. The tumbrel awaited them in the bright spring sunlight, a large peasant his head covered in a tattered tricorne at the reigns. Guards roughly tied her hands in front of her and lifted her up into the back of the cart.  Her guard climbed in after her.  She watched as he pulled himself painfully up and sat down on a stool.  He glared at her and shouted to the driver. "Allons! Allons!" 

The driver flicked the reigns and the old horse pulled out onto  the street.  Two guards on horseback pulled up next to the tumbrel and road in silence with them. .  Sarah looked around wildly, the guard had neglected to secure her to the cart.  The wheels hit several ruts and she was thrown against the sides several times.  People stared with little interest at the passing cart.  The main executions had been earlier that day when over 100 had died.  The wagon came to the intersection and a large wagon pulled out in front of them halting their process.  Then another wagon, this one full of hay turned the corner so very close to them. 

“Jump, Sarah, bury yourself in the hay.”  The wagon came to a halt and the driver jumped in back and quickly grabbed her guard and helped him.  Sarah  lifted herself over the side and worked her way down into the hay.  She heard the horsemen shouting and clattering away.  Guards from the prison rode up and chased after the  out of control tumbrel.  The slow hay wagon made it’s way down the street.

She stayed as still as she could.  She didn’t dare speak and neither did her two companions.  She wasn’t sure how long they were in the cart, but it finally stopped and she heard the screeching of hinges.  Then, the cart moved a little way and the hinges screeched again and she was plunged into darkness.  She heard a low whispered “All clear.” Then the cart began to sway and hay went flying.  She stood up and blinked in the lantern light and then looked wildly around.  The tall driver was helping Clay down off the wagon, his hat askew.  Sarah reached her tied hands out and flipped the hat off the rest of way and gasped.  “Admiral!”  The shock was nearly as great as the one she had suffered in the jail when she realized that Lord Webb was still very much alive and there to save her.  She sat back down in the straw and stared at the man in amazement. 

Chegwidden glared up at her.  “Are you going to give out on me now, Mrs. Brumby?”  His voice was hard and rough, but she noticed something in his eyes that made her heart pound just a little harder. 

She pushed up and off  the cart, landing unsteadily on her feet, and reached out to grasp the side of the cart.  But before she could stumble, a strong arm  grabbed hold of her.  “Steady, Mrs. Brumby.”  She wrenched out of his grasp and went to Clay.  His face, even under the greasepaint and real grime, had a pallor that scared her. 

She looked up at the Admiral.  “We have to get him a doctor.” 

Chegwidden continued to glare at her and snapped.  “Upstairs, through there.”  She started to help, but the Admiral put an arm around Clay’s waist and quickly helped him up the narrow stairs to a door.  He rapped out a signal  and it opened immediately.  A man she had never seen before helped lift Clay  over the threshold.  The Admiral turned and offered Sarah his hand.  She allowed him to help her up the last few stairs.  A small bird-like woman stood nervously off to one side of the large kitchen.  Admiral Chegwidden barked, “Take the lady upstairs; help her get cleaned up.  I’ll make sure that my friend here is looked after.”

Sarah had sat in the tin bathtub until the water was uncomfortably cold.  The woman had brought plenty of hot water and Sarah was able to even clean her hair, the lye soap washing away the last of the stench of the prison.  She  found clean undergarments laid out for her and a search of the wardrobe netted a choice of three different gowns. She pulled a beautiful rose hued gown with lace at the sleeves and bodice and drew it over her body.  After two weeks in the prison, she was seriously considering the possibility that she had died and this was some weird form of heaven that Reverend Roberts had never considered. 

The harsh call from the street and the sounds of marching feet dispelled that thought.  She stood to the side of the window and looked down upon a company of blue-coated republican soldiers.  She watched as each door on the street was banged upon and opened.  They entered and were inside each house only long enough for a quick search. 

She heard a sharp rap on the door and before she could say anything, it was rudely pushed open.  Chegwidden stood there in breeches, flowing white shirt and waistcoat.  He quickly looked her up and down before smiling in approval.  “Excellent Madam.  Now if you please.  You are going to have to do the honors.  I trust Claude and Marie with my life but not with being able to pull this off.  Clayton is out cold; the wound is bleeding again.  I don’t speak French so you are going to have to play lady of the house.  Meet the soldiers; let them look in each of the rooms. You might mention that you have no idea  why your husband and his guest are so sick.  They might be too frightened of illness to check the rooms too closely.  My son-in-law says you are cut out for this kind of work.  Are you, Mrs. Brumby?”  His tone had turned cold and appraising. 

Sarah straightened her back and snapped.  “I had better be, don’t you think?” 

As she turned to leave the room, Chegwidden reached out for her and pulled her around to face him.  He was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.  He reached up and pinned something to her bodice.  “There you go, Citizeness Lafarge.”  She looked down and saw the cocarde tricolore attached to her dress.  She took a deep breath, looked up into his hooded eyes and turned away. 

She was halfway down the stairs when the awful pounding began at the door.  The woman, Marie, scurried to answer the door, but stepped back as Sarah approached.  The soldier gruffly explained that a madwoman had escaped from the prison and they had orders to search every house.  Sarah allowed the men to enter and allowed them to look where they wanted, as she had no idea as to the layout of the house.  She followed them upstairs, finally mentioning that her husband and their guest were quite ill, but to feel free to search their rooms as the soldiers saw fit.  The two soldiers in the lead looked at each other in alarm, but turned the knob of the first room at the top of the stairs.  Clay lay deathly still on the bed.  A linen sheet and light blanket covered his thin form.  The sweat stood out on his brow.  Sarah carefully explained that her husband’s friend had just returned from Egypt and they were unsure of the disease that he had brought back with them.  The soldiers hastily closed the door. 

They proceeded to the next door and opened it.  The bathtub had been removed and the remains of the rags she had worn out of the prison were nowhere in sight.  Finally, they came to the last door and opened it gingerly.  Chegwidden lay in the bed.  His chest bare and wet with what appeared to be sweat.  His face was flushed and he started coughing violently.  Acting the dutiful wife, Sarah pushed past the soldiers and ran to his side.  She looked down and found a washcloth and dipped it into the basin by the bed. She nearly cried out in shock and pain as the boiling hot water scalded her hands.  She turned her back and gritted her teeth.  She squeezed the cloth out and brought it to his forehead, causing it to redden even further.  She bent over him and cooed loving phrases in French.  His eyes opened and he glared up at her as she reddened his cheek with the warm cloth.  She turned back and asked the soldiers if they wanted to talk to her husband.  Of course, she advised them that they would have to come much closer. 

The soldiers looked at each other and  fled down the stairs and out the door.

Sarah ran to the window, sure that they would return.  She heard the rustling behind her, but kept watch, rubbing her hands together.

“Let me see.”  He reached around her slim waist and gently took her reddened fingers in his huge hands.  His hiss, so near her ear, sent goose bumps up her arms.  “Blast! Didn’t you see the steam?”

Sarah pulled back her hand.  “No! And hopefully, neither did the soldiers!" Embarrassed by her reaction to his touch, she turned to move away from him but the sight of his broad chest so close sent another wave of shock through her.  He had hastily donned his white shirt but the opening clearly showed a rich, wild pattern of dark hair, such an interesting contrast to the neatly trimmed fringe around his head.  For a brief second she found herself comparing his bald pate to Harmon’s dark locks.  But a flash from that last meeting in her small drawing room and Harmon’s cowardly declaration hardened her heart and her features.

Chegwidden saw the pain in her eyes and clinched jaw and drew the wrong conclusion.  He pulled her to the bed and forced her to sit.  After rummaging through several drawers in the large bureau, he came back with a large jar of ointment. 

When Sarah smelled the foul smelling stuff, she protested.  “Really Admiral!  It’s not that bad.” 

“Nonsense!” He growled as he firmly took her hand back into his.  “You women are such children!  The smell dissipates quickly and the salve will keep your hands from blistering.”  His tone left no room for argument and she allowed him to kneel before her and to rub the soothing salve into her burning skin.  At first, his ministration brought relief, but after awhile the cooling sensation in her hands was replaced by a slow burning spreading out to encompass her whole body.  She had never felt this way before and it thrilled and embarrassed her.  She watched with a dazed fascination as his rough fingers smoothed and rubbed and caressed her palms. 

She gulped and forced her eyes away from the hypnotizing movement only to find her gaze captured by a look so fierce in its intensity,  it startled her.  She jumped up, pushing him back so that he nearly fell backwards.  She ran down the hall to her room, slamming the heavy oak door shut. Leaning back against the door, her breast heaved and her knees shook  so badly,  she wasn’t sure if she could make it to the bed.  Most frightening of all was the incredible moisture soaking her undergarments. 

She staggered to the bed and crawled into it.  She curled up into the protective ball she had become used to and allowed the tension and terror to finally consume her.  Great racking spasms ripped through her and she gave way to the sobs, burying her face into the massive pillow. 

The room was dark except for the glow from one small oil lamp on the vanity across from the bed.  For a long moment she was confused and she looked around wildly.  Groggily she sat up as the memories of the day assailed her. She remembered where she was and who had saved her.  She also realized that she was famished.  She walked over to the washstand and found that someone…Marie?…had filled the basin with fresh, cool water.  Sarah splashed the water over her features, washing the grit from her eyes.  She turned the knob on the lamp and as the room brightened somewhat, she was able to make out the long tapers.  After lighting them she surveyed the damage to her clothing and quickly shed the rumpled dress and pulled another from the wardrobe.  She found the brush she had used earlier and fixed her hair. 

Taking a deep breath she turned the cold brass knob and stepped into the hallway.  She heard a deep rumbling laugh coming from down the hall.  She quietly made her way to the open door. Clayton was propped up on pillows, awake but still looking very pale. 

He was listening intently to the Admiral, but when he spotted Sarah standing there, he managed a huge smile.  “Sarah!  Come in.  Eat some of this.  The Governor was just telling me you were asleep.  Did you eat anything?  How are you feeling?  I’m…” Suddenly the exuberance left his voice and deep remorse clouded his eyes.  “I’m sorry it took me so long to find you.  I’m sorry that…”

She rushed to his side, avoiding the now standing Chegwidden.  “Don’t.  Dear, dear, Clay.  You mustn’t blame yourself.  I was so worried.  I thought they had killed you.” 

Webb blushed and gazed past her to the Admiral.  “I would have died if it hadn’t been for young Tiner.”

Sarah gasped.  “Mr. Tiner was there?  I don’t understand.”  She looked back and found Chegwidden studying a small spot on the floor. 

