A Scoundrels Kiss

by Shelly Thacker

  But Marie was neither tough nor experienced. She wouldn’t be able to fight it. Wouldn’t even think to try, now that she trusted him. His ruse was proceeding exactly as he had hoped.

  Which made him feel…so damned guilty.

  There it was again.

  He looked down at Marie, his fingers tightening around his goblet. Blast it, there was no reason for that nagging emotion to keep rearing its unwelcome head. He was doing exactly what he had been sent here to do. Saving English lives.

  He had carried off tonight’s deception one logical step at a time: before bringing the wine out, he had poured himself half a glass in the kitchen—and cut it with water and grape juice so he could keep his wits about him. Then he had added the drug directly to the bottle, along with some sugar to appeal to Marie’s sweet tooth, which he had discovered while dining with her the past two days.

  That accomplished, he had carried the bottle outside to Perelle. And settled in to wait.

  Like a spider in its gossamer moonlit web.

  He could almost picture Wolf and Fleming nodding in approval. Good show, old man.

  But he took no satisfaction from his cunning work tonight. Instead, he kept thinking of the way Marie had smiled at him while the butler filled her cup.

  And the way she had looked at him with tears in her eyes when accepting the flowers, the ring, the magnifying glass. She believed he had gone to all this trouble because he loved her.

  His plan was going perfectly.

  And he had a sour feeling in his gut that wouldn’t go away—and a new ache in his chest.

  Even now, she was still smiling, a sleepy, happy expression that curved her mouth, making her features look all the more pretty.

  He let his head fall back against the tree trunk, staring up into the night sky. Why couldn’t he stop feeling remorse for doing his duty?

  Because everything about her was so unexpected. Not only her lovely appearance, but the fact that the two of them had so much in common, right down to a mutual love of chocolate.

  They had quickly emptied the carafe over dessert, having a good-natured argument about the last half cup, each insisting that the other take it. She had finally given in, her obvious enjoyment making him feel absurdly pleased.

  Other things bothered him as well. Like the fact that she was concerned about feeding the hungry. And concerned about him. I don’t want anything to happen to you, Max.

  Then there was the way she had reacted to his gift, so clearly preferring a few sous’ worth of tissue and ribbon to a ring of gold and tiny diamonds that had cost one hundred and eighty silver livres. It was the same response she had given to the armoire stuffed with expensive gowns and the sprawling château in the painting: the trappings of wealth left her singularly unimpressed and uninterested.

  She seemed much happier in the simple cotton dress than she had in any of the stylish silks. She even seemed to enjoy going barefoot.

  All in all, nothing about Marie Nicole LeBon—absolutely nothing—fit the image of the heartless, calculating, greedy scientific mercenary he had had pictured before meeting her.

  If it weren’t for the sketch he had received from Wolf and Fleming, and the page of doodled symbols and equations locked in his desk upstairs, he would almost suspect he had abducted the wrong woman from the asylum.

  Gazing down at her again, he clutched his glass until the facets almost cut into his fingers. Why couldn’t you be what I expected you to be? Why couldn’t you be cold and unfeeling?

  He could only assume that the personality he was seeing resulted from her head injury and memory loss. This warm, caring, clever, unladylike lady was not the real Marie.

  Couldn’t be.

  Because he found this Marie utterly charming.

  He looked away, setting his glass aside. He didn’t dare allow himself to feel anything for this woman. Not desire. Not concern. And least of all any form of…affection.

  He knew that. Logically, rationally knew it.

  That was why one thing bothered him more than any other: the fact that he had impulsively bought her that magnifying glass in the jewelry shop. It had been frivolous, unplanned, unnecessary—in short, unlike him.

  At the time, he had told himself the object might help bring her memory back, but that was a weak excuse at best. He had seen it and thought it might please her and bought it. There was no logic to it at all.

  He turned toward her again. Acting—rather than thinking—seemed the only way to succeed in this intelligence agent business. He had his prey ensnared in his web and he had a job to do.

  It was time to get on with it.

  He moved closer to Marie, stretching out alongside her, balancing his weight on one elbow and resting his head on his palm. He tried to look just as casual and happy as she did. Tried to seem like he was enjoying their evening in the garden under the stars.

  When the truth was that he was beginning to find the whole thing damned painful.

  “Marie?” he began in a cautious tone. “How are you feeling?”

  “Mmm…I think I’ve definitely had far too much wine,” she whispered, opening her eyes halfway. “I don’t think I’m at all…accustomed to it, am I?”

  Most likely not, he thought. She had probably avoided alcohol—as he always did—because it muddled the thinking.

  One more thing they had in common.

  “No, you always enjoyed wine,” he lied smoothly. “But these old Touraine vintages tend to be rather strong.”

  “Yes, it was…rather strong.”

  He would have to be patient a while longer: her eyes and voice were still too clear. Wolf and Fleming had said he would know the subject was ready for questioning when she had trouble focusing her eyes and forming complete sentences.

  At the moment, the subject was smiling up at him with moonlight sparkling in her whiskey-colored gaze and a sprinkle of pastry sugar on her chin.

