Free Seduction by Brenda Joyce Page A

one moment, she was certain he meant to kiss her palm. Instead, he looked up at her from beneath his heavy dark lashes. She felt his heart beating, thickly, a bit swiftly. “What would your neighbors do, if they knew I was here?”
    “They must never learn that you are here!” She added, “You have a disconcerting habit of changing subjects so suddenly.”
    “I suppose I do. Your neighbors do not share your sympathies, I fear.” He released her.
    “No, they do not.” She was grim. “There are a few radicals in the parish, but since Britain joined the war against France, patriotism has swept most of Cornwall. It is best if my neighbors never know that you are here—or were here.”
    It was as if he hadn’t heard her. “And may I ask who your neighbors are and how close they are to this manor house?”
    He was interviewing her again, she thought, but she did not blame him. If she were in his position, she would be asking him the same questions. “The village of Sennen is just a short walk from the manor, and it is much closer than the farms that border Greystone. We are rather isolated.”
    He absorbed that. “And just how far is the closest farm?”
    Did he truly think that he was in jeopardy from their neighbors? “Squire Jones leases his lands from Lord Rutledge, and he is about a two hours’ ride from us. Two other farmers lease their lands from the earl of St. Just, but they are perhaps fifty kilometers away. Penrose has a great deal of land to the east, but it is barren and deserted. The Greystone lands here are also barren—we have no tenants.”
    “Does the squire call? Or Rutledge?”
    “The only times Squire Jones has ever called was when his wife was terribly ill. Rutledge is a boor and a recluse.”
    He nodded. “And St. Just?”
    “St. Just has not been in residence in years. He runs in very high Tory circles in London, as does Penrose—who is rarely in the parish. I believe they are friends. Neither man would ever call, even if they were here.”
    “How far away is St. Just? Penrose?”
    “The manor at St. Just is an hour from here, by horseback—in good weather. Penrose’s estate is farther away.” Attempting levity, she added, “And the weather is rarely good, here in the southwest.” She reached across the table to take his hand. “I don’t blame you for asking so many questions. But I don’t want you to worry. I want you to rest and heal from your ordeal.”
    His gaze held hers. “I am exercising caution. Where are we, exactly, Julianne?” He glanced down at her hand, as if he did not want her to touch him now, and then he slid his hand away from hers. “Is it possible to have some maps?”
    Almost hurt, she said, “We are above Sennen Cove. You are more worried than you have let on!”
    He didn’t respond to that. “How far is Sennen Cove from Penzance?”
    “It is an hour’s drive by coach.”
    “And the Channel? We are on the Atlantic, are we not? How far is it on foot to the closest point of departure?”
    He was already thinking about returning to France, she thought, stunned. But he was weak—he could hardly leave anytime soon! “If you walk down to Land’s End, which I can do in fifteen minutes, you are, for all intents and purposes, facing the southernmost portion of the Channel.”
    “We are that close to Land’s End?” He seemed surprised, and pleased. “And where is the closest naval station?”
    She folded her arms across her chest. This was undoubtedly how he was when in command of his troops. He was so authoritative, it would be hard to refuse him—not that she had any reason not to answer him. “There is usually a naval gunship at St. Ives or Penzance, to help the customs men. Since the war began, our navy has been diverted to the Channel. From time to time, however, a gunship will cruise into one port or another.”
    He steepled his hands and leaned his forehead there, deep in thought.
    “When will you leave?” she heard herself ask, her tone