Chegwidden walked over and yanked a pull.  Moments later, Marie came to the door.  “Bring Mrs. Brumby a tray please.  Something more hearty than this broth.”  Marie bowed back out of the room and Chegwidden pulled a chair up closer to the bed.  “While you eat, we’ll try and explain.”  He tone was almost contrite and she looked at him searchingly before gingerly sitting.

After Marie had brought in another tray and Sarah had eaten her fill of a  delicious chicken stew, Chegwidden looked over at Webb and cleared his throat.  “Perhaps you should begin, Lord Webb.” 

Clayton nodded glumly, but instead of beginning he looked around the room, the candlelight casting flickering shadows.  It seemed to Sarah that he was searching for something.  Finally his stare settled on a candle flame on the dresser just next to where Sarah was sitting.  She realized then that he couldn’t meet her gaze.  He swallowed twice and reached out for the small glass sitting on the nightstand.  Chegwidden stood and handed it to him, looking upon him almost pityingly.  After he had taken a sip, still clutching the glass, he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Do you remember how it all began Sarah?” 

Sarah found her own small flickering light to stare into and thought back all those many months ago.  She had been nearly nine months into her mourning period, nearly crazy from the loneliness and isolation.  She knew few of her neighbors and those seldom called on the young widow. For her to call upon them during this time was out of the question. Even Sarah MacKenzie of Oxford knew that.  Harriet visited once a month, but with her son nearly one and with another on the way, she tired easily and always took a nap before returning to her home in Oxford.  Only Francesca had come weekly, usually with Clayton in tow.  They would sit and talk for hours and for that one afternoon and evening, Sarah found that she was glad she didn’t have to entertain others.  They talked of politics and the troubles in France and at home.  Sarah realized that Francesca looked forward to these visits too because although her husband was tolerant and even encouraged her outspokenness in such areas, few others in their circle would. 

One night, after a long discussion of the plight of the refugees, many of whom barely escaped with their heads and the clothes on their back Sarah had exclaimed,   “Oh how I wish I could do something to help.  I am so beastly bored with this horrid mourning!” 

Clay and Francesca had exchanged glances before Clay cleared his voice.  “Perhaps there is.  Would you be willing to take in the occasional houseguest?  Just until we can find them something permanent.”  Thus had begun her involvement with “The Cause” as she secretly called it.  Her first guest had been the Comtes de Polignac, a bitter little woman who stayed in her room for most of the month she stayed with Sarah, taking her meals in quiet and speaking only to Sarah’s housekeeper, Mrs. Singer.

Most of her guests didn’t stay as long and their faces became a blur.  While she was happy to be of help, she didn’t feel she was doing enough.  Clayton began to stop by during the week, in the afternoons for tea.  Sometimes Francesca accompanied him, but usually he brought other young gentlemen with him.  Many had titles but more, like young Jason Tiner, were sons of businessmen or army officers.  It took several such “calls” before Sarah realized just what Clayton was doing.  In her quiet parlor he was gently probing, questioning, and recruiting bored rich young men to the cause.  She had sat quietly in the background, listening and learning.

The candle sputtered and brought her back to the present.  She looked away and saw that both the Admiral and Lord Clayton were studying her with concern.  She answered softly.  “Yes, Clayton. I do remember how it all began.”

“Well just after Rabb and I returned from France after Mr. Tiner joined our group, we began to hear rumors that the Dauphin was being held in a small orphanage off the Rue Abel.  It was urgent that we save the boy, before he fell to the same fate as his mother and father.  The Governor…” he look at his father-in-law “insisted that we gather as much information as we could each time we went into France.”

Clayton sat up  in  bed trying to get more comfortable and without really thinking Sarah stood up and gently plumped up  the pillow. She remembered  how the Honorable John Farrow had lain mortally wounded for nearly three weeks after he had helped rescue the family of Baron de Marmier. He had never regained consciousness and Sarah and Mrs. Singer had done their best to make him comfortable.  Farrow had talked a great deal in his pain, most of it unintelligible but Mrs. Singer had insisted upon writing down everything  he had said.  “Lord Webb will want to know, mum.”  Farrow had died with Sarah holding his hand and Webb looking on in sorrow.

Clayton saw the grief skitter across her face.  His questioning look elicited a slight shake of her head.  “I was just remember poor Mr. Farrow.”  She was surprised at the sharp intake of air from Chegwidden, but more by the way Clayton closed his eyes in pain.  She looked quickly at both men. 

Before she could say any more, Webb continued softly.  “It was after Farrow died that we began to have the trouble, Sarah.  Men were beginning to be stopped at ports of entry that had always been safe before.  Houses that we had never used before were raided within days of our arrival.  Farrow was one of my best men.  Outside of Rabb and the Admiral, no one knew more about our plans than Farrow.  Thank God, Farrow didn’t know our true leader.” 

Several pieces of a puzzle she had wondered about finally fell into place and Sarah turned in shock surprise.  “You! You were the leader all along, Admiral.  I always thought it was you, Clayton.  You and Rabb.” 

She thought for a moment and then turned back to the bed.  “Surely, you  don’t think Farrow was a traitor?  He was a good man.  One of the first young bucks you brought to the house on your planning missions.  He was funny and smart and always very nice to me and Mrs. Singer.”

Chegwidden’s chair scraped hard on the hard oak floor.  “Perhaps a little too nice, Mrs. Brumby.”

Sarah spun around.  “What do you mean?”

Chegwidden’s lips were drawn in a tight bitter line.  From the bed, Clayton gently admonished her.  “Sarah, please.  Sit and listen.” 

The implications were too much.  “You suspected me!”

The two men answered in unison.  “Never.”  Sarah wasn’t surprised at Clay’s response but the intense way that the Admiral said it thrilled and scared her.

She forced herself to calmly sit back down but returned the Admiral’s intense glare.  “Explain yourself, sir.”

Clayton was exhausted and Chegwidden could see it.  But, he couldn’t face the pain etched so starkly on the face of the woman he forced himself to think of only as Mrs. Brumby.  He walked to the window and pulled back the drapes to study the small black patch of garden below.  “We never suspected you, Mrs. Brumby, but we couldn’t ignore the fact that names were known and plans too easily discovered.  Plus, we had little time to get to the Dauphin.  We…no.  I decided to lay a trap.  We set up the meeting to map out our plans.  Clayton insisted on being decoy.  Clayton had no intention of going anywhere near the orphanage.  We would have told you, Mrs. Brumby, but I had no idea that you would do something so BLOODY stupid.  Once Clayton had discovered that you stowed away on the transport ship and caught up with him at Calais, he had no choice but to continue, since you had conveniently waited until the ship had returned to England.”

Sarah sniffed and whispered.  “I thought I could help.  The message seemed urgent.  I thought only to bring him the message that his contact had been killed.  I told Mrs. Singer that I was going to run after him and let him know, but I reached the boat right before it set sail and…Oh, I don’t know.  I just thought I could help.”  Her voice had risen to a wail and Clayton was looking at her with growing concern. 

Chegwidden strode around the bed and grabbed her by the arms.  “Control yourself madam.”  The feel of his strong hands on her arms calmed her immediately, but the tears still flowed down her cheeks.  Chegwidden wanted only to hold this headstrong woman in his arms – they had come so close to losing her.  “You couldn’t know that you played right into her hands.  Webb planned only to ride into Paris, make contact with Marcoux and get back to the coast and wait.  Who knew that you would follow the plan so well and find the Rue Abel by yourself?.” 

Sarah twisted the small napkin in her lap into a tight knot.  “You said ‘her hands’.  Who is the betrayer?”

Clayton whispered.  “Mrs. Singer.” 

“No!  It can’t be.  Francesca recommended her.”  Sarah dropped the napkin to the floor to stare at the Admiral.

“Yes, Sa…Mrs. Brumby.  My daughter has a sharp mind but a kind heart and a gentle soul.  She knew Mrs. Singer needed a position and she thought that Lord Nelson had fired her unjustly.  She didn’t know that Mrs. Singer’s…uhm…vices would make her the perfect target for bribery and blackmail.  After you left, I finally tracked down the British traitor, a Mr. Palmer who paid her large sums of money to spy on what went on in your house.  We found the notes of what Farrow said just before he died.  She had made two copies.”  He walked away from her and returned to the window.  “I blame myself.  I should never have allowed my son-in-law to embroil you in our cause.”

A hot anger shook Sarah.  “Embroil me!  YOUR cause!  Is not justice everyone’s cause?   Do I not have the right to help in whatever way I can?  Did I not have the right to know what my own housekeeper was doing in MY HOUSE?  HOW DARE YOU, SIR.”  She stood and started to cross the room.  She was so mad she wanted to hit him, but a dreadful thought nudged its way into her consciousness.  Fighting for control, she asked tightly.  “And what of the boy?  The Dauphin?  Was he just a bit player in your drama?” 

Chegwidden didn’t answer her.  He wouldn’t turn from the window.  When she heard the rest, the fury would consume her and all hope that he had entertained of winning this fiery woman for himself would die.

Clayton cleared his throat.  “He’s safe, Sarah.  Rabb got him out two hours before we were ambushed.  That’s why Tiner was there.  When Rabb got the Dauphin from the orphanage, he was to send Tiner to flash the all-clear sign.  Tiner arrived just as they were dragging you away.  Sarah, there was nothing he could do to help you.  He was one man.  He got me to a safe house and found a doctor.  Then I sent him back to the rendezvous with instructions to report to the Governor, but not to tell Rabb until they were underway.”

Her look killed whatever else he had planned on saying.  She looked first at him then over at the rigid back of the man whose touch had so burned her.  She put on her best regal bearing, the one she remembered Lady Rabb using to subdue the Earl.  “I see.  So not only do I not have the right to run my household or to choose my causes, I am forced to think that a man I have called friend for most of my life is a coward and a rogue.”  Her voice remained very calm and she turned on her heel and quickly left the room.

She thought she would cry when she returned to her bedroom, but she didn’t.  Instead, she went to the tall window and stood before it studying the street below.    She thought of the scene she had caused in her drawing room when Rabb had declared that he couldn’t be part of the mission to rescue the young son of Louis and Marie Antoinette because his wife was near her time and he couldn’t leave her.  Sarah had shouted at him and said “What of Lord Webb, is Lady Webb not with child also?”  She remembered Mrs. Singer standing in the hallway, listening to it all. 

