When he was seventeen, he’d told her yesterday. Before that, he remembered nothing.
Her blood drummed in her ears. Her mind boggled, teetered on the edge of comprehension. A great void opened at her feet.
It was not possible. The man who had spirited her to safety seven years ago had been no youth of seventeen. He had appeared out of the darkness like the answer to a prayer, tearing her from her old life, setting her on a new course. The same man. This man, Lucien Hartfell. Her brain could not conceive it.
She could not hear, she could not think, over the pounding in her head. She could not remember every word overheard eight years ago in the barn, in the dark. So she listened to her heart instead.
“When you came to Moulton to court Julia, did you know you would find me here?” she asked.
Lucien held himself as stiffly as a prisoner before the Tribunal, condemned before he opened his mouth. “No. I lost . . . track of things for a while.”
An unexpected tenderness unfolded inside her, an aching pity, a sorrow for something she did not understand.
When you lose your powers, your memory goes, too.
Had she recalled those words? Or imagined them? It did not signify. What mattered was that Lucien was not invulnerable after all. In his own way, he was as lost, as confused, as she.
“Then I must be grateful,” she said, “to God or the Fates, who brought you to me again when I was in need.”
His gaze met hers, stunned.
She smiled and stood on tiptoe to press her lips lightly to his. “I am grateful. For both times.”
His marble face flushed. He made her a bow, oddly formal. “I am always here,” he said. “If you need me.”
Chapter Eight
Everyone—from Sir Walter and Lady Basing in their separate rooms on the second floor to the hall boy on his pallet by the kitchen fire—was settled for the night.
Aimée tossed on her narrow bed, unable to get comfortable. Her feet were too cold. Her sheets were too rough. An unfamiliar restlessness invaded her veins. She thanked God and Lucien that for the first time in weeks she could sleep without a chair jammed under her door, alone without fear.
Except she no longer wanted to sleep alone.
Aimée flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She was a Frenchwoman. She must be practical. Lucien had rejected her once for what she was certain were very good reasons. She was not at all sure she had the courage to gamble her heart and risk her reputation only to be rejected a second time. She needed to think of her future.
A future without love? Without passion? Without Lucien.
She threw back the covers and reached for her dressing gown.
Foolishness.
Or very great wisdom.
She found she did not care.
She crept down the attic stairs. In the past, she had been grateful for each small telltale creak that might warn her of Howard climbing up the stairs. Now every betraying sound made her teeth clench and her hand squeeze the bannister tighter. She breathed easier when she reached the carpeted hallway on the second floor. Bedchamber doors stretched along either side of the corridor. Downstairs, a clock chimed. Bing bong, bing bong.
Christmas Eve. A night for miracles.
Aimée stopped outside Lucien’s door, her bare toes curling into the carpet. Her heart thumped. Stay or go? Knock or open the door? A rap might bring Lucien. Or it could attract the attention of another guest.
She took a deep breath for courage and opened the door.
Shutting it behind her, she stood a moment on the threshold to get her bearings. A faint light filtered through the open draperies. Of course. Martin was in London. Lucien had no manservant to draw the curtains, to turn down the bed.
She peered into the shadowed recesses of the room. She could barely make out the dark bulk of Lucien’s body on the bed, the pale curve of one bare shoulder rising above the covers.
Her mouth went dry with daring and desire. She wet her lips and whispered. “Lucien?”