A Scoundrels Kiss

by Shelly Thacker

  No woman with such a gentle heart could invent a weapon intended to kill thousands.

  If A equals B, and B equals C, then C must equal A.

  He took a long swallow of brandy, feeling it burn its way through his body as he turned the problem over and over in his mind. Marie had created the compound. There was no doubt about that. But why? He couldn’t imagine that greed had been her motive. She cared even less about money than she did about fashion. So why would she have concocted such a deadly…

  A sudden thought struck him like a blow.

  God, why hadn’t he guessed before? He set the glass down, almost missing the table.

  What if she had been forced to do it?

  Her brother was the one who had been living in lavish style in Versailles. According to the British agents, Armand LeBon had been throwing livres in every direction—expensive clothes, house, carriage, women.

  But the family servant interviewed after the fire at the manor reported that Marie and her sister had been living almost in poverty. Had even sold much of their furniture.

  Max had interpreted that as evidence that she was desperate for money, would do anything to get rich. But now the facts took on a different meaning.

  Armand LeBon could be the one behind the mercenary bargain with the navy. He could have forced or threatened Marie in some way. Could have seen her as a ticket to a life of wealth and ease—while he showed no concern for his sisters’ lives or well-being.

  LeBon could be the one with no conscience, no thought for the thousands who would die, while Marie was…

  An innocent pawn.

  Max felt something knot painfully tight in his chest. Sweet Jesus. If she was innocent, then what he was doing was…

  He turned slowly, staring at the satchel of weapons and clothing he had packed for the journey to the coast, thinking of the drug he had used on her. The fact that he was about to deliver her into the hands of her enemies. The probability that Wolf and Fleming would do anything to get the secret out of her.

  Abduction. Lies. Deceptions. Betrayal. What was the term he had thought of last night?

  Despicable bastard.

  Max choked out an oath, closing his eyes. Whether he found his duty distasteful or not, he still had to carry it out. Even if Marie was innocent…it didn’t change a thing. She was still French. Still an enemy scientist. Still a valuable prisoner.

  They were leaving in the morning. He had to complete his mission.

  With thousands of lives at stake, questions of his feelings and her innocence didn’t matter a damn.

  Sometime later he came awake with a start to find himself sprawled on his back in bed, atop the covers, still wearing his robe. He wasn’t sure when he had finally slipped into unconsciousness or what had awakened him. His only thought was that the brandy had betrayed him as surely as his logic. Neither had helped him in the least.

  A sound from Marie’s room brought him fully awake. He sat up in the darkness, listening. Heard a thump followed by the sound of glass breaking.

  Two possibilities hit him hard and fast. Either she was trying to escape.

  Or someone who had seen her today was breaking in.

  He rolled off the bed, grabbed the key from his desk and ran for her door.

  Opening it, he stopped in his tracks. Marie was there, in bed—sitting up. The light from the oil lamps she always kept lit flickered over her pale, stricken features. Her eyes were wide, her mouth covered with one hand as if to hold back a scream.

  He swept the room with a quick gaze—the window, the door, every corner—seeking the threat. Stepping inside, he searched for an intruder. Finding none, he turned toward her. “Marie?”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. Eyes glazed with terror, she kept staring straight ahead, into the darkness.

  “Marie, what’s wrong?” Crossing to the bed, he felt water beneath his bare feet and glanced down. The pitcher from her bedside table lay broken on the floor.

  She wasn’t trying to escape. There was no threat. She was having a nightmare.

  And when he looked at her again, noticing the way the light from the lamps rendered her cotton nightdress almost transparent, he knew he should turn and leave at once.

  But something inside him wouldn’t let him leave Marie alone in the darkness with such terror in her eyes.

  “It’s only a nightmare, Marie,” he said soothingly, not taking one step toward her. “You’re safe.”

  “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no!”

  “Shh, it’s just a nightmare.” He fought the urge to close the distance between them, to take her in his arms. Bending, he picked up the pieces of the broken pitcher.