She was so tired she no longer knew what to think.  She longed to talk over her feelings with someone.  She longed to apologize to Rabb for thinking he was a coward, but she realized that he wouldn’t hold it against her.  And, she suddenly realized why and that realization hurt more than anything in her life had hurt.  He didn’t love her the way she loved him and he never had.  He had always known what was expected of him and while she had been a friend and confidante, that was all. She wondered if he loved Renee or if he had ever loved anyone the way she had once loved him. 

She tiredly pulled the dress off and found the nightgown that Marie had laid out on the bed for her.

The next morning she lay in bed so long that a timid knock interrupted her musings.  She watched as Marie brought a tray to her bed. Marie picked up the gown that Sarah had left flung on the small boudoir chair.  A flash of remorse for the work that she had caused Marie shook Sarah out of her self-absorbed misery.  She thanked Marie for the tray and apologized for the trouble, which earned her a small smile before the woman left with water pitcher.

Sarah left her room just before noon.  She checked in on Clayton, who was sleeping peacefully.  She made her way down the stairs and found Admiral Chegwidden in the somewhat bare library where he was absorbed in a heavy book. He didn’t look up even though Sarah knew from the way his shoulders stiffened, that he realized she was there.  She walked calmly over to stand behind him and peer over his shoulder.  “I thought you said you didn’t know French?” 

Surprised by her opening gambit, he stuttered before he managed a gruff “No. I said I couldn’t speak it.  I can read it quite well.” 

“How very strange.  Is there any coffee?”  she countered.

He closed the book and looked up at her.  The dark circles were still evident under her incredibly sad eyes.  They locked glances for a brief second before he loudly cleared his throat.  “Coffee…uhm…yes, I believe there is coffee in the dining room on the side board.”

“Thank you, Admiral.”  She walked to the passageway where she could see an ancient oak table. 

Just as she passed through the portal she heard his gruff voice command.  “Bring your coffee back here.  There is much we need to talk about.” 

She made him wait exactly twenty minutes before returning to sit in the massive oak chair across from him.  She expected him to scold her, but he merely glared.  “Madam, I have spoken to several of our agents.  The entire army, it seems, is out scouring the streets of Paris looking for the Dauphin.”

Sarah asked worriedly.  “I thought you said he was in England.”

Chegwidden snapped back.  “He is!  But that isn’t stopping the Committee from sending out its forces to look for him and anyone who might have helped him escape.  Already, hundreds have been arrested and I am told that this house is no longer safe.  We must prepare ourselves to go into hiding and to get you out of England.”

She glared at him furiously.  “Get me out!  What about Clayton?  What about you?” 

“You, madam.  I will look after my son-in-law.  There are other safe houses.”  His tone was icy and she could only imagine what it must have been like to serve on a ship that he captained.

She ground out.  “And, just how am I to get out?  Just waltz up to a checkpoint and say, “My name is Sarah Brumby and I’d like to go home, now?  Bah!”

“Bah indeed, Madam!  You will leave through the southwest gate of Paris, ride in a carriage to the coast and board a ship anchored three miles south of Dunkirk.  Tiner is waiting outside a small abbey 10 miles from the gate. 

“And, Admiral Chegwidden, just how am I to get passed the guards at the gates of Paris.  How am I to elude checkpoints along the road to Dunkirk?”  She knew he had an answer, but was not prepared for the finality of it.

He reached for the book he had been reading and pulled from it a neatly folded document.  “A letter of transit, Madam.  Signed by Robespierre himself.”

Sarah snatched the paper from his grasp and opened it.  After she read it she looked at him incredulously.  “This is for one Mssr. Aelbout, Dutch merchant and a ‘friend of France.’  In case you haven’t realized it Admiral, I am not Dutch!  I don’t speak Dutch!  I don’t even know how to pretend to be Dutch.  Oh, and one last thing, in case it has escaped your notice.  I’m not a man at all.”  Warming to her subject she stood and put her hand on her hips and glared down at him.  “Clayton speaks Dutch.  That paper was meant for him wasn’t it?”

He would have stood but it would have involved grabbing her and pushing her out of the way.  He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do just now.  Grab her and lock her in her room until the carriage came for her, or grab her and kiss away her defiance.  Something in him told him that even when he was through kissing her like he had wanted to ever since that night when she had stood up for Webb, the defiance would still be there, and he realized that he was glad of it.

Since he couldn’t stand up, he buried himself deeper in the chair.  “Clayton and I discussed it last night.  We both agree it is best.” 

She leaned over him. “Bah, sir!  Bah ,and you know it is humbug.  Clayton needs a better doctor than he can get here.  How are you going to escape and tend to him?  No, Sir.  I would sooner go back to the prison than do what you propose.”

She stepped back, and instead of retreating as she had done in their previous encounters, she sat back down in her chair, picked up the cup and sipped the cold remains of her coffee. 

He did stand up then; his bellow nearly shook the room.  “Madam!  You will be in the carriage if I have to tie you up and throw you in there myself!”

She smiled sweetly and purred.  “And what, pray, sir, will the neighbors make of that?”

Late that afternoon a small livery, driven by one of the Admiral’s Paris contacts, pulled up in front of the small house.  Wrapped tightly in a great coat, even though the spring air was rather pleasant, a stooped man gingerly made his way down the steps.  Sarah watched, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to make it, but he did.  Once she had made the Admiral understand her reasoning, convincing Clayton had been only slightly easier.  But in the end she had won and it had surprised her. 

She turned from the window and saw the Admiral staring at her, his gaze momentarily unguarded.  A look she couldn’t quite place, flickered across his face before his stern continence returned.  She sighed. Winning the battle to get Clayton to safety had cost her much.  Chegwidden had been in a foul mood ever since he had reluctantly agreed that it made more sense for the injured Clayton to use Robespierre’s letter.  He had stomped through the house gathering his belongings.  Snarling at Claude, snapping at Marie until the small woman had run from the room, he had not spoken a word to Sarah.  He had helped Clayton dress and he and Claude had gotten the very weak young lord down the stairway.  However, Clayton had insisted that he make a show of leaving.  Now that his son-in-law’s safety was out of his control, Chegwidden snarled.  “Come Madam!  We must leave soon.  Claude and Marie have already left by the back way.  Get your cloak and we will follow them. 

She wore a pale blue traveling dress, not too old and not too new.  Her heavy black cloak, while inappropriate for spring in England would pass inspection here in revolutionary France where fabric was harder to come by and fashion was stuck in the 1780’s. 

Chegwidden’s long flowing, black great coat fit perfectly.  His riding boots, well cared for, hugged his calves.  All in all, he made an imposing figure. His tall hat sat firmly on his head, a small valise clutched in his hand. 

They left through the back garden and made their way down many streets, using alleys where they could, but keeping out of sight of anyone in republican blue.  Before this disastrous foray, Sarah had never been to Paris.  When they  left the small house in the quiet neighborhood, they had seen few people out and about.  But as soon as they crossed the Seine, and they got closer to the business and government seat of power, more and more men and women hurried past them, heads down, intent on their personal missions. 

Sarah didn’t know how far they had walked, but she knew her feet hurt and muscles not used in the weeks of her imprisonment were beginning to protest.  The Admiral seldom released the firm grip of her arm, hurrying her along.  Finally, he stopped at the base of the steep stone stairway, leading up to a grimy stone fronted building – no marking or even an address gave a clue as to its purpose. 

Chegwidden rapped a signal on the door and when a shabbily dressed doorman inquired to his business, he butchered a French code word.  At least Sarah assumed it was French.  <<<He really can’t manage the accent.>>> A small smile of triumph quirked at her lips.  <<<So tall, so imposing.  So impossibly British.>>> she thought with a haughty air.  <<<Even a mere solicitor’s daughter can speak it better than he can.>>>

Chegwidden yanked her none too gently into the hallway.  There was no ornamentation in the dim narrow room, the floor bare of any covering.  The only light came from smoking lamps hung askew from bare nails.  As they waited, Sarah tried to gauge the Admiral’s mood and her heart sank when she realized that it appeared even blacker than when they left the house. 

She started to say something when a door at the back of the passageway banged open and a most extraordinary man can hurrying drunkenly toward them.  His laugh was as rich as his clothes, at least the clothes he still had on.  His breeches, even in the dim light appeared to be the finest doeskin; his fine linen shirt, the tail of which hung loosely around his hips and mostly unbuttoned, showed a smooth chest.  The brocade vest hung loosely from his broad shoulders.  The powered wig atop his head was askew and his face was bright red from drink.  As soon as he recognized the tall man standing next to Sarah, all appearance of drunkenness left him.  “Praise God, if there is one, you made it.  And this must be the reason you risked everything.”  The man, who still had not been introduced to her, stared at her rudely.  He walked  around her, examining her, the way Earl Rabb inspected a fine filly. 

“Jean Luc.  May I present Madam Br…Madam Lafarge.” 

The anger in Chegwidden’s voice was unmistakable but Jean Luc ignored him and laughed outright.  “No last names or titles here AJ.  You know the rules.” 

Sarah whipped around and stared, trying to remember if she had ever heard the Admiral’s first name.  <<<Ajay?  What kind of name was that?>>> 

The admiral saw her consternation and muttered as he led her to the back of the house.  “Stupid French affectation.  He refuses to call me by my given name.  He says he prefers my initials.”

They were shown a dark staircase leading steeply up.  Faint noises began to float down to them, laughter and loud shrieks still muffled by the heavy oak. 

Sarah’s eyes were as large as saucers.  The people before her were all in various stages of undress and sobriety – or lack there of.  Women, whose wigs tilted wildly, twirled around with or without partners.  None of the men  were wearing jackets, few of  them were wearing their cravats. Sarah's eyes were bigger than saucers. Several of the men  were not wearing any pants at all! And, most of them were dancing or chasing women all around the richly appointed room.  The walls of the room  were hung with art that the Calvinists, a century earlier had banned from the museums of England.  Never had she seen such a thing.  Though she had heard whispers of such places.  She allowed the Admiral - she could not bring herself to even THINK of him in terms of anything else – to lead her to a small sofa in a shadowed corner.

“Stay here and don’t talk to anyone!” he hissed.  She watched as he followed Jean Luc through a door which, when it was closed, became unrecognizable from the rest of the paneling.  Immediately, a beautiful blond flopped down next to Sarah and handed her a glass of champagne.  “You must be his English rose.”  The blond smiled at her with no artifice. 

Taken aback, Sarah finished the rest of her champagne in one gulp.  “Whose English rose?” 

