Free THE GENERALS by Simon Scarrow

and have your coffee. I have it made strong and sweetened with two spoons of sugar. Black as the devil and sweet as a stolen kiss, as they say in Martinique. I hope you like it.’
     
    Easing his back into the cushions, Napoleon took the proffered cup and cautiously sipped the dark contents. It was hot, but not too hot, and the flavour was surprisingly smooth and pleasing.
     
    ‘It’s good.Very good.’
     
    Josephine smiled. ‘I’m so pleased you like it. I think we shall discover that we have a great deal more in common in the future . . .’
     
     
    As autumn gave way to winter Napoleon found as much time as he could to see the woman who had such a hold over his emotions and his desire. A few days after he had delivered the sword he was invited to dinner and arrived to discover that he was the only guest. The meal was a fascinating example of a cuisine she called Creole, far more spicy and exotic than the fare Napoleon normally allowed himself. They dined by the light of a handful of candles and a small fire in the grate and the conversation flowed as freely as the hands of the clock standing in the corner, which seemed to Napoleon to fly round the hours until it was past midnight. Napoleon called for his carriage, and as they stood on the short flight of steps outside her house Josephine suddenly raised her hands to his shoulders and gently drew his face towards hers for a kiss.
     
    As their lips touched Napoleon felt a warm quiver of delight ripple through his breast. At first he dared not move his lips too insistently, but as she pressed hers against his mouth his lungs filled with her scent and the aroma of her hair and body. He felt her soft body against his and gave in to his passion for this bewitching woman, reaching his hands round to the small of her back and pulling her into his embrace. Then he felt her tongue, softy searching between his lips, and he closed his eyes, knowing that nothing had ever been more perfect than this moment, nor ever would be.
     
    As their lips parted, he nuzzled her cheek, then her neck, and whispered into her ear, ‘Josephine . . . my love.’
     
    ‘No more Madame Beauharnais?’ she teased him with a whisper.
     
    ‘You are Josephine now. My Josephine.’
     
    ‘I like that.’ She kissed him again, and murmured, ‘Don’t leave now. Stay until morning . . .’
     
     
    In November, the rest of Napoleon’s family arrived in Paris. He had sent word of his success to his mother, Letizia, at the house she had been renting near Marseilles. She was still bitter at having lost her home and possessions when the family had been forced to flee from Corsica two years earlier. Napoleon and his brothers, who shared his revolutionary politics, had taken a stand against Pascal Paoli, who - with English backing - was now virtual dictator of the island, and the family had only just escaped the murderous rage of a Paolist mob. Napoelon knew that his mother blamed their misfortune on France in general, and the revolution in particular. Yet it was the same revolution that had given Napoleon the chance to prove himself and he was keen to show his mother, and the rest of his family, the results of his fame and good fortune. Now he could afford to keep them all in comfort.
     
    When his older brother, Joseph, stepped through the door of Napoleon’s new home and beheld him in the uniform of a general, tears of selfless pride pricked at the corners of his eyes before he hugged his brother.
     
    ‘If only Father could see you now!’
     
    Napoleon nodded. Their father, Carlos, had sacrificed much to send his two oldest sons to good schools in France. It had been a cruel fate that he died too soon to see their success.
     
    Joseph released Napoleon and stood aside to allow Letizia and the other brothers and sisters to crowd round.There was Lucien, the next boy, who had already made a reputation for himself in Marseilles, espousing the radical politics of the Jacobin party. Louis and Jérôme