The Lure of the Moonflower

by Lauren Willig

  Jane ran her finger along a line of puckered skin just below Jack’s collarbone. “Where did this come from?”

  “Malpura.” Jack stared up at the ceiling, tracing lazy circles on Jane’s bare back with one hand. “It was my first time on the field. We ought to have had the advantage of surprise, but our cavalry jumped the gun and tipped them off. The left wing, where I was, was crushed. The Rajput cavalry sliced right through us. We lost hundreds of men in a matter of minutes.”

  “But not you.” Jane tried to imagine what that had been like, standing there on a battlefield, watching a trained band of warriors streaming down at you, the men around you writhing, dying, doing everything you could to keep yourself alive in the melee.

  For some men, this was what they craved; it was what they had trained for, what they had wanted.

  But not Jack, who had wanted to be a philosopher king.

  Jack’s lips twisted. “It was luck, not skill. I had no idea what I was doing. I scarcely knew one end of my musket from the other. That they were putting men like me in the field gives you a fair idea of why it was such a rout. After that,” he added, looking up at Jane, “I decided it wasn’t enough to be lucky. I drilled with that damned musket until I could fire it in my sleep.”

  “What about fencing?” Jane inquired, with professional interest. Well, maybe not entirely professional. The muscles in his arms hadn’t been acquired merely by hoisting a musket.

  “Saber,” Jack corrected. “Although I can wield an épée if necessary.”

  Jane rested her head against that thin line where the Rajput sword had missed its mark. “We can have a bout someday.”

  She could feel Jack’s lips against her hair. “Why does it not surprise me that you know your way around an épée?”

  “Like you,” said Jane, her fingers exploring the area around his ribs, “I decided it wasn’t enough to be lucky. I prefer to rely on my wits when possible, but there are times when a length of steel is far more effective.”

  “You would win,” said Jack bluntly. “I learned to hack, not to duel like a gentleman.”

  “I have never been entirely sure there is anything gentlemanly about duels,” said Jane, smothering a yawn. “It’s merely a temper tantrum by more civilized means.” There was another ridge of hardened skin beneath her fingers. “What was this one?”

  Jack lifted his chin slightly to look down. “That? Oh. Ujjain. Another defeat.” He smothered a yawn of his own. “I’m not giving you a very good idea of my fighting prowess, am I? I ought to be bragging of the battles I’ve won and the number of enemy strongholds I’ve taken.”

  Jane propped herself up on one elbow. “You’re alive. Isn’t that prowess enough?” A glint in Jack’s eye made her cheeks color. “On the battlefield, I mean.”

  “Mmm,” said Jack, but he let it go. Lifting a strand of her hair that had fallen across his chest, he twisted it around his finger. “Have you seen battle?”

  “No.” It felt odd to be admitting it. She had thought she had lived an adventurous life, but in this, she was so much less versed than he, so much more sheltered. “This is the closest I’ve come. My work is generally conducted well behind the scenes, where the decisions are made.”

  “Or,” Jack said dryly, “where rulers like to believe the decisions are made. There’s always a difficulty in translation. Look at Junot’s march. It made sense to Bonaparte on a map. It was a disaster in practice. A better general would have redirected his men.”

  “A better general wouldn’t have lasted so long in Bonaparte’s service.” Jane had spent three years as a member of the consular retinue. She had seen firsthand Bonaparte’s temper tantrums when his subordinates disputed his judgment. “Bonaparte admires talent, but he admires loyalty even more. He doesn’t take well to being disobeyed.”

  “That’s going to trip him up sooner or later,” said Jack, with professional detachment. “One man’s experience goes only so far. A good leader knows enough to know that he can’t be an expert at everything.”

  “Very wise,” said Jane softly.

  “I try,” said Jack, and Jane wondered whether he was thinking, like she, that it was a pity that he would never have a chance to try, to put those theories into practice.

