Lorna's heart rattled erratically beneath the rigid confines of her high-waisted bodice. If her tumultuous thoughts could have gathered long enough to curse Parisian fashions they would surely have done so, but her head was still spinning from the hot intrusion Baptiste St Juste had made on the previously unsullied area of her mouth.

That's not true: Archie. If anyone did any sullying it was Archie. Her forehead creased into a frown as the unsolicited thought nudged its way to the fore, but it was swiftly overrun by the hot flush that rose through her body like a rampant flame at the image of Baptiste's stark features emblazoned on her retinas as though doing a seductive dance. Why, oh why, whenever I engage in these encounters does my mind have to be addled by liquor? The potency of the dark claret was not quite sufficient to obscure her own recognition of her own mild inebriation, and she repeatedly cursed her inability to focus.

Lying on her bed with the door having been slammed with a sufficiently dramatic crash, or as far she could tell, it being only her first encounter with the bruising games of courting, Lorna let her flint-etched eyes fix on a spot on the filigreed bed canopy above her, in a desperate effort to command her thoughts.

Do you love him? The fact that the word 'love' had even occurred in her mind after so short an acquaintance with the man, made Lorna wince as though it was a personal blow to her character – the character of Lady Lorna Hammond, so long suppressed by the freedom of midshipman's breeches. Oh, am I really that fickle? But she grimaced as that thought was quickly chased by: Or am I really that drunk? No, she dismissed that possibility. This was certainly different to any drink-smothered kindling of passion she may have experienced in the disreputable upstairs accommodations of that tavern.

Definitely no. With a pang she realised that the encroaching desire for an intimate acquaintance was perhaps not as foreign as she had at first thought. The unfamiliar feeling of a chaste kiss to her hand and the seductive swish of a gown around her ankles, had rekindled childhood dreams of romance which seemed no less vivid and real than they had when she was but a young girl in Ireland. Except now I know that's shite. Love's not like that. And why in the name of the Mother did he say I was beautiful, as though I would fall for unashamed flattery like that? But she was falling for it.

But if that was true and true-love was a falsehood, then wasn't this whole thing a farce? After all, she thought, why did I run away in the first place if not to escape a marriage without love? And if there was no such thing then I have done this all for nought… Then why did her eyes involuntarily clench shut at the memory of the stunned look in a pair of dark eyes as a pink hand-shaped glow had arisen on an alabaster cheek? A cheek that looked so handsome in retrospect. No! A harsh Catholic upbringing immediately stamped down on that mental transgression and Lorna sighed in exasperation. It wasn't love. It hurt to admit it, as it hurts every young girl's heart to realise its own impure motives. It was unashamed, base lust that was causing the heat searing her cheeks. After all he was incredibly handsome…

Lorna groaned as she forced herself to sit up, her horizontal position only exacerbating the swift progress of liquor to her brain. Sitting, it seemed almost immediately to feel better; her hammering pulse seemed to settle a little in her veins. What to do? She did find him attractive, and yes a small part of her had missed the trappings of female attire, but that was all immaterial: she was a spy! In response to the admittance the harsh delineated edges of the parchment despatches strained uncomfortably against her girdle and she shifted uncomfortably.

Then suddenly it struck: it hadn't been missed. The documents were the official papers concerning the execution order for the Marquis de Bologna and his wife, the British targets for evacuation and renowned royalists. A prickle of cold traced her spine. She had dallied too long in the comforts of her alias. Stupid. Why did I volunteer for this suicide? Why did I not think? Because you had no choice, the voice reason answered calmly. You were going to be denounced to your father and drag all your friends down too in your disgrace. That's why.