The blond laughed gaily.  “Why AJ’s, of course.  I knew there had to be one.  When he stays here, he always picks a tall beauty, fresh skinned, never wearing any make up.  Like you.”  Sarah blushed and gulped down the contents of her glass and looked around wildly.   A waiter in livery stood before her with a tray full of champagne glasses,  patiently waiting for her to put her empty glass down and to take another glass. 

She tried to sip slowly from the second glass.  She had eaten nothing since breakfast and the bubbly liquid was going straight to her brain.  “You must be mistaken.  I hardly know the man.  I can’t be his.  I’m…”

The blond patted her arm.  “Yes dear, I know.  Your heart belongs to someone else.  Once, when there was no one suitable, he came with me.  He spent most of the night talking about you.  I rather imagine it was your name he called out that night.”

Sarah tried to stand, but the second glass of the heady liquid had hit her hard and she sat back down.  “I don’t know what you mean.  He called my name out in his sleep?”

The blond roared with laughter.  “No dear.  Not while he was asleep.  Oh dear, what a silly little English rose you are.” 

Sarah tried again and managed to stand this time, though she was swaying slightly.  “How dare you…you…you…”

“Strumpet?  Is that the term you are looking for?”  Her tone was kind and her eyes were very sad.  “Yes…Sarah…strumpet or whore, it makes no difference.  But I wasn’t always.  Not before.”  The blond finished her champagne and gazed up at Sarah for a long time. 

The room had begun to spin and Sarah thought she would fall when his huge hand gripped her upper arm tightly.  Sarah looked up and saw that fury still ruled his eyes. 

AJ and Jean Luc had left the small private room.  AJ noticed Sarah’s flushed face and unsteady stance.  “Bloody Hell!” In the noise of the room, only his friend heard the curse.  Chegwidden grabbed Sarah, who by now was swaying perilously, and addressed the blond.  “Caroline.  I see you have met…uhm…”

“Yes AJ, I’ve met Sarah.  So pretty.  So very sweet. But now, you must excuse me. I see Philippe.”  The blond tart rose almost regally and strolled across to a fair-haired young man leaning against the far wall.

Sarah tried hard to get her equilibrium back as well as some of her composure.  “Look at her! You would think she was a duchess.” Her words were cold and almost cruel.

Jean Luc wondered what Caroline de Charnee had said to so embarrass the girl, but then he seldom listened to the gossip of the house.  He looked down at Sarah and remarked quite good-naturedly.  “She was.”  He let the shock wear off slightly before continuing.  “Come upstairs.  I’ve had a room cleaned up for you.”

Sarah followed close behind Jean Luc, evading every attempt of the Admiral to help her up the steep stairway.  She stumbled twice, but each time he reached out for her, she slapped his hand away.  Jean Luc waited for them at the top of the stairway indicating a door slightly ajar.  Sarah entered the room and once again, stood in shock.  The room was overly ornate with a flowery material everywhere; at the windows, on the four poster frame even the overstuffed furniture was covered in it.  Her head began to swim and she closed her eyes. 

She heard the door close and a gentle admonishment.  “Just how much did you have to drink down there?” 

She spun on him and nearly lost her balance in the process. He reached out and grabbed her by the arm and sat her firmly on one of the chairs placed at a round table holding several covered platters.  She jerked her arm away.  “Don’t touch me.  Don’t ever touch me again.” 

He glared down at her.  “Madam.  I am not sure what Caroline said to you, but you must remember she is quite mad.”  He jerked her around and lifted one of the covered plates.  “I suggest you eat something, to balance out all the alcohol you consumed.” 

Sarah huffed.  “She sounded quite sane to me, sir!” 

“Indeed Madam.  I don’t know why she would be.  Or why anyone should expect her to be.  Would you? After you had seen your husband hanged from a tree and your children massacred before your eyes, before the soldiers…before the soldiers….”  He dropped his eyes to his plate, unable to finish.

“Raped her.”  Sarah finished for him.   Her voice was very low, all trace of giddiness gone, replaced by a dull ache behind her eyes.  Two years ago, she wouldn’t have dared say the word, though she had read it in books and knew vaguely what was entailed in the crime. But after six months of dealing with the refugees that stayed with her in London, Sarah was more aware of certain realities.

She watched as he attacked the food in front of him and finally, she began to pick at her meal.  “Why did you never get her out?” 

He slammed his fork down and brought his hand to his mouth as if to rub away something distasteful.  “Do you think I never tried?  I have asked her every time, but each time she smiles sweetly and tells me how she must wait for Philippe.”

“Philippe?  The man downstairs?”  Understanding finally dawned.  “Oh.”

AJ pushed back from the table.  “Yes Madam, Caroline is still waiting for her dead husband to return and each man she beds is Philippe.  At least for the night.”

She knew she should let it lie but something made her ask.  “Even you?”

He spun on her, his jaw clenched and she thought for a moment that he would strike her.  Instead, he hissed out.  “Yes.  Even me.”

She placed her napkin on the table and walked over to him.  She had to see his eyes when – if – he answered her last question.  “And who are you thinking of when …?”

She never got to finish.  His hand shot out and roughly grabbed her hair and pulled her to him.  His lips descended on hers and the kiss seared her soul.  Never had any man kissed her like this.  Rabb’s kisses had been sweet and gentle and fleeting.  Brumby’s had been more demanding, but perfunctory.  AJ’s tongue pushed against her lips, demanding entrance.  So shocked by his actions, she gasped and in doing so, felt his invasion.  His free arm came around and crushed her more tightly against him, showing her how aroused he was.  The sensations were incredible.  The burning feeling in the pit of her stomach that she had first noticed when he had gently rubbed the ointment into her scalded hands, returned harder and more insistent.  She groaned in pleasure and brought her hand up to hold on to his forearm. 

Either her groan or her touch brought him back to his senses. Pulling away from her, he stood panting, trying hard to regain control.  “Oh God, Sarah… Mrs. Brumby…forgive me.  I-I apologize.  It won’t happen again.”  He turned then and fled from the room. 

Sarah sank to the floor and brought her fingers up to her swollen lips.  She understood now.  Caroline might very well be insane, but she had spoken the truth tonight.  She sat there a very long time, the noise from below, very faint.  She thought back on all the times that she had even seen him and realized that except for the night in the garden and last night in Clay’s bedroom, she had spoken no more than a few words to him.  How could he have these feelings for her?  How could she have not realized it?  She tried hard to remember the last time they had been in the same room together back in England and the memory finally resurfaced.  And she flushed in shame at having forgotten it.

It has been one of the few times she ventured back to Oxford.  Harriet’s time was nigh and she had written Sarah, asking her to be there.  Sarah had reluctantly agreed, but Michael had just set sail on his ill-fated voyage and she was bored with the endless rounds of teas held in her honor by neighbors she had no real desire to get to know.  She had taken the morning coach up to Oxford and Harriet, great with child, had met her older sister at the crossroads.  They were less than half a mile from the outskirts of the village where Rev. Roberts had his small church.  According to Harriet, she was still a month away from delivering and she felt the pain in her back she had been feeling all morning would ease from the small exercise.  Shortly after they had set off for the vicarage, Harriet had doubled over in pain.  A huge gush of water had flowed from her and she sank to her knees.  Sarah had stood there in shock for a moment and then quickly roused herself and sat her sister on a rock next to the road.  Harriet was crying and moaning and clutching her huge belly. 

Sarah looked around and prayed aloud that someone would come.  He had.  The large carriage had rounded the bend just as Sarah had given up hope and began to prepare to try and deliver Harriet’s baby at the side of the road.  The Admiral had seen them and stopped.  He quickly took charge and lifted Harriet to the seat.  Sarah had held her sister all the way into town.  Ten minutes after the Admiral had carried Harriet upstairs, he delivered her child, just as the midwife and the Reverend hurried up the walk.  In deference to Robert’s position and Harriet’s reputation, Chegwidden had paid the midwife handsomely for taking credit for the delivery.  And, since no one had known the recluse that well, no one questioned the choice of names for the baby boy, not even Sarah until just now.  Albert Roberts was now a rambunctious two-year-old. 

Sarah thought hard and tried to remember why she had forgotten the incident and another wave of embarrassment washed over her.  Sarah had been waiting in the front garden while the Admiral and the maid attended to Harriet.  She was just on her way back in when Harmon had come riding down the street.  It was the first time that she had seen him since her wedding and it was awkward and wonderful.  He had sat with her until the midwife and Roberts arrived and then quickly left..  She had been in a daze from the meeting and had forgotten that Chegwidden had stood with her for a minute after leaving the house, trying to carry on some stammering conversation, but she had practically ignored him.  Ignored the man who had probably saved Harriet and the baby’s life. 

She remembered other meetings, some quite short. Others had been at parties before Michael’s ship was lost. Always, she had looked not at Chegwidden, but for Rabb, or at Rabb He was another woman’s husband, a man who considered her merely a friend.

The candles finally began to sputter out in their holders and Sarah wearily dragged herself  over to the large bed.  She quickly stripped out of her traveling dress and crawled into the huge feather bed.  In the middle of strive-torn France, such a bed was a luxury.  The horrors of last week, and the uncertainty of the future weighed heavily on her, but she finally fell into a fitful sleep. 

The next morning, sun streamed into the room from the large window.  She got out of the huge bed but stopped when she saw him.  She had not heard him return last night, but there he was, sprawled uncomfortably across the small chaise lounge his feet planted firmly on the floor, anchoring him in place.  She studied the older man as he slept.  Now that the tension had been smoothed from his face, he appeared younger than he did while he was awake. The fate of so many lives was his responsibility.  He began to stir and she looked down at her near nakedness and quickly snatched up the dress and ran for the screen in the corner of the room.

While she was buttoning the last of her buttons, she heard the soft knock at the door.  She listened as Chegwidden opened it  and spoke softly.  When she returned to the center of the room, coffee and croissants awaited her.  He coughed gently, “There is more food downstairs, but Jean Luc thought that you… that we… would prefer to have coffee up here. 

She took the cup he offered  her, careful not to allow her fingers to touch his.  She drank deeply and then forced her eyes to meet his.  “How long will we have to stay here Admiral?”

He carefully watched  her reaction to him  and  was relieved and also saddened  by her apparent acceptance of his apologies last night.  After he had left the room, he and Jean Luc had played backgammon until nearly three.  Caroline had come up to him but he had ignored her and she had happily found someone else to pretend with.  When he returned to the room he had been surprised that she had not locked the door.  He had stared down at her, the moonlight caressing her features and he started to push a strand of hair away from her mouth but thought better of it. Instead, he had sat on the chaise lounge and watched her sleep until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

He responded brusquely, “We leave tonight.  Jean Luc called in several favors last night and a friend of his is forging travel documents for us so we can get to Brest.”