  Resting her head against his chest, Jane tried to imagine a different Jack, a Jack whose life had followed the path he had expected, a Jack who rose through the East India Company’s service, who might, even now, be administering a small district. Mentally she erased the weather-browned skin, the scars, the battered brown jacket and breeches, the shapeless hat with its drooping brim. In their place she clothed her make-believe Jack in a crisp cravat and somber hat. That Jack’s hands were pale and soft and stained with ink; there was a pursed look to his lips.

  Jane wasn’t entirely sure she would have liked that Jack. There was something rather smug and prissy about him.

  Rather as she had been before the jewels of Berar had worked their curse and sent her world crashing down around her.

  She had never really thought of it that way before. Had she been that smug? That sure of herself? Unwillingly, Jane remembered a few choice words from Miss Gwen, delivered in a darkened drawing room.

  A line from Shakespeare drifted through her head. “Sweet are the uses of adversity. . . .” She wouldn’t call adversity sweet, per se—there had been a great deal of bitterness in that particular cup—but it had brought her and Jack to where they were, here, together, all their scars laid bare.

  If the course of their lives had run smooth, they wouldn’t be here. She would be in Paris still, in the Hotel de Balcourt, clad in the latest fashion, cameos at her throat and wrists, fluttering her lashes behind her fan at yet another tedious general, playing a game that had long since begun to lose its challenge.

  The jewels of Berar would be . . . well, goodness only knew where. If Jack hadn’t stolen them from the ruins of Gawilghur, someone else would.

  And Jack would be somewhere in India, wearing crisp white linen and a well-brushed hat.

  Drifting in and out of sleep, Jane dreamed that she was back in her bed in the Hotel de Balcourt. Her hair was washed and braided, the linens of the bed pressed and spotless. And she reached out in sudden panic, because Jack was gone and she was alone and everything had been nothing but a dream.

  Until she felt his arms close around her, pull her back against his front, one heavy leg settling over her hip. And Jane drifted to sleep, feeling strangely comforted that she wasn’t at the Hotel de Balcourt after all.

  When she woke again, it was to Jack leaning over her, his lips touching her temple as he smoothed the tangled hair away from her face.

  “I hate to wake you,” he said, his breath warm against her ear, “but we only have the room until dawn. We’re not meant to be here. Officially.”

  Jane scrubbed the backs of her hands against her eyes. “Which means we have to leave—unofficially?”

  Jack sat back on his heels. “Something like that.”

  He was dressed already, back in the old brown breeches and jacket. The torch had burned out, but a faint light trickled through the opening in the ceiling. Jane was suddenly very aware of her own nudity. She appeared to have far too many limbs, all of them bare. Hastily, she scrambled to a sitting position, yanking one of the cloaks up to her chest.

  “You’ve fed the donkey?”

  “And acquired food for us.” He handed Jane a slightly stale biscuit. “The remains of our host’s Christmas feast.”

  “You seem to have thought of everything.” Jane tried to hold the cloak in place and wiggle into her breeches at the same time, a maneuver that Jack watched with some interest.

  “I could just go away if you like,” he said.

  “You needn’t bother.” Dropping the cloak, Jane yanked the shirt over her head, feeling like an idiot. “It’s nothing you haven’t already seen.”


  Her usually well-behaved hair was a mass of snarls. Jane tried to draw her fingers through it in lieu of a comb and stopped short, grimacing.

  “Here. Let me.” Jack came up behind her, gently separating the worst of the tangles. Quietly, he said, “If I had intended seduction, I would have brought you someplace with a proper bed. Not to mention better-smelling.”

  Jane had had a seduction with a proper bed and sweet-smelling perfumes. Of the two, she would take rotten eggs and a hard plank floor any day. That wasn’t what was making her cranky.

  Wincing as Jack tugged at a knot, she said reluctantly, “You needn’t protest so much. I know your intentions were honorable.” That hadn’t come out as she’d intended. “Or, rather, not dishonorable.”

  She bit her lip against the urge to elaborate. Assuring him that she didn’t expect a proposal would only make matters worse, by implying the contrary. They both knew that this was what it was.

