A Scoundrels Kiss

by Shelly Thacker

  And almost ran straight into him.

  “Max!” she cried.

  He grabbed her by the arm, running flat out, straight into the nearest empty room. His face and clothes were black with ash. He raced to the window and threw it open, casting a quick look outside. “We’ll have to jump.”

  “No, Max, there’s a back stair. Everyone else went out that way—”

  “And others are coming in that way.” Pulling her close, he circled her waist with one arm and lifted her onto the sill, leaping up beside her.

  “But we’re too high!” The ground seemed miles away. She only had time to draw a startled breath and shut her eyes as he crushed her tight against him and jumped.

  They landed in the dirt with teeth-jarring impact. Max took the worst of it, holding her close as he fell to one side and rolled. She felt dazed, numb with terror, but he was on his feet in an instant, grabbing her hand and pulling her up.

  He ran with her to the corner of the inn, stopped, darted a glance around the back. “Looks like they’re all inside.”

  She didn’t have time to even catch her breath. They sprinted toward a long, low building a short distance behind the inn, where a young man was dismounting from his huge gray horse.

  “Sorry, lad.” Max pushed him out of the way and grabbed the reins. Marie felt herself lifted into the saddle.

  “D’Avenant!”

  Max whirled.

  A tall, older man with a white wig stood in the back door of the inn, pointing a gun at him. “Step away from the girl!”

  Marie screamed. Max remained frozen.

  Then suddenly he dropped into a crouch, whisking a small pistol from his boot—in a smooth motion so fast she barely saw it—just as the man fired.

  The weapon in Max’s hand spewed fire and noise. The man fell backward, clutching a red stain on his chest, his own gun tumbling from his fingers.

  Marie gaped in shock, watching him slump to the ground. Max leaped up behind her, yanking hard on the horse’s reins. The other man lay unmoving.

  Max had killed him.

  Turning the horse, Max locked one arm around her waist, dug in his heels, and sent them racing into the gathering darkness at a gallop.

  Max could feel Marie trembling against him as they rode, but he refused to let himself think about her fear. Or his own. They raced along dirt roads, across fields, through the fringes of a forest. Evening became night and the moon rose and still he kept the stallion moving at top speed, slowing from a gallop to a ground-eating canter only when they had left the town of Loiret far behind.

  At the crest of every hill he looked behind them, but no one had followed. LeBon’s comrades at the inn must have realized too late what had happened. Max had vanished with their quarry before they could give chase.

  He held her tight against him and didn’t say a word, offering no explanations as he pressed onward, heading east, then south, then cutting back toward the west. Too many unpleasant facts ricocheted through his head.

  LeBon had called him by name.

  The man he had killed had also known his identity.

  The French had been lying in wait at Loiret.

  He felt a sick churning in his gut. Only three people had known his route out of France: himself, Wolf, Fleming.

  There was more than one traitor in the British ranks.

  Either Wolf or Fleming must be in league with the French.

  Or both of them.

  No, not both. Why go to the trouble of sending him on this mission in the first place?

  One of them was loyal to the Crown…and one was a bloody turncoat.

  But which one?

  The horse began to stumble with fatigue. Max slowed the poor animal to a walk and began to look for a place to rest…a place to hide.

  They were deep in the countryside, hadn’t passed a village for some time. And as if matters weren’t bad enough already, it began to rain. A light drizzle quickly became a shower of fat drops that spattered the dirt road and threatened to soak him and Marie to the bone. Max shrugged out of his greatcoat and wrapped it around her.

  “No,” she protested. “You need this.”

  “Take it.”

  She didn’t object further. Didn’t say anything more. Max had an uneasy feeling that the storm above was only a prelude to a different sort of storm to come. He found it reassuring that she had chosen him over LeBon. From her look of confusion at the inn, she hadn’t recognized her brother at all, and he had been talking too fast for her to understand what he said.

  Yet Max knew she must have questions—and he wasn’t entirely sure why she was remaining so quiet. Perhaps shock. At the moment he was too grateful to worry about her silence; he had more immediate concerns on his mind.

  He had escaped the French for the moment, but what was he going to do next?

  It would be suicide to go anywhere near Brittany and his scheduled rendezvous with the ship. Yet he had to get out of France. As quickly as possible. LeBon’s well-armed friends would have patrols searching every road.

  And he had lost his satchel full of weapons and special tools. When the blasted thing skidded down the stairs, he had been forced to leave it behind.

  All he had left was his small dueling pistol and the twin-barreled gun. Both empty. And the folded steel blades concealed within his waistcoat. Beyond that, he had only one small horn of powder and precious little ammunition in the pockets of his greatcoat.

  How in the name of God was he going to smuggle Marie past French patrols, across the Channel, and into England with those meager resources?

  Logic told him to deal with his predicament one step at a time. At the moment, they were squarely in the middle of nowhere and needed three things: shelter, food, rest.

  To his great relief, as if God had decided that Max D’Avenant had endured enough for one day, the answer to one of those three needs presented itself at the bottom of the next hill. A small house—actually little more than a hut—with a weathered, thatched-roof shed behind it loomed out of the darkness.