  “I-I…I could see the fire.”

  “There’s no fire. You knocked over the water pitcher, not the lamp—”

  “I could see the fire. And there were pistol shots. And a scream. Mon Dieu, the scream!”

  He straightened, suddenly unable to breathe. Good God, she wasn’t having a nightmare—she was remembering.

  “The…the scream,” she repeated, her slender form trembling now, like a tender branch in a windstorm. “Someone was chasing me and I couldn’t get away and then I…then I…”

  “Marie,” he choked out, not sure whether he meant to encourage her to remember more or stop her.

  She turned toward him, blinking, as if only now aware of another presence in the room. “Darkness,” she whispered. “There’s nothing more but darkness…nothing left of me but darkness—”

  “No.” He crossed to the bed before he could stop himself and drew her into his arms. “You’re all right, Marie. You’re here with me and you’re safe. You’re all right.”

  She shook her head, but then her eyes cleared and she recognized him. “Max?” She went limp in his embrace. “Oh, Max, I was alone and someone was chasing me in the darkness and I kept hearing that name! Over and over.”

  “What name?”

  “Véronique. Véronique LeBon. The woman at the shop on the Rue Saint-Honoré said that name and ever since then, I…I’ve felt so afraid!” She started crying. “Max, who is Véronique LeBon?”

  Bloody hell. It was her sister. The one who had died in the carriage accident. But he couldn’t tell her that. “Véronique was…my mother,” he told her, hating himself for the lie. “You were always very close to her, especially after your own mother died. She passed away a few months ago.”

  “A-and that was why I remembered the fire? The pistol shots and that…that scream?”

  “No, that was just a nightmare.” His hand moved slowly up and down her back. “You’ve always been afraid of fire and you’ve never liked guns. All your fears combined into one terrible nightmare because you felt so frightened by what happened today. It wasn’t real, Marie. It wasn’t real.”

  “But it felt real. Everything was dark and I was lost…I was alone.” She was sobbing, her tears hot against his bare chest.

  “Shh.” One knee on the bed, one foot on the floor, he held her tight, his throat constricting. “You’re not alone, not anymore. I’m here.”

  He buried his face in her hair, knowing that he wasn’t reading from some play script in his head anymore. He wasn’t acting the part of her husband. He was feeling it.

  “Please, Max,” she sobbed. “Stay with me. I don’t want to be alone, not tonight. C-can’t you just…stay with me and hold me?”

  No, his conscience warned. No, no, no, absolutely not, no. “Yes.”

  The shadows and icy fear that had tormented her all day finally retreated. Marie’s heart gradually resumed its normal pace, now that she knew the source of her terror, the identity of the mysterious Véronique. The feelings she had experienced made sense now.

  Eyes closed, she lay curled on her side, facing Max, her head pillowed by his right arm, his silk robe smooth beneath her cheek. His left hand felt very strong and warm as it rested on her back.

  After a while, she even stopped trembling. His touch and his large, solid presence made her feel
safe. Comforted. And warmer even than the covers he had pulled over them—mostly over her.

  Yet as she began to relax, she realized that he seemed tense, the muscled arm beneath the black silk sleeve almost rigid.

  She lifted her lashes, puzzled. “Max?”

  “Try to go to sleep, Marie.” His eyes were shut tight, his voice strained.

  The clipped words reminded her of the tone he had used in the coach earlier—which helped her guess the source of his mood.

  “Are you still angry with me about today?” she whispered.

  “No. Go to sleep.”

  “But I want to explain. I wanted to explain when you found me, but…you were too angry to listen.”

  “Marie…” His eyes remained shut and his voice still sounded odd. “It really doesn’t matter.”

  “But it does. I-I was so upset with you when we arrived home that I didn’t care whether you knew the truth or not. I wasn’t going to tell you at all. But…Max, I don’t think it’s right to keep secrets. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us.”