  “Thank you,” said Jane smartly, and snatched the long rope of her hair away from Jack. “Have you seen my hat?”

  The day dawned, miraculously, bright and clear. Jane would have preferred rain. It was easier to skulk beneath one’s hat brim in the rain. It didn’t help that she kept catching Jack watching her, a little furrow between his brows, as he loaded the bags on the donkey.

  “Ready?” he said, and held out a hand to help Jane mount.

  Looking at him in the pale morning sunlight, Jane saw for the first time the dark circles beneath his eyes. They were both running low on sleep, but it was Jack who had borne the brunt of their trek, walking for miles while she had swayed along on donkey-back.

  Not that he had shown any signs of fatigue last night.

  Jane stepped hastily back, waving Jack in the general direction of the donkey. “My heel is feeling much better. If you would like to doze for a bit, I can lead Hippolyte.”

  Jack let his hand drop. “Hippolyte? Not Hyacinth or Hydrangea?”

  Jane tried to smile, but it came out crooked. “I would say we’ve moved well past flowers, wouldn’t you?”

  The sunlight picked out the strands of copper in Jack’s dark hair. “Is Hippolytus much of an improvement?” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “As I recall, he came to a bad end.”

  Jane took a deep breath, forcing herself to look Jack in the eye. “He was accused of a crime he didn’t commit. His own father condemned him.”

  She wasn’t talking about Hippolytus anymore and they both knew it.

  “Jane.” Jack rested both hands on her shoulders. Jane had to stiffen herself against the urge to lean into that touch, to bury her head against his shoulder and wrap her arms around his waist. Even if he did smell like rotten eggs. But then, so did she. “I committed my crimes. I took those jewels. I passed information to both sides.”

  “Are you trying to scare me away?”

  Jack let out his breath. “I’m trying to be honest.”

  Jane pressed her eyes shut. Honesty: another word for “this wasn’t meant to be.”

  Turning away towards the gate, she said in a distant voice, “How much farther to Peniche? We’ll make better time now that the weather is clear.”

  “Jane.” Jack’s hand reached the gate before she could, holding it closed. “Wait.”

  There was barely room to turn. Jane was caught between Jack and the gate, his proximity awakening a distracting mélange of memories from the night before.

  “Yes?”

  Jack said something sharp and emphatic in Portuguese that Jane had a feeling she was better off not having translated.

  He fell back a step, a muscle working in his cheek. “If circumstances were different—if I were different—I would be the first man under your window with a lute.”

  If she were a different sort of woman, she would have stamped her foot.

  Not being the foot-stamping sort, Jane merely set her teeth and said tightly, “You don’t understand at all, do you? I’ve had men under my windows with lutes. I don’t want a lute. I don’t want sonnets. I don’t want bows or flowery compliments. None of those mean anything. I want . . . I want someone who notices that my blisters need binding.”

  Jack perked up. “Are your blisters bothering you again?”

  “No! Yes. But that’s not the point.”

  What was the point? Jane wasn’t sure. Or, rather, she was fairly sure she didn’t want to be sure.

  This was ridiculous. They had a queen to rescue, didn’t they?

  Wrenching the gate open, Jane strode briskly forward. “If anything goes wrong in Peniche, there’s a boat waiting off the coast of Berlengas. There’s a signal. I’ll show it to you.”

  “You’re going the wrong way.” Jack caught up with her in a crooked alley between houses, tugging a reluctant Hippolyte behind him. “Why should anything go wrong?”

  Aside from her going the wrong way?

  They retraced their steps past the marketplace, Jane trying to put a finger on her feelings. “It’s what you said . . . about amigos de Peniche. There’s something I don’t like about this. Something smells wrong.”

  “Lingering eau de hot spring?” When Jane didn’t return Jack’s smile, he said, “That saying dates back to Sir Francis Drake.”

  Jane couldn’t quite explain it. Something was niggling at her, something she had missed. Why would the Queen leave Alcobaça in such a hurry? Why go to Peniche rather than continuing on to Porto?