“Brest!  But isn’t that so much further away?” 

Chegwidden sighed.  “Yes.  The trip will take us two extra days of hard traveling.  But, the roads between here and Dunkirk and Cherbourg are  heavily guarded.  Word has it that Robespierre is frantic to get the boy back.  Rumors are already circulating that the boy was murdered in his sleep.  The outcry, even from his allies, will hurt his cause.  Jean Luc expects that M. Robespierre may soon fall victim to the Terror himself. He may think that the only bargain tool he has left is the boy. It will be dangerous to get to Brest, but not as fool hardy as getting to Dunkirk or Cherbourg.”

Sarah whispered.  “What news of Clayton?”

A profound look of relief passed across his face.  “I received word late last night that the ship with both he and Mr. Tiner left on the high tide.”

“Thank God.”

The morning passed slowly.  She had ventured downstairs for a heartier breakfast and was pleased to see how quiet it was.  However, the quiet was short lived, and by mid-morning the party was already heating up once again.  She felt the stares of “ladies” and heard the giggles.  she returned  to her room and napped.  Chegwidden had left her alone and did not return until late that afternoon.  The look on his face made her sigh, “What has happened now?” 

He threw  some papers on the bed and started to explain when a sharp rap at the door caused him to turn.  “Enter.” 

Jean Luc stepped through to join them. He was less disheveled than yesterday, but the air of decadence still hung about him.  Sarah noticed a small gleam in his eye that combined with Chegwidden’s dejected air, confused and worried her. 

Her nerves, after everything that had happened during the past weeks, were strung as tight as violin strings.  She snapped at them both.  “What is the matter?  Don’t just stand there, tell me.”

Chegwidden sighed and fell to the lounge.  “There’s been a snag.  The forger that Jean Luc got to do our travel papers was arrested.”

Sarah crossed her arms and swallowed back the tears of frustration.  “So, we have no papers.  We are stuck in this place.”  The tears began to pool in her eyes.  She didn’t think she could bear another night here. 

Jean Luc interrupted her dark thoughts.  “Actually…uhm…Sarah.”  He had finally gotten her name from AJ last night after several glasses of the best Cognac.  “Actually, he had delivered most of the papers early this morning.  All except one and he was on his way to pick up a form from his contact when the gendarmes arrested him.  He was wanted  for several crimes, none of them connected with us.  He will serve his time and be released and there is no reason why he should turn any of us in.”

Sarah heard the pained sigh from the lounge.  She put her hands on her hips and demanded.  “Well, are the missing papers that important?  Can’t we go without them?” 

Chegwidden stood and began to pace.  “Perhaps.  Perhaps we could say we lost them.  Perhaps…”

Jean Luc cut in.  “Yes, my friend, and perhaps they will let me visit you in prison before they take your head.  You need the certificate.”

Sarah practically screamed.  “What certificate?”

Jean Luc smiled.  “Why the marriage certificate, my dear.”

Sarah sank into the flowered boudoir chair.  “Marriage certificate?  Why?  I don’t understand.”

Jean Luc looked over at Chegwidden before explaining.  “The plan was simple.  Brest is a guarded port.  France’s navy, what little we still have, is based there.  You cannot get in and out without cause.  It’s not like Cherbourg and Dunkirk either, where Robespierre’s spies reign either.  The navy is a special case and they have any uneasy alliance with the Committee and Brest is theirs.  The comités de surveillance for Brest checks all the paperwork very carefully.  That is why Eustache needed the actual form. You will be stopped and they have people looking for such things.”

Sarah rose and joined Chegwidden in pacing.  She turned back to the Frenchman and stamped her foot.  “Then why did you choose Brest at all?  Should we take our chances at Dunkirk?” 

Jean Luc sighed.  “That is no longer an option.  This morning, we received word that both Dunkirk and Cherbourg have been closed.  No ships may leave – the few ships that arrive are allowed to unload their goods and take on water and food only.  They aren’t saying why of course, but rumors are beginning to float that someone has kidnapped the Dauphin.”

Sarah tried one last question.  “Why is the marriage certificate so important? Who carries their marriage certificate with them?” 

Chegwidden finally answered.  “Only the ones that are just married.  The plan was for me to pose as a French Naval captain on route to his new posting with his new bride.”

After the shocked look on Sarah’s face effectively shut Chegwidden up, Jean Luc continued for him.  “We had the orders from the Ministry, detailing Captain Abelard Rousseau, accompanied by his new wife Sybille to the port at Brest.  We even have the lease for a small house.  The papers and the forms are perfect.  Phillippe is an excellent forger, but the paper itself is what is important.  The guards at Brest look for such things.”

Sarah groaned.  “Why can’t we just say that they were lost, like the Admiral suggested?”

Jean Luc practically bellowed.  “Because that would entail Captain Rousseau to actually say more than a few words, wouldn’t it!”

“Oh.”  She looked over and saw Chegwidden’s acute embarrassment. He muttered.  “I planned on pretending to be sick.  Even I can manage a few perfunctory one or two word responses – all that I would need.  I understand the language perfectly. I just have never been able to manage to speak it.  My tutor was quite put out with me as a child.  I barely passed my exams at school.  Damn it, I never wanted to be a blasted diplomat – all I…” 

Jean Luc shook his head.  He had heard the story before.  He said with gentle amusement,  “There is a way out, you know.”

Sarah looked at him appraisingly.  She had been keeping an eye on him ever since she had noticed the laughter in his eyes when he had first entered the room.  She rather suspected what was to come and wondered if Chegwidden had thought of it and had not wanted to mention it to her.  Calmly she took the bait.  “What pray tell, sir, is the way out?”

Jean Luc grinned at her, but then looked warily at the back of his friend, who was staring out the window.  “It’s simple really, just go to the magistrate and get married.  Since the church has been dissolved, it is quite simple now.  No banns to be posted, no announcements made.  You go in, answer a few questions, you sign some papers and you are married. 

Sarah thought for a moment before turning to Chegwidden.  “You think you can manage the “Yes and I do?”

Chegwidden spun around and stared at her.  “You can’t be seriously considering this?”

Sarah stared at him.  “Considering what?  Getting out of Paris?  Getting home to my comfortable little house in Harley Court?”  She walked purposefully up to him and placed her small hand on his arm.  “Or consider being married to you – even for as long as it takes to get back and have the marriage annulled.  Is there another way, Adm…Albert?”

He stared down into her intense eyes and felt he was drowning.  He pulled his gaze from hers and glared at Jean Luc, convinced that something could have been done besides this.  He saw only amused compassion there.  He shut his eyes in pain.  “Very well then, madam.”

The ceremony was brief, the magistrate bored and unconcerned, barely looking at the paperwork presented to him.  Chegwidden had made a grand show of coughing and wiping his brow and his few short answers were garbled beyond his usual butchering of the language.  Jean Luc and Caroline had been the witnesses.  Caroline had insisted and Sarah didn’t have the strength to fight her.  They signed the register and Sarah was glad that her French name started with an “S” because she almost scrawled Sarah before catching herself and wondered if the magistrate would even notice.  She watched as her new husband’s florid signature began A. J. and then petered out into a flat line, the R in Rousseau looking suspiciously like a C to her.  A strange ache clutched at her heart then.   She tried to read his emotions, but his face was hard and blank.  When the ceremony was over, he quickly pecked her on the cheek.  Jean Luc and Caroline made up for his coldness, going quite over the top in their congratulations. 

The Admiral looked dashing in his French Naval uniform.  Sarah wore her blue traveling gown and the heavy cloak.  Jean Luc had found an enclosed carriage and one of his own men would drive them to the coast.  Sarah stepped into the carriage and then back down and hugged the Frenchman.  She whispered, “Thank you for all that you have done for us.” 

Jean Luc returned her hug.  “Take care of him Cheri, you have no idea of how much he cares for you.” 

She pulled back and studied him for a moment.  “Actually, I think I do.”

Chegwidden chose that moment to return from conferring with the driver.  “Do what?”

Sarah blushed and quickly re-entered the carriage.  “Nothing.”

Chegwidden shook his head and faced his old comrade.  He held out his hand, but Jean Luc grasped it and pulled him into a tight embrace.  “Be well my friend.  And, take care of your new wife.”  AJ pushed away from his friend and glared at him before turning and climbing in next to Sarah. 

The drive through Paris had been stressful.  Twice, they had been stopped by soldiers who insisted upon checking the coach.  The Admiral had gritted his teeth, but said nothing.  Finally they passed the last checkpoint and were on their way through the outskirts of the city. 

Nightfall didn’t stop them on their way. In fact, the driver picked up some speed and they reached Fougeres by mid-morning. There had been food and water in the coach and they had stopped only once. Another of Jean Luc’s men met them in Fougeres and they decided to continue on instead of resting at the small inn. 

Sarah sat across from the Admiral and watched him when he was looking out the window at the passing landscape.  She realized that she had never really studied the strong man across from her before.  He could be intimidating certainly, and commanding, but there was also a wistful air about him that she couldn’t easily reconcile.  After the driver hit the fourth pot hole throwing her nearly into his lap, she gave up and sat beside him. 

“How far to the next town?”

At first he didn’t turn from the window, but when she touched his arm he finally looked at her.  “We reach Dinan very late tonight.  We will stay at a small inn there, then begin again at noon and ride through the night.  If we are lucky, we should reach Brest by mid morning the next day.  If we are not lucky, well, Captain Galindez told Jean Luc’s man that he would only wait an extra day.”

“Galindez?  What is that? Spanish?”

Chegwidden snorted softly.  “Yes madam, a Spaniard.  An old…shall we say adversary, who owes me his life.  But the favor does not entail him risking his ship or the freedom of his crew.  If we are not in Brest two days hence, he will leave and we will be stuck.”

Sarah lay back against the plush seat, closed her eyes and pursed her lips.  She felt him shift and when she opened her eye she found him leaning over her, his side brushed against her bosom. His face was so close that if she leaned upwards, their lips would meet.  But she saw no passion or desire in his eyes now, only bitterness.  “Are you still happy in your choice to ‘help out the cause’ madam?” 

Anger at his harsh tone and words should have seized her, but she found only resignation and something else stirring within her.  She wasn’t sure why she did it, but she reached out and touched his cheek with the palm of her hand.  “Yes.”  She wanted him to kiss her again like he had in the bedroom yesterday, but instead he gripped her wrist tightly and pulled it away.  He stared down at her and then pushed away and moved to the seat that she had just vacated, his eyes blazing again. 