And what of her friends? She had barely spared them an idle thought as while she languished in luxury; they languished in some dank cell. Or had the fleet rescued them already? No that was impossible: the attack on the French fort was not for another week. Another week! With a guilty pang she realised the prearranged meeting time was drawing uncomfortably closer. If she could not get back in time the fleet would sail without her, assuming the attack was even successful. But she had idled here for far too long already… Of course! The Admiralty had not expected that I procure the documents with such ease! And again the clammy panicked thought arose: too much ease. But Lorna was never one to give in easily to panic. She had not been afraid when she had volunteered and she would not start now. Or at least that's what she was telling herself.

Lorna rested her forehead against the cold veneer of the bed post in an effort to steady herself. She had been very, very foolish - but the situation could be still salvaged. But now she had to face her chiselled-featured nemesis downstairs. Bitter gall rose in her throat at her own gullibility: how could she fall for a revolutionary? What was she planning on doing exactly? Running off with him and betraying her country? Or worse, again the unrecognised fear began to surface: what if he knows? She gulped and stood: it didn't do to dwell on what was done and unchangeable. It was now her duty to leave and get back to her shipmates as quickly as possible, and Baptiste would become nothing more than a bittersweet memory of what might have been. Yes. The decision seemed more sensible now that it had been made.

So, her feet led her mechanically down the stairway, to the closed door of the room where she had left him so abruptly just an hour previously. Hastily trying to smooth her rumpled hem she composed her features into an insentient mask and twisted the handle.

He was standing with his back to her, silhouetted black against the dancing firelight revealing his fine build and proud stance. If he had noticed her scrutiny of his back, he gave no sign.

"Baptiste?" Still no response. "Baptiste, je regrette mes actions mais…"

"Josephine." His voice seemed little louder than a faint susurration as he turned to face her, his eyes like still pools of ink in his shadowed face taking in her deliberately blank expression and defiant stance, undermined by her disarrayed dress and flushed cheeks. "You regret your actions and you want me to regret mine, n'est-ce pas? I have shocked you to your virginal core, non? Well, let me shock you further, mademoiselle, by saying that I do not regret it. And neither should you. You despise hypocrites just as much as I, so do not become one: a woman who thinks one way and acts another to trap a man in web like a covetous spider! You wanted my advance – I felt it. Deny it not - you with your coquettish ways and brazen eyes!" Lorna's eyes flashed dangerously as she took I the truth in his words and the challenge in the set of his jaw.

"You wrong me, sir. I feel nothing for you and beseech you to quit your suit for it falls on deaf ears." Nothing on her face reflected the turmoil inside as she faced him, her shoulders set. Their eyes fought a silent battle for a moment before he shifted slowly in resignation. When he spoke again his voice was heavily laced with regret.

"Ah, Josephine. You wound me, and you are wrong to think I give up in my pursuits so easily. I feel you understand my stubborn nature as much as I do myself: a stubbornness it would seem you share in your rejection of me. So you leave me no choice. I would speak plainly with you, which I am sure you will appreciate: you are an aristocrat and you cannot hide it – it is written in every gesture and every turn of phrase, even in the way those court gowns so become you, much to my provocation. And even if you are not one of the petite noblesse, I can denounce you as one as easily as breathe." The import of the words he spoke so sensibly, as though to an ignorant infant, seemed to settle like a cold stone in the pit of her stomach.

"So why don't you?" Lorna was transiently impressed at her own self-control in making her voice stay in the lower registers and not spiral into a frightened squawk, but she didn't dwell on it long. The sound of his laughter cut her short, as it sounded abrupt and cruel from between his perfectly molded lips.

"So very brave – a woman I could truly grow to love. Not even a denial from you though you know you are at my mercy: a fact that I want you to know I am cherishing, ma cherie. It's simple you see: a choice. Submit to me, My Lady, or submit to Madame la Guillotine, who I hear is far less discriminate towards her prey than I am being to you. I shall leave you to think, ma belle, and I trust I can anticipate your decision, proud as you are. I do not think I am being supercilious should I think that sharing my head has a considerably greater appeal than death." And with that, and a nod of his dark head, he left and this time it was Lorna left alone in the room, her eyes wide as though she had been struck.