A Scoundrels Kiss

by Shelly Thacker

  She obviously had no clue what the various squiggles and shapes meant, but she had sat there for over an hour and lazily, unwittingly filled a page with bits and pieces of chemical equations.

  Unfortunately, none of them proved useful. When he examined them later, he saw that they were fragments of the most elementary formulas. He had encouraged her to continue doodling today, but she hadn’t wanted to, and he didn’t push her.

  The mere fact that she knew the symbols on some unconscious level was an encouraging sign—and solid evidence that her knowledge and skills hadn’t been completely lost in the accident. The formula for her lethal chemical compound must still be there as well, locked away in some part of her brain.

  All he had to do was stimulate her scientific memory thoroughly but carefully until he found the key, and her hidden secret would be his.

  Unfortunately, spending so much time within stimulating distance was becoming a bit too stimulating for him.

  He turned a page, still reading aloud, not even daring to glance at her. A mere two days had wrought a startling transformation on his captive. That first night at the inn he had thought her fragile and vulnerable. But the woman sitting across from him now—bathed, gowned, powdered and pampered—was a different Marie entirely.

  A disturbingly attractive Marie.

  He had tried to attribute the change to Madame Perelle’s handiwork, but some part of him knew that perfumes and curling irons were not entirely responsible.

  It was not artifice that made the soft morning sun strike auburn highlights from her hair. The glossy brown curls pinned at her nape seemed to beckon his hand, an impulse he rigidly denied himself. With the grime and tears cleaned away, her face looked vibrant and expressive, that uncommon blend of strength and delicacy in her features even more appealing than before.

  Impossible to believe he had ever thought her plain.

  Her skin held a radiance that even weeks of abuse at the asylum hadn’t been able to steal away. And her mouth…no artist could aspire to match that particular shade of rosy peach, the gentle curve, the generous fullness of her lower lip.

  The memory of those lips beneath his, parting so sweetly…

  Her skirt rustled as she moved in her chair again. The sound made his groin tighten and he almost groaned. Did she have to keep making those small movements and little sighs? He knew they came from boredom—but the sounds put him in mind of something else entirely.

  The gown she wore only made his predicament worse. It left little to the imagination above the waist, and everything to the imagination below. Blasted French fashion. There was clearly a conspiracy among Parisian couturiers to torment every male in the city.

  The owner of the shop had called the color cannelle. Cinnamon. He wished he had never chosen it. Not only because it displayed Marie’s delectable assets and suited her coloring so perfectly, but because cinnamon made another word slide enticingly through his mind.

  Sin.

  It drifted in and out and back again, a devilish whisper of forbidden pleasure.

  Sin…sin…sin.

  Why in the name of God hadn’t he selected something plain and modest for his prisoner to wear?

  Because he had needed to convince her that she was his wife and not a scullery maid. That was why. And because he hadn’t expected Marie Nicole LeBon to be so pretty.

  Pretty?

  Yes, there was no denying it. She was pretty. More alluring somehow than any woman he had met in his life.

  He wondered if she had any inkling of how much he hungered for her. How he ached to scoop her out of that satin chair, shove all the books onto the floor, and put the desk to a new use that had nothing to do with reason or intellect. How he couldn’t stop thinking that it would require so little effort to free her breasts from their scant, lacy wrappings. How he wanted to take each luscious swell in his hands, feel the nipples grow taut against his palms—

  His spectacles were fogging up.

  He stopped reading, took them off, cleared his throat. Fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, he cleaned the lenses, as casually as possible. “Hmm, yes, well, that’s enough of that subject. Let’s move on.” Putting his spectacles back on, he took a deep breath and pushed the book aside with the others. “How about a discussion of Mariotte?” he suggested brightly. “He’s always a fascinating fellow. Marie, are you listening?”

  She was staring out the window. “Tournefourt was a botanist. It was Mariotte who experimented with compressed gases,” she replied absently.

  Max felt astonishment slice through him. “What? What did you say?”