  He reined in and considered the possibilities for a moment. There was no light burning. No smoke coming from the chimney. No sign of life. It didn’t look particularly welcoming. But he didn’t think the horse could go much farther.

  And Marie was shivering as if she were cold. He tapped the stallion with his heels and turned down a muddy trail that led toward the front door.

  Stopping a few yards away, he dismounted. Marie slid down from the horse without his assistance.

  He wiped his wet hair out of his eyes. “Wait here, ma chère.”

  He went up to the door and knocked lightly. The aged wood creaked open on rusted hinges. Cautiously, he stepped inside. With the moonlight obscured by rain clouds, it was difficult to see. He had to explore mostly by feel. All he could make out was a single empty room with a dirt floor and mud-and-wattle walls.

  And a leaky roof: the floor was actually more mud than dirt. It was almost as wet inside as it was outside.

  And unfortunately there was no sign of any foodstuffs. Most likely the occupants had abandoned their meager home during one of France’s infamous famines, to seek a better life in the city.

  He went back out and walked to the rear of the hut to investigate the shed. To his relief, it proved to be in better condition: about twelve feet square, made of reasonably sturdy wood, with four solid walls and a roof that had apparently been rethatched in recent memory. The piles of hay strewn about the floor were clean and dry.

  It looked like the place had once belonged to tenant farmers who had invested more in their livestock than they spent on themselves.

  A shed full of hay wasn’t the most elegant of accommodations, but it would get them out of the rain and offer a few hours’ rest. He would tether the horse out back and let it graze. In the morning he could go in search of breakfast.

  Turning, he walked back to Marie, feeling so soggy, battered, and bruised that he barely managed a reassuring smile. “We can rest here. T
he house is little more than a mud puddle but the shed is dry.”

  Perhaps it was a measure of his fatigue, but her lack of reply—and the fact that she was holding the reins—didn’t register on his brain until he was right next to her.

  He only noticed when he reached for the reins and she flinched…and backed away from him.

  “Marie?” A cold feeling of unease rivered through him. There was just enough light for him to make out her expression—and it was one he had seen before. When he abducted her from the asylum.

  She was regarding him with suspicion.

  In fact, she looked like she might try to take the horse and run.

  Wearing his greatcoat, with all his weapons and money in it.

  He fought to remain calm. Why hadn’t he guessed her mood before? She hadn’t been silent because she was in shock. She hadn’t been shivering because she was cold. She had been frightened.

  She had been thinking.

  He doubted she would get far on that horse.

  But if he had to stop her, could he bring himself to use force against her?

  Damnation, had it come to this?

  “Marie,” he said evenly, “it’s been a long day. We’re both tired. Let’s get out of the rain.”

  Still holding the horse, she backed farther away from him, shaking her head, her gaze searching his. “Max, I-I couldn’t make out everything that man said, but…I understood some of it. He said that you aren’t my husband. Why would he invent a story like that?”

  For a moment—for one reckless, exhausted moment, in a haze of frustration with the rain soaking him through—he thought of admitting everything. Telling her exactly who and what he was. Getting it all over with. Right here and now.

  But the truth would make her furious. The truth would make her hate him.

  The truth would make her run.

  His mission might be crumbling around him, but he still had to finish it. Carry out his duty to protect king and country. Take her—and her knowledge of that deadly compound—back to England.

  “Marie, standing here in this downpour isn’t doing either of us any good.” He didn’t move a muscle. “Let’s go inside and talk.”

  She stood firm. “He said he was my brother.”

  “He was lying. It was a lie. All of it. The military are so damned desperate to get their hands on us, they would do anything. Say anything.”

  “But he looked like me.”

  “Of course he looked like you.” He tried to think quickly. “They had you locked up in that asylum for three weeks. They know what you look like. It wouldn’t be too difficult to find a man who looks enough like you to make their lies convincing. And they knew that once they took you hostage, they could make me do whatever they wanted.” Max fought to keep his voice steady. “Think, Marie. Did you know that man? Did he seem at all familiar?”

  “No.”

  “So you didn’t remember him?”

  “No,” she repeated, still regarding him with a look of uncertainty.

  “Then why do you think he might have been telling you the truth?”

  For a moment, there was no sound but the spattering of the rain on the mud.

  “Because I don’t remember you, either,” she said softly.

  Max clenched his jaw. How could he argue with that logic? “Marie, they were trying to trick you. And obviously it was an effective trick—because it’s made you doubt the one person you should trust. I’m your husband. What do I have to say to convince you?”

  “I don’t know, Max.” She blinked hard, as if fighting tears. “I don’t know. Until today, I thought I knew you. I-I thought I…”

  Loved you.

  He could hear it though she didn’t say it.

  After a moment, she glanced away. Her dark hair clung to her cheeks in wet tangles, her silk garments were stained and torn, and she looked such a picture of abject misery that he ached to enfold her in his arms. But he didn’t dare take a step closer for fear she would see it as a threat.