  Amateurs, Jack had said, and that much was true. Amateurs were unpredictable.

  “All the same,” said Jane slowly, “it’s foolish to charge in without thinking through all the contingencies. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing ever goes quite as planned.”

  She glanced up to find Jack’s eyes on her face. “Once we have the Queen—”

  Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel like a girl at her first assembly, waiting breathlessly to be asked to dance. “Yes?”

  “We bring her to this boat you mentioned?”

  Jane swallowed her disappointment, giving a short, businesslike nod. “It’s called the Bien-Aimée. The captain is named Lord Richard Selwick—he was formerly the Purple Gentian.”

  “Formerly?”

  “It’s a long story.” There was no more time for stories, long or otherwise. Jane shoved that depressing thought aside, forcing herself to concentrate on the matter at hand. “The signal is two longs and a short, followed by two shorts and a long.”

  “That’s all? What about a signal for distress?”

  “That,” said Jane dryly, “generally consists of waving one’s arms about in the air and shouting loudly.”

  “It won’t work,” said Jack dismissively. “It’s miles to Berlengas. They’ll never see a lantern from the coast.”

  Did he think they hadn’t thought of that? “There’s a lighthouse. With any luck, the keeper is amenable to bribes.”

  Jack frowned. “It’s chancy.”

  “Do you have a better plan?” Jane stalked forward, the road hard beneath her thin-soled boots. “Everything is chancy. Life is chancy.”

  “Jane.” Jack caught her arm, the momentum swinging her around to face him.

  “What?” she demanded. “What?”

  Whatever he had been about to say, Jack thought better of it. “Do you think we’re walking into a trap?”

  “I’d prefer that we not,” said Jane. She felt suddenly very tired. They were both behaving like children. Like spoiled children.

  This was why one didn’t allow oneself to embark on affairs of the heart, not while on mission. The Purple Gentian had blundered into a trap because he was busy mooning over Jane’s cousin Amy. As for Miss Gwen— No, Jane didn’t want to think that closely about her chaperone and Jack’s father. Suffice it to say they had allowed themselves to become distracted while on missio
n and leave it at that.

  And Jane had watched, superior and slightly scornful, knowing she had the sense not to tumble into that particular trap.

  Nicolas had been different. She hadn’t been in love with Nicolas.

  “Jane?” Jack waved a hand in front of her face. She was staring. She hadn’t realized she had been staring. “Jane? Are you all right? You’ve gone green.”

  “Just thinking,” Jane said quickly. “About Peniche.”

  Jack did not appear entirely convinced. “What about it?”

  Jane tried to remember what she’d been thinking before inconvenient topics like love got in the way. “Amateur conspirators make me nervous. They’re unpredictable. It’s a weakness.”

  Jane’s steps faltered as an idea teased at the edge of her consciousness.

  Slowly, she said, “The Gardener is very good at exploiting weaknesses.”

  Jack looked at her sharply. “You’ve thought of something. What?”

  “What if it was a trap, but it wasn’t meant for us?” She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before. “Amateur conspirators use simple codes. They’re painfully easy to copy. It would be child’s play to infiltrate their organization and find the key.”

  Jack’s eyes met hers. “And once he had it . . .”

  “He wouldn’t even need to go after them. He could just sit in comfort and wait for them to come to him.”

  “It’s brilliant.” His voice was warm with admiration, and not for their old adversary. “You’re brilliant.”

  Jane made a self-deprecating gesture. “It’s only a theory.”

  Jack had already gone into full planning mode. “If Thomières did arrive in Peniche as planned, how many men will he have?”

  “A full battalion, plus a detachment of artillery. Oh, and fifty dragoons.” She’d nearly forgotten the dragoons.

  “So . . . three hundred–odd men? I don’t want to underestimate our mutual talents, but that might take more than a saber and an épée.”

  “I left my épée in Paris,” said Jane. “And my pistols in Santarém.”