  She turned to him with a perplexed expression. “I’m sorry, Max. I wasn’t listening. Did you say something?”

  “I mentioned Mariotte and you said, ‘Tournefourt was a botanist. It was Mariotte who experimented with compressed gases.’ Why did you say that? How did you know that?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I said that?”

  “Yes. Just now. Think, Marie.” He wanted to go around the desk to her, but didn’t dare. “You’re getting your memory back.”

  “But I…” She closed her eyes in concentration. “I don’t remember saying that. I don’t know where it came from.”

  “But you said it. And I never mentioned Tournefourt or botany. You remembered them. Tell me something else. What else do you know about Mariotte?”

  “I…I don’t know. I can’t remember anything more.” She pressed one hand to her forehead.

  “It’s important. Try harder. Try to—”

  “I can’t remember!” She rubbed her temples with both hands. “Max, I don’t like this feeling. I hate it when stray bits of my memory appear like that. It’s like someone lit a candle but before I can reach for it the light is snuffed out again. And I’m left in the darkness. It’s like trying to grab at shadows and hold on to them. And I can’t. I can’t hold on.” She sucked in a breath between her teeth as if in pain.

  He came out of his chair without thinking, stepping around the desk. “Are you all right?”

  “My head hurts.” Her voice began to waver. She rubbed her forehead as if to push the pain back. “I feel like I’m trapped in a black void and if I…if I can’t find a way out, it’ll never stop hurting.”

  “Everything will be all right, Marie.” He stood before her chair but wouldn’t allow himself to reach for her. “Try to relax. I’ve been working you too hard. You need rest. You’re getting overwrought.”

  “I am not overwrought!” She opened her eyes and glared up at him. “You can’t understand! Max, I’m lost. I can’t remember what it means to be me. I can’t feel what it’s like to be alive! There’s nothing left. It’s as if that accident killed me but I’m still here by mistake. Maybe it would have been better if the accident had—”

  “Don’t say that.” Max bent and grabbed the arms of her chair. “You can’t give up. No matter how bad it gets, you can never let yourself think that!”

  He released the chair just as quickly, surprised by his own vehemence. It wasn’t concern about his mission that had made him say that.

  His fingers had left indentations in the upholstery. Marie gazed up at him silently, looking just as surprised as he felt.

  He turned away. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a headache?” he asked gruffly.

  “I get them all the time,” she said, her voice calmer now.

  “You never mentioned it before. Have you been experiencing these headaches ever since the accident?”

  “Yes. The physician at the…the asylum said they were common when one has had an injury to the head. He said they would go away eventually.”

  Frowning, he went back to his seat, unnerved by his emotional reaction to her pain. “Marie, I think we’ve done enough work for today,” he said more gently. “It’s almost time for our midday meal. Go and have Madame Perelle fix you something. Then perhaps you should take a nap this afternoon?”

  She looked relieved. “No more chemistry?”

  “We’re done
for now. Get some rest.”

  She leaped up from her chair in an ungraceful rush that would have appalled any instructor of ladies’ etiquette—French or English—and hurried out as if afraid he might change his mind.

  A second later, she came back to peek around the door. “Thank you, Max. You really are a sweet husband.”

  He heard her go down the corridor in a flurry of rustling cinnamon silk.

  Leaving him bemused and bewitched.

  And troubled.

  Today for the first time, he had begun to see flashes of steel in Marie. She might feel lost and alone, but she wasn’t afraid to assert herself. He normally admired courage and independence in a woman, but in this situation, both could prove dangerous.

  Rising from his chair, he started to put away the texts and journals strewn about the desk. Of course, a woman scientist would have become independent by necessity. Her work would have made her an oddity among her peers. Chemistry wasn’t the sort of pastime the average mademoiselle pursued.

  Her impatience and boredom were also understandable. Anyone with a nimble mind hated inactivity. He knew that all too well.

  Max found himself wondering how Marie had become a scientist in the first place. And how much of her personality was the “old” Marie—the real Marie—and how much might vanish when her memory returned.