  A reckless desire shot through him, a wish to bend his head, kiss the small cleft there, touch his tongue to her skin and taste the sweetness—

  “Perhaps I should…go up to bed.” She sighed.

  His heart thudded in his chest. Bed. Yes.

  No.

  “No, stay out here with me,” he requested softly. “Only for a little while?”

  “All right,” she whispered. “I will.”

  The languid expression in her ebony-lashed eyes made heat unfurl inside him.

  All night he had rigidly focused on getting answers instead of stealing kisses. He had been suppressing his physical responses so long that the combination of her nearness, her unintentionally sensuous gaze, and that throaty, whispered I will wrenched at his self-control. Just for a second.

  He didn’t move a muscle. Leashed the impulse. Cursed himself for wanting what he knew he must never take.

  “Marie,” he began again, fighting to keep his voice steady, “I was wondering whether you might like to know about some of those important memories you mentioned earlier today. Your family? Or your childhood?”

  Ask me anything, he urged her. He had spent the afternoon mentally concocting a detailed past for her while traveling by hired coach to buy the wine and the ring.

  A past that would allow him to shift smoothly into the questions he needed to ask—to probe every corner of her scientific memory—as soon as the drug made her amenable.

  “Yes…” she murmured, her lashes dusting her cheeks once more. “That would be…nice….”

  After a moment he thought she might have fallen asleep.

  Then she opened her eyes. “What was your childhood like?” she whispered.

  He started to speak, ready to spin his vivid tale of her life—but her question stopped him cold. His mouth actually hung open for a moment before he closed it. “My childhood? Don’t you mean your childhood?”

  “No.” She blinked drowsily. “No, I don’t want to think about myself…not now. I’m having such a lovely time tonight…and if I think about my past, it might bring my headac
he back.” Her dark eyes searched his face. “I would rather know more about you.”

  “Of course, darling.” His mind worked furiously fast. Damnation, she was full of surprises. After working so hard to gain her trust, he didn’t want to make her suspicious by refusing to answer. But he was unprepared for the subject.

  He hadn’t had time to concoct a false background for himself. Hadn’t thought it would be necessary. And fabricating something on the spur of the moment might mean getting caught in lies that didn’t add up. The safest course was to tell her the truth.

  Some of the truth.

  A little of the truth.

  “What would you like to know?”

  She kept looking up at him, studying him with a curious intensity, as if he were some foreign but fascinating new species that had appeared in her world. “What were you like, growing up?”

  He gazed over her head into the darkness. “Like most boys, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “I liked exploring the outdoors, fishing with my brothers, playing with our dogs. But mostly I loved books.”

  “You have brothers?”

  “Three. All older.” Including a duke, but he wasn’t about to mention that. Or their English-sounding names. Thankfully, she didn’t ask.

  “And how…did you come to be a scientist?”

  He swallowed hard, unnerved by the way she asked the very question he had wondered about her. “I…uh…became ill. Couldn’t do much after that, except read.”

  “Oh, Max,” she whispered. “What sort of illness?”

  He shifted position, turning away from her and onto his back, resting his weight on both elbows. “An unusual form of asthma. I—”

  “I don’t remember that word. What is ‘asthma’?”

  “An affliction of the lungs,” he whispered into the darkness. “I had a rather strange case. It began when I was fourteen. The physicians never could puzzle it out. They kept trying one treatment after another, but nothing worked.” He couldn’t suppress a shudder, remembering some of their well-meaning attempts to help him. The needles. The poultices and bindings about his chest. The drugs that had made him feel worse than the illness. “It was…difficult to breathe.”

  Difficult. That word was far too pleasant to describe what life had been like all those years. He had learned quickly to fasten his attention on what was happening around him, not on what he was feeling inside.

  It was the only way he had been able to survive the pain.

  She didn’t press him for details, yet he found himself continuing. “I had to stay in bed much of the time,” he said quietly. “For the better part of ten years. Then one spring, I recovered. Something the physicians did must have finally helped.”

  That was a half lie, one he and his family had told so often it almost seemed true. In reality, the D’Avenants knew the cause of his illness but let outsiders believe the physicians had brought about his “miraculous” recovery. Far easier to do that than to reveal how his rakehell father had unwittingly brought down an ancient Hindu curse upon the family a generation ago. It had slowly killed Brandon D’Avenant, then struck his youngest son.

  Max knew he wouldn’t be alive today if not for the courage of his brother Saxon, who had risked his life in India two years ago to lift the curse.

  He owed his family, his brothers, so much.

  Lost in thought, he didn’t realize Marie had spoken to him until she touched his hand.

  “And you’re not bitter.”

  He glanced toward her. “What?”

  “Despite all you suffered, you’re not bitter or angry,” she said in a tone of wonder. “During such a long, terrible illness, I think it would have been very easy for you to become a…a hardened, unfeeling man, but that’s not what you’re like at all.”

  Her admiration stunned him into silence.

  “It must have been awful for you,” she whispered. “You lost so much. So many years. So many things you once enjoyed—fishing and exploring. It must have been very difficult seeing your brothers go out into the world when you couldn’t.”