Sarah sighed and closed her eyes.  She laid her head back on the seat and pushed her feet against the one in front, carefully avoiding his legs.  This stretch of road was worse and she bounced and had a hard time sleeping, but she refused to open her eyes, afraid of what she would see in his.

They arrived in Dinan very late and the town should have been quiet.  Instead, people milled about whispering amongst themselves.  Their driver jumped down from the seat and spoke to a group of men.  The driver came back and reported.  “Republicans have come to hold trials and executions.  People are fleeing into the countryside and the ones who feel they have nothing to fear are waiting to see if anything happens.”

Chegwidden asked.  “What do you think?  Should we try to leave?” 

The driver shook his head furiously.  “No!  It will only draw attention to us.  The papers are in order.  I only hope that there is room in the inn.”

The admiral sighed and then nodded.  “Go.  See how many rooms we can get.” 

The man came back shortly and opened the carriage door.  The Admiral jumped down and then turned to help Sarah.   Her back hurt and her legs were shaky.  She had been sitting in the carriage for so long she wasn’t sure if she could walk the distance to the inn.  She stumbled over the cobblestones and Chegwidden reached out to steady her, his touch gentle but firm on her shoulder.  She leaned against him and managed to reach the entrance of the two-story stone and timber building that reminded her of Oxford. 

The driver went to open the door for them.   “Be careful, the man we were expecting no longer owns the inn.  I don’t know this fellow, but he says he is Julien’s cousin, Guibert and there is only one room.  I will sleep in the stable with the horses.”

The Admiral stiffened and started to say something, but Sarah clutched his shirt.  “Please, it will be fine.” 

The small room was at the top of the stairs in a small garret overlooking the street.  It was the only room left as officers and sergeants slept in all the other rooms.  The bed was narrow, but wide enough for two, which was good, considering the only other furnishing was a washstand with a bowl and pitcher. 

Sarah was exhausted.  The climb up the narrow stairs had been more tiring than she had expected.  Chegwidden watched her with concern.  “Are you going to be all right?”

She smiled back at him.  “I just need to stretch and to sleep.” 

He started to go back outside the room.

“Where are you going?” 

Sheepishly he replied.  “I thought I would give you time to get ready.  I can go downstairs and get a drink or something.”

As tired as she was, she rounded on him.  “The way you speak the language?  No.”  She stepped up to him her head tilted back so she could see his eyes in the dim candlelight.  “I don’t know what will happen once we get back to England.  I don’t know what you want from me. And I’m no longer sure what I want from you or from life.  But I do know this.  We are married in the eyes of France and you will spend this night with me and we will both get the sleep that we need so we can face the gauntlet tomorrow.” 

She turned from him and quickly shed the cloak and hung it on a peg on the wall. She undid the fastening of her dress and pulled it from her shoulders.  She heard the hiss behind her, but ignored it and shook out the dress as best she could and hung that from a hook.  She wore only her chemise and bloomers.  She considered for a moment and then reached down and removed her cotton stockings and then pulled down the coverlet and climbed into the bed.  She moved over until she was nearly touching the wall the bed was pushed against, and waited. 

She could hear his ragged breathing and longed to say something that would make him feel at ease, but she lay rigid under the covers and stared up into the dark recesses of the pitched roof.  The room was plunged into darkness as he blew out the candle.  She heard the coat whoosh from his shoulders and the floorboards creak.  She strained and imagined she heard each button pop from his uniform, his caress as he brushed the fabric off with his hand.  She did hear him unfasten his belt and kick his boots off.  She gulped as her eyes adjusted to the dim starlight.  She made out the timbers high above her and concentrated on them as she heard him pad over to the wall again and knew he was hanging up his breeches.  No power she possessed could have prevented her from glancing quickly over at him.  He was clad only in his long cotton shirt, the bottom of his undergarments just visible.  She jerked her head back as he sat on the bed and removed his stockings.  Finally the bed shifted again. His weight indented the bed so much that her body rolled slightly against him.  They both stiffened at the contact and Sarah scooted over even more, her arm neatly pinned against the wall.  They lay there - both so rigid that Sarah didn’t think she would actually fall asleep, but she did. 

The dream had been disjointed and terrible.  Scenes pulsed and pushed upon each other. People she knew being dragged to the guillotine.  Harriet and her child faced menacing soldiers.  Francesca, great with child, facing the Committee. And finally, he was standing there between her and the mob, protecting her.  When the first rock hit him and blood gushed from his head, she tried to scream but a weight was upon her mouth.  She struggled and twisted and the weight covered her body.  Finally, she opened her eyes and saw him leaning over her, his hand firmly but gently keeping her from crying out, his other arm across her, holding her tightly to keep her from thrashing about on the bed.  When she saw he was unhurt, his head clear of blood,, she stilled and stared into his eyes. The gray dawn brightened the room just enough that she could see the fear and concern in them. 

As soon as he knew she was awake he released her and started to pull back, but her hand reached out for him.  “No.  Please.  I.  I was so scared.  Everyone I knew was being hurt and there was nothing I could do about it and then the mob was upon us and I thought.  I thought….”

“You thought he was dead.”  His words held a resignation that broke her heart. 

She thought for a moment, trying hard to remember more of the nightmare and realized that Harmon Rabb hadn’t been there at all.  She would think on that later, now she needed to do something else.  He was still bent over her – waiting.  She reached up and touched him like she had in the coach; her palm pressed against his prickly cheek.  “No.  You were there.  You were there, between the mob and me.  I saw the rock strike your head and you fell and I didn’t want to go on any more.”  She saw him shudder, but still he didn’t move.  She let her hand move past his cheek and over his ear behind his neck.  She tugged him gently and he brought his lips to hers. The kiss was sweet and tender, but she wanted more.  She parted her lips but he started to pull back.  She let her tongue mimic his actions of yesterday, but he jerked away from her. 

He forced his breathing to calm before he said.  “Sarah, I can’t.  Not like this.  It isn’t real.”

She groaned.  “Please. I need to feel it again.”

He swallowed and asked quietly.  “Feel what?”

She closed her eyes, a tear traced down her cheek.  “I don’t know.  But when you looked at me that night of the ball - the one where you broke Clayton’s nose. I felt it.  I thought it was the tension.  Then that day when you helped Harriet deliver the baby, I felt it.  I thought it was just the excitement.  But I felt it when you rubbed the salve into my hands and I feel it every time you touch me.  It tightens my stomach like I’m about to be sick but it feels so good and, and…” Her breathing was matching his and she tugged at his arm, but still he didn’t move. 

“And what, Sarah.”  His tone was gentle, but insistent.

Till the day he died, Albert Jethro Chegwidden would never be sure which of them was more surprised by her actions.  She started to pull back from him, but perhaps it was her exposure to the whorehouse, because somewhere she found a hidden spark of bold courage. She took his hand and led it to the juncture between her legs.  She pushed down her bloomers and placed his hand upon her most private place and waited.  “I’ve never felt like this before.  What are you doing to me…AJ?”

He hand felt the moist heat of her sex and he closed his eyes in wonder.  He felt her stiffen and opened his eyes to see fear and shame there.  He bend down and kissed her slowly at first, allowing his hand to caress her for a moment before moving it back up to embrace her.  Her mouth opened in a moan and this time their tongues met and dueled.  He pulled back and when she groaned her disapproval, he chuckled.  “Oh, my love, there are more places that I want to kiss, that I want to taste.”

Sarah laid still at first, allowing the sensations to wash over her.  His lips on her neck, his hands on her breasts, caused bolts of ecstasy to shoot through her and down to that spot that she had forced him to touch.  She had never felt this way with Rabb and though Brumby had used her body, he had never touched her like this.  She let her body respond as it would and found her core aching for him like it had never ached for Brumby.  When AJ pulled back from her and got out of bed she looked wildly up at him, but his actions stilled and then thrilled her.  In the cold dawn light she watched mesmerized as he pulled off his shirt and pulled down his underwear.  She gasped at the sight of him.  Brumby had always made love to her in the dark and while she had felt his hardness, she never saw it. When he entered her, she felt only the rawness of it all. 

As AJ knelt before her, his large shaft poised at her entrance, a spasm of fear enveloped her.  He saw and he bent forward to gently kiss her breasts again, nuzzling them and licking them until the tips grew painfully hard.  His hand began to stroke her wetness and she gasped anew at the sensation and her body sought more contact and she felt wanton and wonderful.  “Oh please, please, please, my love, don’t stop.  Don’t ever stop.”  A sudden spasm shook her and she cried out as her head began to pound and her whole body beat to this strange new rhythm.  She felt his invasion of her core and a willed herself  not to draw back  but to revel in it. 

He took his time and entered her slowly until she felt completely filled.  He stilled then and she looked up into his love filled eyes.  “Have I hurt you?”  He whispered, afraid of her answer.

She reached up and stroked his cheek, “Never.  You could never hurt me.  I know that now.  My love, my dearest love.” 

He began to slowly rock against her, pulling out and then plunging in.  Her hands caressed the hard muscles along his back, stroking down until she touched his hips and his moan told her that he liked her touching him.  He was resting his weight on his hands and she brought her hands between them and began to play in the hair that had so fascinated her.  She found his small nipples and she ran her hands over them and was rewarded with them hardening like her own had.  She was learning so much tonight and so engrossed in the lesson of his body that her second orgasm almost took her by surprise.  The feeling started low this time and she felt her insides contract.  She looked into his eyes in wonder as they both went over the edge together. 

He hung in space a moment, every dream that he had ever had since that night in the garden fulfilled. He looked down into her love-filled eyes and knew she was seeing him, not that young pup, Rabb.  He lowered himself to lie beside her.  She groaned at the loss of him and he pulled her to him, wondering where had he ever found such luck to have such a woman look at him this way. 

They slept until the sun shown bright through the window.  They washed in the basin and quickly dressed, both a little shy around each other this morning.  When they were ready, the Admiral reached for her and pulled her to him and kissed her greedily.  “I won’t be able to do that for a while.” 

She arched a smile  at him..  “No, I can’t imagine you being able to kiss me like that in the carriage – much too bumpy.”

He laughed and helped with her cloak.  Downstairs, they   saw their driver sitting by the fire, eating his breakfast gruel.  The landlord brought them bread and cheese and thin watery coffee. 

They had just finished eating when a shadow fell across the table and a rough voice demanded.  “Papers, citizens.” 

