Mimi glowered at the unconscious figure and Céleste huffed. "Oh be reasonable, he's in no position to do me any harm, now is he?"
Mimi left, though clearly unhappy about it, and Céleste returned to the job at hand, relieved to be able to look her fill without an audience. She rubbed dry one muscular arm before moving onto this chest. His skin was smooth but marked in places with scars that spoke of a violent life. One was perhaps a bullet wound, high on his left shoulder. She paused for a moment to place her hand flat on his chest, feeling the reassuring thud of his heart, strong and steady under the heavy muscle and coarse hair on his chest. Forcing her attention back to the job at hand she moved to his feet and dried them, rubbing them with vigour to get the blood moving and carrying on up his legs. She ground to halt as she came upon the sodden under drawers which clung to his massive frame. They would have to come off. With difficulty and much cursing, she finally managed to wrestle the damned things off and then swallowed as she turned back and looked at the naked man, sprawled on her bed.
"Mon Dieu," she whispered. He was perfection in masculine form and she couldn't help but take a moment to admire him, from this thick dark hair, square jaw, full mouth and the slight cleft in his chin. Her gaze drifted lower. She took in the impressive width of chest and shoulders, the sculpted belly and the intriguing trail of dark hair that led to his manhood. This she lingered on with interest, for she had been truthful in her words to Mimi, but she had never had the opportunity to see a man in repose, and so close. She bit her lip considering the things she had seen with the whores, if he was this size before he was roused ...
He shivered again and she scolded herself forcefully, the poor devil would die of cold while she sat there staring at him like a fool. Chastened, she covered him as best she could with her only blanket and piled every scrap of clothing she possessed on top of that. Then she lit the tiny stove with what remained of her driftwood. Maxime allowed her the room and a meagre supply of food in return for working her fingers to the bone from dawn till late at night. But she had to provide her own fuel, and so collecting driftwood from the beach was always an early morning chore if she didn't want to shiver all night.
She coughed as the tiny space filled with smoke until the fire caught and the little chimney drew. With one last look at the handsome smuggler she sent a prayer to whatever cruel God seemed to look down on her, and begged that he let the man live. She would work twice as hard, she would be very, very good, if only he would live.
Chapter 2
"Wherein angels appear to those close to the other side."
Céleste grimaced at the shrill giggle that pierced her brain as she dragged her tired body up the stairs. The girls were earning their keep tonight and no mistake.
She held a candle aloft in one hand, lighting the pitch dark stairs to her room, and a jug of water in the other. It was close to midnight now and Maxime had sent her running in circles since mid-morning, when she'd deigned to appear and start ordering her about. Now though, the clients were busy with the whores. Maxime was drunk and happy and had sent her off to bed with a regal wave of her hand that had made Céleste grit her teeth and curse. She had only been able to snatch a moment to check on her smuggler and that had been hours ago. He'd been sleeping still, though his breathing was increasingly uneven and she was afraid he was starting a fever. She had sent Mimi to fetch wood and to check the fire, and so her tiny attic space was a little warmer than the usual freezing temperatures she was used to finding at bedtime as she opened the door. She sat down beside him with a groan and eased off her boots. Wriggling her sore toes, two of them visible through holes in her worn stockings, she sighed at the pleasure in taking the weight off her aching feet. Reaching for the candle, she held it up, close to the man's face.
His breathing was too fast, and even in the candlelight she could see his skin was flushed with fever.
"Don't die," she whispered. "Please don't die." She laid her hand on his forehead, feeling the skin blazing hot beneath her cool palm. He sighed and his head turned towards her. "You must drink something," she told him and poured a little water from the jug into a small wooden cup she kept beside her bed.
With difficulty she managed to lift his head a little with one arm cradled behind him, and held the cup to his parched lips. "Here, drink," she said, keeping her voice soft. "You must."
She tilted the cup, and though some spilled he managed to swallow a little. His eyes flickered open and for a moment she saw him look at her, uncomprehending, before his eyes closed again and the fever took him away.
She blew out the candle and lay down beside him, grateful at least for the heat he brought, and sank into an exhausted sleep.
She awoke a little later with a start to hear the man beside her muttering and thrashing in his sleep. She moved away just in time before his heavy arm struck out and landed hard on the narrow strip of mattress she'd been sleeping on.
"Shhhh," she said, trying to soothe him by laying a hand on his forehead but finding herself increasingly alarmed by the raging fever that burned under his skin. "Oh, non, non." She watched him with growing alarm. He was sick to the bone but she could not afford a doctor, even if she could bring one up here without Maxime seeing. He shouted out, incomprehensible words but loud enough to cause alarm in a quiet house. Thankfully the night was still young for the customers downstairs and his shouts would be lost in the melee of all the other men's as they took their pleasures. Later though, once the house was quiet and the customers departed, he could bring people running to see what was amiss.
Céleste chewed at her lip. What on earth could she do? She was no doctor, she didn't know how to care for a sick man except ... She knew he needed to drink fresh water, get lots of rest and ride out this fever. Laudanum. That was what he needed. The drug would calm him, help him rest and ease any pain he had, and keep him quiet too.
There was Laudanum in the house, that was for sure. Maxime used it to control some of the less docile girls. Céleste had seen it happen. Those that gave her trouble, she would slip a drop or two into their coffee every day without them knowing, until they depended on it and then Maxime revealed what she'd done. Then she would hand it over, for a price, if they did what she told them to.