  His throat felt tight at the depth of her understanding. “I survived,” he choked out.

  “Now I know why you love books so much.” Her eyes filled with tears. “They must have offered you refuge from the pain. But through it all, you kept fighting. Just as you said to me today—no matter how bad it got, you never thought of giving up. Even if you could never regain all those lost years, you promised yourself that…someday you would be well again. That you would be…happy.”

  Her voice broke on the last word.

  “Marie…” Blinking hard, he shifted toward her, his own voice hoarse. He didn’t know what to say. The anguish in her words, in her eyes, the empathy she felt, touched him to a depth beyond words.

  Even with all she had been through—all she was still going through—she cared about someone else’s pain.

  His pain.

  And she understood it as no one else ever had.

  He shut his eyes, chastising himself for revealing so much. He never should have let the conversation take this turn. He could only hope that with the drug flowing through her veins, she wouldn’t remember any of what he had said.

  And if she did? What did it matter? This night wasn’t real. It was a suspended moment in time. Their “marriage” would come to an abrupt end in twelve days. His job would be finished, his duty done. He would hand her over to Wolf and Fleming and he would never see her again.

  He would go on with his life, unchanged. And he would forget her.

  Somehow, he would have to forget her.

  “Now I understand…” she whispered, still holding his hand, “why there are two different Maxes. Night-Max…and Day-Max. Ruffian and Angel. You had to become tough to survive the pain…but you’re really very gentle and kind.”

  Every sweet, caring word was like a blade in his chest.

  She lifted her hand to his face, caressing his stubbled cheek. “And both Maxes together make up…husbandmax.”

  He couldn’t say a word. Couldn’t move away as reason warned him to do. He opened his eyes.

  She lay so close beside him, her hair half tumbled from its carefully pinned curls, her dark gaze filled with…

  God, that couldn’t be what he thought it was.

  It looked like a longing that matched his own. As if she wanted him to kiss her as badly as he wanted to cover her mouth with his, to know again the taste of her, the sweetness.

  And in that heated fragment of time he was not an intellectual, not her enemy, not a British agent, but simply a man.

  A man made of flesh and blood. Feelings and needs. Fierce longing that could only be satisfied by sweet, feminine softness. Her softness.

  And for once he acted without thinking.

  His mouth covered hers before he realized what he was doing. Then passion seared through him and he circled her shoulders with one arm and drew her up against him. He slanted his mouth over hers, deeply, hungrily, with a fever that astonished him even as he surrendered to it. This was reason. This hot, melting joining of lips and breath, demand and response, male and female, made sense in a way nothing else had ever made sense.

  She returned the kiss tentatively, then more eagerly. He could feel a shiver going through her body and it lit a hundred fires in his. Her hands clung to his shoulders at first, then slid around the nape of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. He devoured her sigh and responded with a groan, wanting…wanting…

  Her. With a longing and a need he had never felt for any other woman. He wanted every feminine curve, every inch, every taste, every breath of her. All of her. His lips molded to hers, moving, testing, and he pressed her back into the blanket, one arm still holding her tight against him.

  He felt wildness tear through him. A powerful urgency that was not only new but foreign. He deepened the kiss and the feeling only intensified. He couldn’t fight it. Didn’t try. Recognized it as some unknown part of himself that had been set free.


  She tasted of sugar. And chocolate. And a spicy warmth that was far more alluring than any delicacy ever created by man. He plundered her mouth and she not only yielded but responded. Her lips parted eagerly beneath his. And he couldn’t get enough. Instead of satisfying him, the kiss only sharpened his need for her.

  His body taut, he tore his mouth from hers. Moved lower, kissing away the dusting of sugar on her chin. Laving the little cleft there with his tongue. Nibbling at her neck. Her throat.

  She gasped and arched into him and he lingered there, pressing his open mouth over her heated skin, touching his tongue to the delicate hollow where her lifeblood pounded so close to the surface. He could feel her pulse beating wildly beneath his lips. His teeth closed over her pale skin, grazing her gently, and her breath splintered. She whispered his name, a plea.

  His mouth captured hers again, his mind and body awash in this new and volatile feeling that went far beyond desire. Her lips parted easily this time, opening for him. His tongue stroked inside, exploring her exquisite textures. Her depths. Liquid velvet. Hot silk.

  A fragment of warning lanced through his mind but he knew no caution. Knew only the feel of her in his arms. The sensation of her body fitted to his so perfectly. The sounds of her sighs as his tongue glided over hers.

  And the hardness in his groin. Potent and demanding. A boundary had been crossed and the need rising within him allowed no thought of turning back.

  His hand found the curve of her breast. She made a sound of surprise and excitement in her throat as he stroked the tender shape. Through the fabric of her gown, he could feel the heat of her flesh, the snug corset that bound her, the delicate spill of softness above its upper edge, concealed by the dress.

  His fingers sought her nipple and urged it to fullness. He thought he would lose his mind as he felt it beading against his palm through the cloth. Even his deep kiss couldn’t mute the husky cry she made—a sound of discovery and wonder.