Chegwidden glared up at the man, a corporal in the army.  In England, no corporal of the army would dare address a Captain of the Navy in such a manner.  But he could smell the stale liquor on the man’s breath and decided that since he couldn’t verbally ream the man out, he had better play along.  He reached into his great coat and brought out the forgeries.  The man examined them closely and then shot out.  “What is the news of Paris, Citizen Captain?” 

Chegwidden glared at the man and then down at Sarah who smiled at the drunken man.  “You will have to forgive my husband, Citizen, but he woke this morning with a sore throat and no voice.  But when we left, things were fine in Paris.”  This was the ruse they had planned for should just such a situation arise and she held her breath.  The man looked down at her and said something that he would never had said had he been sober.  Sarah’s eyes widened in shock, and the last thing  the man remembered was a strong fist connecting with his jaw. 

Without thinking, Chegwidden growled, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”  They quickly looked around and saw the eyes of the landlord widen in shock at hearing a French Naval officer speak in perfect English.  Sarah tugged at his arm and they ran for the door, the driver just behind them.  They ran to the carriage and the driver jumped up to the seat.  As they were pulling out of the courtyard, they could hear the shouting of the proprietor. 

As they sped through the town.  Sarah and Chegwidden looked anxiously at each other. Both of them tried to lean out the windows to see if they were being pursued, but the driver made several sharp turns through the town and they were both knocked to the floor of the carriage.  Once they hit main road to Brest, the driver drove the horses hard through the Brittany countryside.  They had been on the road for almost an hour and Sarah had begun to think that they had escaped when the driver shouted something down from his perch.  Chegwidden leaned out the window and swore.

He ducked back inside and yelled.  “There are riders coming.  The driver is going to have to leave the road.”

She nodded fearfully and gripped the windowsill as the driver left the road into the small forest to their left.  The trail he had found was little more than a footpath and the carriage jerked so hard that Sarah thought for sure they would lose a wheel.  The carriage settled and they alighted and ran deeper into the woods to wait.  They heard the thunder of the hooves and held their breaths, but the riders never stopped. 

They went back to the carriage and the driver looked at Chegwidden and asked.  “What will you do now?”

Chegwidden thought for a moment.  “How far to Brest?”

“Another six hours, Monsieur.”

The Admiral sighed and looked back toward the road.  “And when they realize that they haven’t caught up with us soon?”

The man shrugged.  “They will turn around and begin looking down these little paths, Monsieur.”

Sarah asked hopefully.  “Is there another way to get there?”

Again, the man shrugged.  “Not in six hours, Madam.”

Sarah said excitedly.  “But we have an extra day.”

The driver shook his head.  “No Madam.  Not even with an extra day.”

Sarah sighed.  “Then we have to go back.”

Chegwidden growled out.  “No.”

She put her hand on his arm.  “But, we have no choice.  We can’t fight them.  There are too many.”

“No.  They are looking for a man and woman.”  He questioned the driver.  “When you got the rooms last night, did he ask to see the papers.”

“No, Monsieur.  Only the money.”

“Then he doesn’t know the name Rousseau?”

“No, Monsieur.”

Sarah smiled up at him excitedly.  “You think we can bluff our way through then?”

Chegwidden refused to meet her eye.  “No.  They are looking for a man and woman.  Not for a woman going to join her new husband who was called away before she could join him.”

Sarah’s eyes grew big and she whispered.  “No.  I won’t.  You cannot do this.”  She looked back at the driver who suddenly discovered a problem with one of the horses’ hooves.  Sarah’s voice rose in agitation.  “We can find another way.  We can turn back and hide in Paris.”  She saw his clenched jaw and stern look and begged.  “Please, my love.  Don’t ask me to do this.  Not now.  Not when I’ve just discovered my love.” 

Chegwidden saw it was useless.  He sighed in resignation and pulled her to him.  His lips found hers and he kissed long and hard, bruising her mouth.  When he finally let her go, she closed her eyes and smiled in triumph.

She woke later, her jaw sore and her body stiff.  The carriage had stopped and it was dark out.  She moaned and rubbed her jaw and cursed, but talking hurt more.  She pulled herself up and peered out the window.  The stars were bright in the night sky.  She stepped gingerly down out of the carriage and the driver came up to her staying just out of her reach.  She wailed.  “He hit me.”

“Oui, Madam.  Very hard.  You were out a very long time.” 

She groaned and rubbed her jaw.  “Where are we?”

The driver gestured for her to go to the front of the carriage.  Below them  were the lights of a thriving port town. Several large ships anchored in the harbor.  She whispered.  “Brest?” 

“Oui, Madam.”

Sarah closed her eyes the tears coursing down her cheeks.  The driver looked on pityingly.  “Where did he go?”

“He would not say, Madam.  He said to tell you that he would make it back and to wait for him in London.”

“How long?”

“How long will it take, madam?  Who knows?  He is a very brave man, madam.  He will make it back.”  He held the door of the carriage open for her.  “Come madam, it is time.  I will meet the captain of the Cortez at the meeting place and you will be in London tomorrow, if the tides are right.”

Victor Galindez prided himself on being able to bed any woman he wanted.  The Englishwoman who  boarded his boat was certainly pretty enough, but the look in her eye and the bruise on her jaw warned him off.  The driver had explained what had happened on the road and Galindez doubted that any Englishman could get out of the strife- ridden country.  But if anyone could, his old nemesis from his pirating days would.  Galindez gave his cabin over to the stricken woman and while he personally brought her meals, he never stayed and the cabin boy always brought the tray out with none of the food touched. 

The tide was high and Galindez sailed his boat right up the Thames and docked at the port of London.  He escorted her down the gangplank and insisted upon driving her home.   The only words that he heard her speak in two days were her address.  He handed her down in front of the neat cottage and followed her up the walk to the door.  She reached for the handle and turned to him.  “Thank you Captain.  You will understand if I do not offer you any refreshment.”

Galindez smiled back at her.  “Señora, Chegwidden will make it back.  He is a very stubborn man.” 

“Thank you Captain.” She watched as he turned and walked back to the cab. The door behind her swung open and she was momentarily surprised not to see Singer standing there. Then, she remembered that it was Mrs. Singer’s duplicity that had started this horrid adventure.  She snapped.  “Who the devil are you?” 

The petite woman stared in consternation at the disheveled woman standing before her.  She started to retort back but a gentle voice behind her stopped her.  “That will be all Mrs. Parker.  Let Mrs. Brumby into her house.” 

Harmon Rabb stood in the foyer and tried to help Sarah with her coat but she slapped away his hand and shed the cloak herself.  “He isn’t here, is he?”

Rabb looked at her in some surprise.  “Who Sarah?  Clayton?  No, he’s recovering at home.  He’s fine. He asked me to wait here for you.  Did the Admiral go there to see him and Francesca?” 

She put her foot on the step leading up to the bedrooms.  “No, the Admiral is still in France.  Go home, Lord Rabb.”

Rabb grabbed her arm.  “Sarah!  Tell me what happened.”

She tried to work up some anger, some emotion, but it was just too hard.  “He knocked me out so the driver could get me into Brest.  Then he left to find another way home.  Maybe he went back to the whorehouse in Paris.”  She was pleased to see the shocked look on his face.  Her laugh was bitter and she could feel  hysteria rising along with bile.  “Go home, Rabb.”

The next two weeks passed in a blur.  The only thing she remembered was that she refused to allow Mrs. Parker to answer the door.  Every knock sent her running, praying it was he, but it was always someone else, Harriet or Rabb or others of the cause.  All of them hoping to hear that she had heard something. 

She woke up one morning, three weeks later feeling sick and nauseated.  She thought she was getting a cold and stayed in bed all day, eating only the weak tea and crackers that Parker brought her.  Late that afternoon, there was a knock at the door and she heard Parker answer it and a pleased.  “Yes, your lordship.  No sir, she’s not feeling well; she's in bed.  Oh, I don’t think you should, sir.” 

Sarah couldn’t make out the man’s voice but the slow tread on the stairs gave her a clue. 
Even before she saw him, she called out, “Hello, Clayton.”

His wan grin greeted her.  “Hello, Sarah.  Not feeling well?”

She turned her head away.  “I wasn’t this morning, but now I’m fine.  I just don’t want to get up.  There’s really no reason to.”

He pulled up a chair and gingerly, sat down. 

Guilt washed over her.  “Oh God, Clay.  I’m sorry.  I should have come round.  It’s just I don’t want to leave.  He said he would meet me in London.”  She put her face in her hands.  “But, that’s no excuse for not coming to see how you are doing.  And how Francesca is fairing.  How is she?”

Clayton stared at her a very long time.  He had suspected that his father-in-law held a soft spot for Sarah, but he was sure that she would never consider the older man – or any man – as a suitable substitute for Harmon Rabb.  It had saddened him, but he could think of nothing to say or do at the time.  But he realized that something had happened in Paris.  He cleared his throat.  “Francesca is fine, but she is bored to tears.  I’m no help.  I just get in the way.  The men come to the house and we plan, but without the Governor, we're unsure as to what course to take.  I wish you would come and visit her.”  He looked away for a moment before continuing.  “I – we need to know what happened in France, Sarah.  Will you come and tell us all?”

She turned her head to the wall.  “In a few days, Clayton.  Once I get better.” 

He sat for a while longer and then rose to leave.  Just as he passed the threshold, she asked softly.  “And what of the boy, Clayton?”

Clayton looked down the hallway and listened.  He heard Mrs. Parker at the other end of the house and turned back and whispered softly, “He is up in Nottingham with a good couple.  He’s – he’s not right, Sarah.  We’re not sure if he will ever be.” 

Sarah nodded and thought of the Dauphin, and Caroline and all the other people of France who had suffered in the name of Liberty. 

After three more weeks she had convinced herself that he was dead.  She was still not feeling well, but usually it was just in the morning and she convinced herself that it was due to her odd hours and the fact that she wasn’t sleeping very well.  One morning, she was looking out the window and it was so pretty and bright out that she shook herself and declared to Mrs. Parker.  “I’m going out, today.  I’m not sure when I will be back but don’t plan lunch.  I will dine with Lady Webb.”

She took a hansom cab to Regent Park where Lord and Lady Webb lived.  She climbed the stairs and was let in by the parlor maid and shown to the morning room.  Moments later, Francesca came in.  Now very great with child, she still moved with an awkward grace.  “Sarah, thank goodness you’ve gotten some fresh air.  Clayton has been quite worried.”