  And all the while he couldn’t stop thinking, You’re right. Your instincts are right. I am a liar. He is your brother—or was your brother.

  I might have killed him.

  That fact was like a lead weight in his stomach. He might have killed Armand LeBon. If he had, he couldn’t say he regretted it.

  But God help him, hatred wasn’t a strong enough word to describe what Marie was going to feel toward him when she learned the truth.

  “Max,” she whispered, wrapping the reins around her hand, “what about the way you responded to that name?”

  “What name?” he croaked, torn by the urge to tell her everything. To get the pain over with. To stop postponing the inevitable.

  “D’Avenant. When the man came out of the inn, he called you ‘D’Avenant’ and you turned around.”

  “I was responding to his voice, not the name.”

  She studied him, her beautiful eyes filled with mistrust. “And then you killed him. So fast it was as if you didn’t even have to think about it.”

  “He had a gun. I was defending myself. I was defending you.”

  “But I can’t stop thinking about the way you used that pistol. I never expected…” She shook her head. “The husband I know—the one I thought I knew—is caring and gentle and loves books and…today you didn’t seem like the same man at all.”

  A flash of lightning in the distance punctuated her words like an exclamation point. You didn’t seem like the same man. How could he explain it to her? He couldn’t explain it to himself.

  He stood there gazing at her through the rain, unable to reply. In his previous life—God, he was starting to think of it that way—what he had done today would have been unthinkable. But he had pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation. He had seen not a man but an enemy. A ruthless opponent intent on taking Marie from him, hurting her, using her.

  Driven by an overpowering determination to prevent that from happening, he had killed to protect her.

  And he had felt no remorse. On the contrary, he had experienced a surge of satisfaction and triumph unlike anything he had known before. It was violent, primitive.

  And undeniably part of him.

  Thunder rumbled through the clouds over their heads. Marie was waiting for an answer.

  You didn’t seem like the same man.

  He didn’t feel like the same man.

  “I’m good with a pistol because I used to practice marksmanship during my illness.” He told her the truth before he realized he had spoken the words. And then he couldn’t stop himself. He was tired of lies and deceptions and cunning half-truths. “For years it was the only sport I was strong enough to pursue. I couldn’t go hunting or riding or go to sea or do any of the other things my brothers did. But when I had a gun in my hand and I knocked down a target I could almost make believe I was a man, like any other, instead of a weak, sickly lad. Today was the first time I’ve ever taken a life, and I’m not proud of it. But if anyone tried to harm you or take you from me again and I had to kill to stop them,” he declared hotly, “I would.”

  His vehement statement made her gasp.

  And left him almost as stunned. He realized he was shaking, not with frustration or anger but with a much stronger emotion.

  He had killed to protect her. And would willingly do so again. Not because of his mission, but for reasons that were entirely his own.

  Reasons that overpowered concepts like honor and duty—or even right and wrong. He would do anything to keep her safe. Anything.

  That fact struck him with a force that almost sent him to his knees. The truth of what he felt rolled through him like the thunder that shook the night sky. Though he was appalled by what had happened in Loiret and the way he had reacted, some part of him felt relieved by today’s unexpected turn of events—not only relieved but pleased.

  He wouldn’t be meeting that ship on the coast. Wouldn’t be handing Marie over in nine days. The deadline that had been hanging over his head lik
e a sword had been removed.

  He didn’t have to give her up. She was still his. For now.

  His.

  “Marie, I’m telling you the truth.” His voice was low and rough. “You can’t believe that everything between us is a lie.”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore!”

  He could see it reflected in her eyes—the battle raging in her mind and heart. Logic against emotion, questions against longings. The same battle he was fighting. He could almost feel her heart beating in time with his.

  And he knew, as she must, that logic and questions were doomed to defeat. Perhaps had been from the beginning. Because emotion and longings would not yield.

  The thought of parting, of being separated from one another, had become too painful.

  And in that moment, he knew that she wasn’t going to leave him. She couldn’t. Any more than he could bear to give her up.

  He started walking toward her, gripped by feelings that he hadn’t even dared define before now. Trembling, she stared at him, taking shallow breaths of air laced with rain. He stopped with only inches between them and looked down at her—this brilliant, independent, brave lady scientist who looked so small and vulnerable in his huge black coat—and something inside him broke free and he finally surrendered to it, to the reason why she was more special and beautiful to him than any woman had ever been before or would ever be again.

  And he said it in a whisper. “I love you, Marie.”

  Her lips parted. Another bolt of lightning lit the horizon.

  He reached out and touched her cheek, feeling the cold rain on her warm skin. “If you don’t believe anything else I’ve told you,” he urged softly, “believe that.”

  “I want to believe you.” She shut her eyes, still holding the reins with one hand. “Oh, Max, I can’t trust myself. Because I want to believe you.”

  “Look at me, Marie.”

  Her lashes lifted and he could see that her eyes were filled with tears.

  “Let yourself believe, ma chère. What I feel for you is real. What we share is real.” He raised his other hand to caress her face. “The man at the inn, the one who claimed to be your brother—did you feel anything for him?”