A Love Laid Bare by Constance Hussey Page B

she hurt so.
    “Of course you can, child. You are doing it.
Try to push. Bon…bon , you do well.”
    With the last of her strength, Frances pushed.
    “The head is through,” Martine said urgently. “Now,
bear down once more.”
    “Très bien!” Madame Fournier’s cry rang out, and the
thin wail of a newborn baby filled the room. “A girl, ma
chère , a healthy girl,” she said and swiftly cut and tied off
the cord.
    Crying, laughing, Frances held out her arms, her
heart swelling with joy. “A daughter. Please, may I see her? I want
to hold her.”
    Martine cleaned the infant’s face, swabbed out her
mouth and deftly swaddled the tiny body. “But you are not yet
finished. Push once more for me and we will get you cleaned up as
well.” The young woman laid the baby on Frances’ breast and then
leaned on her womb.
    Frances’ felt the gush of the afterbirth, but not
even this pain distracted her from her fascination with the tiny
person lying over her heart. Red-faced and wrinkled, wisps of fair
hair plastered to her head, she was the most wonderful sight in
Frances’ life. “She is beautiful. So perfect.”
    Frances held out a hand to Martine. “Thank you. Thank
you both so much. You saved me, saved Flora.” She touched the
infant’s cheek. “Her name is Flora Anne, after my grandmother.”
     
    ***
     
    Sussex 1809
     
    A few candles still burned when Frances emerged from
the past, the rest having spluttered out as the story unfolded.
Richard, seated now, was more shadow than substance in the fitful
firelight, but his gaze lay on her with an almost physical
intensity. She closed her eyes, uneasy with the long silence. What was he thinking? That you had no one but yourself to blame?
That you could have tried harder to get word to England? Perhaps it was true. Had she used the safety of the villagers as an
excuse?
    No! She had not done so, at least not
consciously. When she again had her wits about her, the time to
send messages had passed. Don’t search for any more reasons to
feel guilty, Frances, when you already have enough of them.
    His voice came abruptly out of the gloom.
    “If your benefactors were so reluctant to send word
on your behalf, how did you get to Portugal?”
    Frances started and picked up her forgotten glass of
wine, wishing she could see his face.
    “I have Napoleon’s recruiters to thank for that,”
Frances said. “On one of their periodic visits to the village, I
happened to be outside with Flora. One of the men asked about me.”
Her mouth tightened as she pictured the rapacious expression on the
Frenchman’s face. “When the same man returned a second time, with
yet more questions, Madame and Jean-Claude judged it wise for me to
leave.”
    Frances set aside her drink and rose. “I was more
than ready,” she said, “and had already considered the possibility
of persuading Jean-Claude to take me to Portugal if England was out
of the question.”
    “Plus, you held out the promise of a healthy payment
on the other end, I suppose.”
    Halcombe’s tone was more resigned than cynical.
Frances was unsurprised by his taut smile, visible now that he was
on his feet. He moved closer to her—too close. She stepped
back.
    “Yes, I was certain Aunt Olivia would help.” Her
senses were assaulted by his heated gaze. Her heart beat in heavy,
painful thuds. The warmth of his body, the long-missed male scent
of him, stirred feelings she’d wanted to keep buried forever, and
she edged away.
    He stopped her in mid-step with a hand on her
shoulder and leaned even closer, raising her chin with his thumb.
His breath feathered her hair.
    “A very edifying tale, my dear, if not complete. Tell
me, Frances,” he said, his voice and eyes equally cold, “why did
you not send word from Portugal?”
    Frances wrenched from his grasp. “I don’t know!” She
gazed at him in despair, the brittle silence raw with misery.
    “You don’t know,” he said finally, in tone so laden
with contempt and