Page 23 of A Lady's Past
She leaned in too, bringing her face within a few inches of his. Heart racing and her brain blaring warnings, she knew she should leave, but he drew her in like nothing and no one else ever had. She whispered, “What you ask can get you killed, and I cannot be responsible for anyone else’s life.”
Sorrow marred his smile and he ran his fingers along her jaw. The touch was innocent, but traveled through her like a lightning bolt. Before she’d been captured, his attention would have been fun and amusing. She might have giggled and found a way to avoid him. Mother would have been frustrated with her lack of interest in marriage. Father would have been happy to retain his assistant and confidante. They would have gone on happily.
Yet the way he looked at her. Perhaps even in lighter times, she could not have resisted Jacques Laurent. Oh, but how she longed to meet him under different circumstances.
Heavy footsteps in the hallway forced them both to sit up.
“It’s so nice to have someone in the house. My lady hasn’t been here in nearly six months. Once His Grace was well married, she stopped visiting. I suppose she has nothing else to nag him about.” Mrs. Poppy chuckled as she waddled in and set the tea tray on the table in front of them. “I’ll just set this here.”
Diana turned her head, looking at the fire.
“Thank you, Mrs. Poppy. We can manage from here. We will not be staying long.” He spoke to the housekeeper as he did anyone of the ton. He seemed not to know that in England, servants were commanded and lords were pampered.
“Take your time. If you need anything else, just ring for me.”
As soon as she was gone, Jacques poured the tea and handed Diana a cup. “I am willing to take the risk, and you are certainly not responsible for me, Diana.”
The tea was strong and hot in contrast to how she felt on the inside. The weariness that followed her between escapes, running and hiding, settled over her. “I’m so tired of lying. What I tell you, you must keep to yourself. If you mention me in passing, you’ll destroy me and possibly yourself. I am poison.” She took a deep breath. “My name is MacLeod. Diana MacLeod. My father was a Scot and my mother English. I was born in the borderlands.”
“Your father was the inventor who went missing, Jacob MacLeod? They said he collaborated with the French on some kind of improvements to black powder.” His eyes narrowed and a tightness tugged at his tone.
“Is that what your French friends say? Lies and half-truths. They wanted my father to improve the effectiveness and range of the Indian rockets.” It was impossible to keep her voice level. She needed him to hate her, to leave her, but that didn’t mean it was what she wanted.
He lowered his voice. “I have come to England and brought my family here at great cost to avoid those ‘friends’ you speak of.”
Closing her eyes, she took a few breaths. Her temper, emotions and exhaustion were catching up with her.
The cushion shifted, and when she opened her eyes, he was closer, looking into her face as if he could read something there beyond her words. “Tell me what happened, from the beginning.”
Unable to ignore the plea in his voice, she sighed. “Three years ago, just before Christmas, some men came to our home and put sacks over our heads. The servants tried to help, but they were silenced. I think Dickerson, our butler, was killed, but I can’t be sure.” She brushed a tear away. Never knowing what had happened to the servants had been so hard. They had been with her family her entire life.
Jacques thumbed away another of her tears. “Where did they take you?”
“We were placed in the hold of a ship. They fed us barely enough to survive. Mother was sick most of the voyage. Father kept demanding to know what was happening, but the French crew would tell us nothing.
“When we reached land again, they put the hoods back on our heads and carted us off to some dungeon where they made every attempt to force my father to work to improve their chances of winning the war. They had a great deal of information about the work of William Congreve, but their information was several years old. I suppose whoever they were using as a spy either was killed or reposted. My father was a good friend of Congreve’s. They shared experiments, but while Father had the expertise, he’d lost interest in rockets when his ideas were rejected by the English. Congreve continued his work and Father read his friend’s papers, but certainly had no desire to help the French. He refused…” A shiver ran up her spine. Every word brought her back to those horrifying days.
Pulling her into his arms, Jacques leaned back and wrapped her up in his warmth. He ran his hands along her arms, infusing heat as he went. “What happened?”
Images of that damp, dark dungeon blasted her memory. Pain and horror stiffened her muscles. “Mother wasn’t the fighting type. She sewed and knitted quite a lot. She enjoyed her garden and writing letters to old friends. Yet faced with these terrible men, she remained stoic. After six months, she’d completely stopped speaking. I would try to draw her out of her cocoon, but she just stared at nothing. At night, Father would hold her, and she cried. Even her weeping gave me comfort. The silence was unbearable. Though I think her retreat inward was her way of protecting herself.
“Father fought more openly at first. He yelled in English and French. Occasionally, he ranted in Latin. After a while, he too gave up and just plodded along with the work they wanted him to do. He’d stand for hours over the workbench. One day he caused a small explosion.” The guards nearly had apoplexy when they ran in to the cell. Father hid his grin, only sharing it with her.
Her throat clogged at the memory of one joyous moment in the misery of their imprisonment. It was impossible to speak of the things that happened in that dungeon.
Jacques took her hand, kissed her fingers, and held it to his heart. “They tortured you and your mother to keep your father working?”
The words stuck in her throat, but she managed a nod. The steady beating of his heart synchronized with hers. Two hearts chimed as one. As foolish as it was, she reveled in the rhythm.
“Did your father succeed in improving their rockets?” His voice was level, with no accusation.
She shrugged. “He gave them bits. Just enough to keep us alive, nothing that would really make a difference.”
“But he could have,” Jacques said.
“Yes, well, when Victor realized Father was stringing them along, he became angry and thought to force his hand. My father was a sweet, kind, thoughtful man of science. My last sight of him was as an animal who attacked a guard with a shard of the glass beaker he’d smashed. Both he and my mother were killed during the fight.” More tears poured down her face and she couldn’t make them stop.
Jacques tightened his hold and kissed her temple.