  He admonished himself for entertaining that question. Her past was none of his concern. He was after information here, nothing more.

  Putting the last of the texts away on the bookshelf, he closed the glass-fronted doors, staring at his reflection. You’ve got a job to do, D’Avenant. Stop thinking and do it.

  He took off his spectacles and tucked them in his waistcoat pocket. An English ship would be waiting on the Brittany coast in a fortnight. Less than that now, he realized: twelve days. He had only twelve days with—

  No, he corrected firmly: he had only twelve days in which to accomplish his mission.

  The expert physician who had briefed him before he left London believed that the source of Marie’s memory loss might be emotional as well as physical: she could not face the horror of losing her sister in the carriage accident, so her mind had blocked it out. Along with everything connected to the accident.

  She had lost a sister…and wasn’t even aware of it.

  Max felt a stab of guilt about that. But her sister would still be alive if not for Marie’s mercenary efforts to sell the weapon she had invented for a great deal of money. Little wonder the lady scientist didn’t want to remember anything about her accursed compound.

  But she must remember.

  And tonight he would attempt an entirely new approach.

  “Are you feeling better, Madamelebon?”

  Awakened by the soft question and a gentle tap on her shoulder, Marie opened her eyes to find her bedroom almost dark. Madame Perelle—she had said to call her Nanette—bent over her, holding a candle, a concerned look in her blue eyes.

  Nanette had drawn the curtains earlier and prepared hot and cold cloths for Marie’s aching head, alternating them every few minutes. Which had worked wonderfully, Marie realized, pushing the last cloth aside to touch her temple, surprised that the pain was gone.

  “Yes,” she said belatedly. “Yes, I do feel better, Nanette. Thank you.”

  “Monsieur LeBon wouldlike you tojoinhim for supper, if you are feeling wellenough.”

  Marie sat up in bed, her silk gown crinkling. “I’m sorry, Nanette, I can’t understand you when you speak so quickly.”

  “Pardonnez-moi, madame. Again I forget. I said that Monsieur wishes you to join him for supper.” Nanette spoke slowly but her voice was still somewhat difficult to make out, since it tended to be as quiet and timid as her manner.

  “Supper?” Marie set the cloth next to the basin on her bedside table. “Did I sleep that long?”

  “Yes, madame. It is almost eight.” Nanette lit the lamp on the table and the pair on the mantel, then blew out her candle. “Monsieur gave instructions that you were to be allowed to rest as long as you wished. You are—what is the word he said?” She tapped her chin. “Convalescing, non? But he’s waiting downstairs and asked me to tell you that he would enjoy the pleasure of your company for supper.”

  “He did?” Marie smiled, finding it rather nice that he had put it that way. He would enjoy the pleasure of your company. It wasn’t commanding at all.

  After he had let her sleep all afternoon, she actually looked forward to spending the evening with Max. She couldn’t explain it, but as much as she found their discussions of science boring, she found spending time with him…stimulating.

  Perhaps it meant that her memory was starting to come back. If she found sharing a few hours with her husband enjoyable, it seemed she was at least regaining her memory of important things. Like feelings. The rest would come eventually.

  Filled with hope, she rose from the bed. “Please tell Monsieur that I will join him.”

  “Yes, madame. But I think first you will need my help to dress?”

  “Dress? But I am dressed.”

  Nanette gestured to a gown draped over a corner of the bed. A new one that Marie hadn’t seen before. “Monsieur thought you might find this more comfortable for supper tonight,” the older woman explained.

  Marie eyed the gown with puzzlement: it was quite plain, made of pale blue fabric with long sleeves and a shallow scoop neck. It would cover almost every inch of her. Marie wondered why he had sent it for her when she had an armoire full of attractive dresses.

  She sighed. Perhaps the wise woman did not try to figure out the workings of the male mind. “Very well, Nanette.”

  She turned around and Nanette began unlacing the back of her gown. “Madame, I forget also—Monsieur said you may wish to go without shoes this evening.”

