Free The Falcon and the Sparrow by M. L. Tyndall Page A

he wandered the halls at night. She had nearly run into him once on her way to check the door to his study. Well past three in the morning, she’d thought everyone would be asleep, but after inquiring of Larena the next morning, the chambermaid informed Dominique that the admiral rarely slept through the night.
    Which made Dominique’s task all the more difficult.
    However, he seemed to be avoiding her, as well. After that horrifying and embarrassing night when he’d discovered her in his bedchamber, he had left early each morning to the Admiralty, only to return late in the evening, taking his supper in his chamber. Why, he’d not even spoken to his son. And of course, every time she got up the nerve to check the door to his study, it was locked. They’d had no visitors. She had heard nothing about naval plans, and she was beginning to think she was wasting her time while Marcel’s was running out.
    “Garçon,” William spouted with glee.
    “Very good, William. You sound like a true Frenchman.”
    “What’s this I hear?” a screeching voice blared from the doorway, and in stomped Mrs. Barton in a flurry of lace. “Did you say a Frenchman ?” Her normally creamy skin flushed a deep red, and her dark eyes sent out more sparks than a crackling fire.
    Dominique’s stomach clenched. “I’m teaching William French, Mrs. Barton.” She rose and pressed the blue and white folds of her skirt, mainly to keep her hands from shaking. “ ’Tis important he knows more than one language.”
    “Teach him Latin, then.” She snorted and stalked to the fireplace. “And what on earth are you still doing here?”
    “He needs to know a spoken language, milady. French would be quite useful.”
    William tossed the tablet to the side and scooted to the edge of the sofa, his eyes wide.
    “ ’Tis all right, William.” Dominique gave the boy her most comforting grin.
    The boy timidly looked at Mrs. Barton. “Auntie, why are you so angry with Miss Dawson?”
    “Never you mind, child. I’m not cross with you.” She snapped off her gloves and warmed her hands by the fire. “I declare, where are those lazy servants? This fire needs tending. Why, they should all be dismissed at once!” She glared at Dominique, her chest heaving with fury, and then at William.
    William, whose normal disposition was warm and inviting, remained frozen in place on the sofa, his pleading eyes shifting to Dominique.
    Mrs. Barton adjusted her chignon in one of the gilt oval mirrors that flanked the wooden mantel, then swerved about. “I asked you what you are still doing here. My brother informed me you were to be dismissed.”
    Dominique drew a shaky breath. “I suppose you will have to ask him.”
    “Ask me what?” The admiral’s baritone voice charged into the room even before his masculine frame filled the doorway.
    Dominique’s heart jumped at the sight of him in his uniform. A blue coat with a stand-up, gold-fringed collar stretched over his broad chest. Long lapels, edged with gold braid and nine buttons—her face heated as her gaze lingered to count them—ran down to his white breeches, where a service sword hung at his side. A gold-fringed epaulette, complete with one embroidered star, perched on each shoulder. William slipped off the couch, hesitated, then rushed to his father and grabbed onto his breeches.
    Instead of brushing the boy aside, as Dominique expected, the admiral patted William on the head but offered him no other acknowledgment. His dark, rich gaze scanned over Dominique with a flicker of unknown emotion and then landed on Mrs. Barton. He cocked a curious brow. “Are you frightening my son again, dear sister?”
    Mrs. Barton cocked one hand on her hip. “Why have you retained this French trollop?”
    The admiral’s posture stiffened. He gave his sister a stern look before pulling on the tapestry ribbon hanging to the right of the door frame. A bell jingled somewhere in the house, and soon the house-keeper’s