  He opened his eyes, the expression in those silver-gray depths more like pain than anger. But perhaps that was a trick of the flickering lamplight. “All right,” he said hoarsely. “What is it that you want to explain to me?”

  “That I tried to get home. I got lost and couldn’t find my way back, and I couldn’t find a coach to bring me here. When I did, I-I couldn’t remember the name of the street. And I had one of my headaches.” She swallowed hard, remembering her terror…but it seemed less frightening now that she was home, here, with him. “I only went to the café because I thought you might look for me there. All I wanted was for you to find me. But when you did, you…you…”

  “Acted like an idiot,” he said in a tone of regret. He still didn’t move, and the low light cast his face into hard angles, but his gaze softened as his eyes traced over her. “I’m sorry, Marie. I didn’t understand. I was just so damned worried about you. If anything happened to you, I…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence.

  They remained like that for a moment, looking into one another’s eyes, motionless and silent.

  Then he removed his hand from her back…and slowly reached up to stroke her temple. “Does your head still hurt?”

  It took her a moment to answer because the feather-light brush of his fingers made it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying. “No. Nanette’s compresses always seem to help. Max, are you…still angry?” Though his gaze and his touch were gentle, she could sense the tension, the strain radiating from his body. She found it very difficult to puzzle out his moods sometimes.

  “No, I’m not. Not with you.”

  Before she could ask what he meant, he changed the subject.

  “I neglected to thank you for the gift you gave me.”

  “Did you open it?”

  “Yes.” His hand traced lower to caress her cheek. “It was very thoughtful of you, Marie,” he said quietly.

  Smiling, she turned her head slightly, pressing into his palm, almost unconsciously seeking more of his touch, his warmth. “I’m glad you liked it. The man in the shop tried to persuade me to buy something more expensive, but I…didn’t have much money.”

  “How did you come to have any money?”

  “I gave my pearl necklace to the coach driver to pay for the ride from the park. He gave me a few coins in return.”

  “You gave away your pearl necklace…for a few coins?” Max’s mouth curved with a look that seemed part amusement, part pain. “You really don’t care about wealth at all, do you?”

  She dropped her gaze, feeling foolish. “I did something wrong, didn’t I?”

  “No.” Cupping her chin, he gently tilted her head up until her eyes met his again. “I meant it as a compliment, ma chère.”

  The deep, husky tone of his voice sent a shiver through her—an entirely different kind of shiver than the ones she had felt only moments ago. This began deep inside her and tingled upward and downward, and it wasn’t a chill but a wave of heat.

  The sensation made her suddenly, vibrantly aware of how close his body was to hers, how dark and quiet the room seemed. They were alone together in a circle of light, just as they had been at their supper al fresco in the garden…yet it all felt different.

  He was different, in some way she couldn’t name. His eyes regarded her with a look she had not seen before now, the gray turned all to smoke. Like a lamp when the flame burned too hot. His thumb stroked over the little cleft in her chin.

  “Max,” she whispered, her heart starting to beat faster, “you confuse me so. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never understand you at all and other times I…I feel like I…”

  She didn’t know what name to put to the emotions tumbling through her. Couldn’t find one word to contain the tenderness and longing, the simple happiness that came from being with him, the pain when they were angry with one another. The way he made her feel safe and protected when nothing else could. The fact that she found herself thinking of him every waking moment.

  “I-I feel like…if anything ever happened to you,” she whispered, “part of me would die.”

  He shut his eyes, uttered a wordless sound, and his hand dropped to the sheet between them. “Marie, you…” His features were etched with strain. “We…”

  She reached out to brush her fingers over his cheek, wanting to ease the deep lines there.

  He flinched. “Oh, God.”

  “Sometimes I’m afraid it’s all just a dream,” she whispered in a tone of wonder, touching the firm edge of his jaw, his high cheekbone, the golden hair tangled over his forehead. “That I’ll wake up and find that I’m still in the asylum and I only…dreamed of you.”