  “Shoes?” Marie wasn’t sure she had heard Nanette correctly. “Did you say ‘shoes’?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  Nanette didn’t seem to think the suggestion unusual. Perhaps it was some supper ritual that Marie hadn’t encountered yet and didn’t remember. She was so tired of needing to have everyday things explained. It made her feel like a fool or a child by turns.

  “Of course,” she said, trying to sound as if she understood.

  But she didn’t understand at all.

  Precisely what did Max have in mind for this evening?

  Following Nanette downstairs, Marie felt glad that she had decided to dispense with her pannier as well as her slippers. The gown not only covered her from neck to heels, the skirt was of a slender cut that couldn’t possibly accommodate the wide contraption, no matter how the maid tried to squeeze it in.

  In fact, the dusty-blue cotton fabric was so comfortable, Marie had been tempted to do without her corset as well, but Nanette had been shocked at the very suggestion. The poor lady had actually looked as if she might faint, so Marie had yielded.

  The wool rug at the bottom of the steps felt bristly beneath her bare toes, the marble floor cool and smooth. But as they walked down the corridor toward the dining salon, she became confused. She could see that the room was dark. The chandelier wasn’t lit. Max was nowhere to be seen.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, stopping in the doorway. “Was I not to meet my husband for supper?”

  “This way, madame,” Nanette said, still walking down the hall.

  “We’re dining in the kitchen?”

  “Monsieur would like to explain to you himself, madame.”

  Explain what? Marie wondered as she trailed her guide toward the back of the house.

  She got the answer as soon as Nanette reached the end of the corridor—and went out the back door.

  Confused, Marie almost stopped in her tracks. Max had been adamant that she not go outside.

  But then she saw him, waiting for her in the courtyard at the back of the house.

  He stood next to a small dining table that had been set up beneath the fruit trees. Just big enough for two, it was cover
ed by a fancy white tablecloth, flanked by a pair of chairs, and surrounded by a trio of serving carts laden with an array of foods. Stepping through the door, she could smell the mingling, savory aromas on the summery night air.

  Glass jars filled with candles had been placed here and there on the grass and hung from the tree branches, their flickering warmth competing with the moonlight. Next to two place settings of china on the table sat another cluster of candles…and a bouquet of white roses arranged in a crystal vase. The butler, Monsieur Perelle, stood nearby, holding a bottle of wine.

  She felt a sweet, melting glow steal through her.

  Smiling, Max came toward her.

  She cast a happy look at Nanette, who gave her a shy grin. “Madame, I am sorry for being so mysterious, but your husband wished to surprise you. So romantic, these young men today. You and Monsieur are married only a short time, non?”

  “Two years,” Marie replied.

  “But it feels as if our wedding were only yesterday,” Max said as he reached them, his gaze on Marie. “Are you feeling better, chérie?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” She stepped away from the door and met him on the stone path. He still wore the dove-gray breeches and waistcoat, but he had abandoned the frock coat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. “Max, what a wonderful idea to have supper outside.”

  “I wanted to apologize for snapping at you. And for keeping you indoors all day. We can’t go out into the city, but we can at least go out this far.” He nodded toward the table. “The Italians call this ‘dining al fresco.’ Rather a quaint custom, don’t you think? It’s catching on among the noblesse here in France.”

  “I think its charming.” She returned his smile in full measure, her insides feeling all fluttery and warm at his thoughtfulness—and at the way his grin made his features look all the more handsome.

  “Then won’t you join me, madame?” he said with a formal little bow, gesturing for her to precede him down the path.

  With a last glance at Nanette, Marie went over to the table, smiling as the butler helped her take a seat. Surveying the feast displayed on the serving carts, she thought they would never be able to eat it all: there were platters of baked chicken, sliced roast beef, cheeses, a basket stuffed with crusty bread, steamed asparagus and haricots verts, a dish of poached trout in what smelled like a garlic-and-butter sauce, a cake glazed with sugar, a whole tray of pastries, and even…