Sarah hugged the woman she could now call daughter and smiled sadly.  She had told them little of what had transpired that day and nothing of the signatures in the magistrate’s book – in fact, except for the way she felt, she was unsure whether or not the marriage was even valid.  They sat and talked and after tea was served, they heard the door open and males voices drifted into them.  Sarah looked up and saw Clayton and Rabb standing in the doorway looking at her suspiciously.  She smiled and raised her cup.  “I thought it was time we talked.”

The men sat down and she told them everything she could remember, leaving out only the part where she and the admiral had pledged their troth and the night in the inn. 

She thought she had done a rather good job of editing, but found when she looked up, that Francesca was studying her closely.  “Clayton tells me you have been ill, dearest.  Have you seen a doctor?”

Sarah shook her head.  “No, I’m just tired and I haven’t been sleeping and then when I do fall asleep, I can’t seem to wake up.”  She laughed gently.  “I’m only sick in the morning and then tea and crackers seem to take care of the problem.  I’m sure it will clear up eventually. 

Francesca smiled knowingly into her teacup and gently rubbed her swollen belly.  She wasn’t sure what had transpired between Sarah and her papa, but she hoped he would come home soon.  A thought struck her and she grew very nervous.  “Clayton, would you show Harmon that picture you brought home last week.  I’m sure he will recognize the artist, he’s so good at that sort of thing.”  Clayton peered at his wife, and sighed.  He knew perfectly well who the artist was.  But he had learned not to argue with her during these last weeks.  He stood and led a bemused Rabb from the room.

Sarah stared at her friend.  “Francesca is something wrong?”

Francesca studied the pattern on the teacup for a while and when she began to speak, she didn’t look up.  “Sarah…I…while you were in prison…did the guards?” 

Sarah was confused and had no idea what her friend was asking.  “Did the guards what?”  When she didn’t get an answer she stood and knelt before the girl.  “Did the guards what, Francesca?  What do you want to know?”

The girl blushed and finally met her gaze.  “All the stories that we’ve heard of the mistreatment and the…”

Sarah finally understood.  “and the rape.  Is that what you want to know?  Did they rape me?  No.  No one… Why do you ask?”  Francesca stared back at her and complete understanding hit Sarah like a brick.  She sat back on the floor and hugged her knees close to her chest.  “No.  It can’t be.”  Her face flushed and she looked back up at the girl staring down at her with such caring and pity.  “Oh God, no.”

She buried her head in the folds of her dress,  then suddenly stood up.  “I have to go. I have to think now.”  She grabbed her cloak from the stand and turned to leave. 

Francesca got unsteadily to her feet.  “Sarah, don’t.  Stay, we will figure something out.” 

Sarah ran into the hall just as Clayton and Rabb were coming down the stairs.  They looked at her in shock and Rabb pushed past his friend to go to her, but she didn’t give him time and flung open the door and started to run down the steps when a shabbily dressed, bearded man grabbed her.  “Sarah!” 

She stared wildly at the long hair and the graying beard and looked into his eyes.

Rabb opened the door and stood in shock.  He expected to find her running down the street. Instead, he found Sarah in the arms of a balding vagabond, kissing him with an abandon that was embarrassing.  He felt Clay come up behind him and instead of hearing his friend shout out in anger, he heard a loud whoop.  “Francesca, your father is home.”

Rabb and Clay started to come down the stairs when the Admiral finally tore his mouth away from Sarah's. She was the only reason he had made it through all the treacherous miles of France.  He threw his arm around her shoulders and together, they climbed up to meet their friends. 

AJ bathed and shaved and came back downstairs much later.  He was thinner than Sarah remembered, and his clothes hung somewhat from his tall frame.

Francesca insisted upon serving dinner and as they all sat around the table laughing, they filled the Admiral in on all the latest gossip.  They, in turn listened as he described his adventures getting back to Paris and then to Dunkirk, where he had managed to sneak aboard a Dutch merchant ship. 

He looked tiredly at his son-in-law.  "Perhaps you can get word to the Prime Minister for me, Webb.  The unrest is continuing, but the beheadings may very well be over soon."

Webb raised his wineglass and drank, then asked. "Why is that, sir?"

"Just as I reached Dunkirk we received the news.  "Robespierre is dead.  He went to the guillotine."

Clayton nearly dropped his glass, stood, kissed his wife and hurriedly left the house, Rabb tight on his heels. 

Chegwidden stood and looked down at Sarah.  "Madam, I am tired.  Are we staying here or returning to your house?" 

Francesca gasped.  "Papa!”

Chegwidden looked inquiringly at Sarah.  "You didn’t tell them?"  Seeing her blush, he asked softly.  "Do you still want the marriage annulled, madam?"

Two feminine voices assailed him.  "No!"

Chegwidden looked over at his daughter in surprise and then back at Sarah in consternation.  "Madam?"

Sarah sighed and rose.  She looked at Francesca for a moment and then turned back to AJ.  "Perhaps, we should return to my house, though I fear that it is nothing so grand as this.  I have much to tell you though."

Chegwidden nodded and then went to his daughter and kissed her on the cheek.  "Will you be all right? Should we stay?"

"Go papa.  I will be fine.  Go home with your wife."  She glared over at her friend.  "But come back tomorrow and be sure to bring Sarah with you.  She and I have much to discuss and plan."

Sarah blushed and allowed Chegwidden to lead her from the room.  Lady Webb called for her carriage and instructed the driver to take her father and his bride back to Harley Court. 

They talked little during the drive through the streets of London.  Sarah looked out the window and marveled at the difference between the two cities.  People here strolled through the summer kissed streets, houses shown brightly with candles and lamps.  She looked around at him.  He looked tired and apprehensive and she knew she had to make him know how much she wanted him for himself and not just as a father to her child.  But she wouldn’t keep the information from him, either.  The carriage pulled up at her gate; the driver jumped down and held the door of the carriage open while AJ helped her down. 

He led her up the walk and just as he started to open the door, Sarah stopped him.  "Admiral…sir," she took a deep breath, "AJ.  Come and sit in the garden."  She led him to the small bench that was hidden from view of both the house and the street by the privet hedge.  She looked up at the stars and then back down at his hand in hers, his thumb gently rubbing the back of hers, sending familiar sparks through her. 

She started slowly, softly.  "When Captain Galindez brought me home, I waited for weeks.  I – I was so scared that I wouldn’t be here when you came back.  I wasn’t sleeping properly and I felt ill and of course, my jaw hurt like the devil." 

He released her hand and brought his up to caress the spot where he had hit her.  The bruise was long gone and she groaned at his touch. 

 "God, Sarah.  Can you forgive me?" 

"Yes.  But I think I will not let you forget it for awhile."  He made out the small smile in the moonlight.  "Clayton would stop by and Rabb and even Mr. Tiner, but I wouldn’t leave.  I didn’t really feel like it.  But, today I just had to get out."

AJ reached around her shoulders and brought her to his chest.  He kissed the top of her head.  "I came here first.  Mrs. Parker didn’t want to tell me where you had gone at first, but I convinced her. And, I found you.  I found you, Sarah and I’m never letting you go again.  Unless...” His voice dropped to a whisper.  "Unless, of course, you don’t want me and you do want to get the marriage annulled."

Sarah sat back up and took his face in her hands and stared into his eyes.  "Didn’t you hear what I said?  I waited here for you for nearly six weeks.  Want you?  Yes, I want you in ways that a decent woman isn’t supposed to want a man.  The way you made me feel in Dinan. I want to feel that again, AJ.  But...” She dropped her hands, stood and turned away from him. 

His hands followed her hands and embraced her, pulling her back against his chest.  "But what, Sarah?" 

"I think...  We... Francesca and I, think that..."

He spun her around.  "Think what?"

"I’m carrying your child, AJ” She searched his face, looking for some kind of sign of displeasure.  "AJ, I want you, not just as father for my baby... for our baby."

He looked at her in awe.  "You’re sure?"  Before she could answer, he picked her up, and spun her around, causing her to throw back her head in laughter.  The door to the cottage opened and a small voice called out.  "Who's out there?  I shall call the footman." 

Sarah pulled AJ up to the doorway.  "Mrs. Parker, this is your new Master.  Admiral Chegwidden, my husband."  She said it with wonder and pride.  The look on her housekeeper’s face was priceless. Mrs. Parker held the door open and allowed them to enter ahead of her. 

Sarah smiled back at the woman, as she led AJ upstairs.  "Goodnight Mrs. Parker."

Sarah led him into her bedroom.  Suddenly shy, she swallowed and looked around at the rather feminine room she had brought him to.  He saw her nervousness and reached around her and firmly closed the door.  He pulled her to him and kissed her deeply before turning her around and expertly attacking the small buttons that Francesca’s maid had spent a painstaking amount of time doing up before dinner.  He pulled the dress off her shoulders and bent down and kissed her neck.  She groaned and he smiled.  "You like that?  I’ll have to remember." 

She turned to face him.  She gathered up the dress and laid it gently over the chair next to the vanity.  She watched as he quickly shed his clothes and boots.  She swallowed as she made out his erection in the candlelight.  She looked back up into his eyes and whispered, "Tell me how to please you." 

He pulled her into a searing kiss.  Her lips parted and she greedily pulled his questing tongue into her warm mouth.  His hands roamed up and down her body still covered by her undergarments.  He pushed her away, gently breaking their kiss and sat on the bed.  "Let me watch you undress." 

She blushed and complied, pulling her shift over her head.  When she was finished she stood before him, glowing in the candlelight, her firm breasts jutting out, her aureoles a deep salmon color that he hadn’t noticed in France. 

"Come here."  His demand was hoarse with his passion.  She moved to stand between his legs and waited, her hands resting at her sides.  He reached up and began caressing and squeezing her breasts.  He brought his lips to the valley between them and began kissing back and forth.  Her pleasure increased and her moans were almost a song now.  Finally he took one nipple between his teeth and began to nibble.  The sensation pooled in her moist center and she arched her back and cried out his name.  His hands began a slow downward search until they found her mound. 

He parted her legs to get better access and his long fingers began to stroke her until she was nearly incoherent.  He stopped then and pushed her back slightly so he could stand.  He turned her around and lowered her to the bed.  She willingly spread her legs and invited him into her arms.  Kneeling between her legs, he slowly entered her, watching the look of ecstasy on her face as he filled her.  He had thought of nothing else all those long weeks, as he hid in hay racks and barns.  He thought of this as he huddled under low stone bridges while French soldiers marched overhead. 

His passion overtook him and he cried out, "Dear God, Sarah, I love you."

"I love you too, AJ.  Only you."