  “Unfortunately I’m very real,” he croaked.

  “But why did you marry me, Max, when you’re so handsome and I’m so…” She couldn’t find the word. “When you could have married someone pretty?”

  He opened his eyes, still looking as if he were in pain. “Marie, you are so far beyond pretty that I…can’t even put it into words.”

  She felt warmth rising in her cheeks. “You don’t have to say that. I know it isn’t true.” She ducked her head, pulling her hand away. “The lady in the shop today suggested that I wear hats with very large brims. I didn’t understand what she meant, but when we came back tonight, I…I sat at my dressing table and…really looked at my reflection.” Her throat felt dry. “I don’t look like the woman in the shop. Or any of the ladies I saw in the park. Or the serving girl at the café. I’m so…ugly.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “Marie.”

  It was softly spoken, but unmistakably a command. She looked up at him…and found his gaze burning into hers.

  “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you, ma chère?”

  She couldn’t respond, not even with a whisper, his hot, silver eyes held her so spellbound.

  “I see radiance,” he whispered. “I see a lady who is intelligent and caring and unpredictable and so much better than merely pretty.” His body remained taut beside her, but his regard felt like a touch as it moved over her face. “I see features that are strong and feminine and unexpected. I see skin that is softer and fairer than the petals of a white rose. I see a stubborn little chin. And the loveliest, most compelling whiskey-colored eyes I’ve ever drowned in. And lips…”

  His voice faded suddenly.

  The hoarse, strained quality deepened when he spoke again. “Lips that are sweeter than any delicacy ever imagined by God or all the angels in heaven.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t take a breath, the force of his words and the feelings rolling through her were so powerful. “Max, you…” She realized there were tears glittering on her lashes, and she smiled through them, blinking. “You said you couldn’t put it into words.”

  “You’re worth the effort,” he replied hoarsely.

  She couldn’t stop one tear from spilling o
ver. “You make me feel…so special and…beautiful.”

  “You are special and beautiful.” It might have been another effect of the flickering lamplight, but she thought she saw dampness glimmering in his eyes. “From the first time I held you in my arms, the first time I looked into your eyes, I knew that I would…never find a lady like you again in my life.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment, those gray depths stormy with emotions she couldn’t name. Then he started to pull away and roll onto his back—until she reached for his hand and stopped him.

  “No,” she pleaded softly, twining her fingers through his. “Max, I want…I-I…want…” She didn’t know how to express the longing she felt, it was so new, so unfamiliar and yet so powerful.

  “Marie,” he choked out, closing his eyes, “please just go to sleep.”

  “But I can’t. I…w-want…you. I want you to touch me. I want to feel this way, to need you and feel close to you. Tonight and forever.” Now that she had a name for the feeling, she gave herself over to it, repeating her request on a sigh. “I want you to touch me, Max.”

  She felt a tremor go through him. When he opened his eyes, she could see not only smoke in his gaze, but a fire blazing. “Marie, if I touch you the way I want to touch you, I’ll hurt you.”

  The fierce heat in his expression burned her. She could feel it searing to the very center of her body, to some hidden, secret core that tingled and tightened in response. Part of her didn’t know what he meant—but another part knew instinctively. Knew that it had to do with the restless heat building inside her. With this unfamiliar longing that made her shiver.

  “No,” she said with soft certainty, “you won’t hurt me.”

  He expelled a harsh breath. “You don’t know that.”

  “I know that I trust you, Max. You wouldn’t hurt me. Even when you were angry today, you didn’t hurt me. I trust you.”

  He didn’t reply. He remained frozen, lying almost on his back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the sound of his breathing like thunder in the silence.

  Keeping her fingers twined through his, she moved her other hand to the opening of his robe, to the V in the black silk that exposed the bare skin of his chest. “Max,” she whispered, “does it hurt when I touch you?”