Céleste was very careful indeed to only eat food she had prepared herself and drink water straight from the well.
The drug was kept in a locked cupboard, however, in Maxime's office, and she kept the key on a little chain at her waist.
Céleste cursed her rotten luck and got to her feet, at least she'd been too tired to get undressed and she didn't bother putting her boots on. She'd be quieter in her stockings.
Praying that Maxime would be drunk enough that she'd passed out, she crept down the stairs. Passing door after door, she heard all manner of lewd noises, grunts and shouts and squeals, none of which caused her to bat an eyelid. That first flush of embarrassment had long since left her, and sex was something she understood to be a commodity. It could be power, it could be used to get your own way, put food on the table and it could lead women and men to disaster and ruin. But even now, she held to the hope that there might be more to it than that. At first she had thought everything about it disgusting and vile. Until Annise, one of the sweeter girls, had sat her down and explained how everything worked, and that there was pleasure to be found in it, if you were with a man that pleased you, and knew what he was about. For a moment she paused on the stairs and wondered if the man in her bed knew what he was about. With a small smile twitching at her lips, she quickly decided she'd bet everything she owned that he did.
She carried on, feeling the worn drugget coarse beneath her stockinged feet, and then paused by the half-open door to the salon. There were voices and laughter and the scent of opium drifting on the fog of smoke that clouded the air. She risked a peek around the door to see Belle, straddling an older man with a bushy moustache who was wearing an expression of intense concentration. Belle bobbed up and down, riding him hard, her expressi
on bored, simply wanting to get the job done and get to her bed. Belle had a bad temper and a sharp tongue and didn't like Céleste. So it was with a prayer on her lips that she darted past the open door and on towards Madame Maxime's study.
She opened the door carefully, only daring to look around once it was open enough for her to slip through. Well maybe God was kind tonight, for there was Maxime with her head in her arms, asleep over her desk. Her painted face stood out, her lips and cheeks a garish red, harsh and lined beneath the lamplight, and snoring loud enough to wake the dead.
Taking no chances, however, Céleste tiptoed over and unhooked the key from the chain with trembling fingers. Hardly daring to breathe, she unlocked the cupboard and took down the big brown bottle of Laudanum. She took it to the desk and picked up a small glass from Maxime's table. There were a dozen empty ones so she hoped one wouldn't be missed. She poured out enough of the bitter, reddish brown liquid to give her smuggler a dose every few hours for a couple of days, and pushed the cork back in the bottle. Maxime snored on, oblivious as Céleste put the key back on the chain and padded back out of the study. Going on the sound coming from salon, Belle had finally reached her goal as the man was making enough noise to rattle the windows as he reached his climax. Hopeful that this meant Belle was well occupied, she ran past the open door and up the stairs as fast as she could go.
By the time she reached the safety of her own room her heart was thundering. Mon Dieu, what had she done? If Maxime noticed the Laudanum was gone there would be hell to pay.
Well it was too late now, and judging by the restless movements coming from the bed, it was just as well. With care not to give him too much, she tipped the glass and encouraged her charge to sip a little of the medicine. He grimaced and turned his head away, but she murmured encouraging words and he did as he was bid, finally subsiding into a deep sleep. Relieved and exhausted, Céleste hid the cup of medicine behind a broken roof tile, high on a rafter, and cuddled up beside him, to join her smuggler in sleeping like the dead.
***
Alex cracked open an eye. His vision was blurry and he was on fire, the pain skewering his fogged brain. It was so fierce that he wanted to reach up and remove his own head, but his arms were too heavy, he couldn't move an inch. He must have been out on one hell of a bender, even by his standards - and he'd been plagued by the strangest dreams.
He closed the eye again and tried to remember what he'd been up to, but his brain was murky and slow. There was a scent in the air which reminded him of something that he couldn't put his finger on and too exhausted to try, he drifted back to sleep.
He woke again with a start. "Bessie!" His heart was thudding and his mind tried to grasp at whatever it was that had alarmed him so, but it slipped from his thoughts too quick for him to snatch at. And then he knew he was either dreaming or dead as the most exquisite pair of blue eyes drifted into view.
"Bessie is not 'ere," she said, her voice soft and the words heavy with the most seductive French accent he had ever heard. "But I am. My name is Céleste, and I will take care of you. Ne vous inquiétez."
He smiled and tried to hold onto the vision but his eyes were closing, too heavy to let him look any more. "I'm not worried," he murmured. "I like you more than Bessie."
What seemed like a moment later he was shaken awake and he blinked, even the dim light searing his eyes. His head pounded like he'd been hit with a rock and he was so bloody hot.
"Wake up," said a sweet but insistent voice by his ear.
He groaned; he must have dozed off with one of his mistresses, though he was damned if he could remember which. "Not now, darling," he mumbled. "I will see to you later."
There was a not unexpected huff of annoyance and then a low string of obscene French which was more surprising. None of his light o' loves spoke French, not with a fluency and vocabulary that would have made even his crew blush to their toes.
"Non, you must drink this, quickly before I go to work. I am already late."
Forcing his eyes open again he managed to focus his hazy sight, and he caught his breath. An angel. He scowled and told himself that was beyond foolish, if he was dead he wouldn't feel so bloody awful, and he didn't think an angel would swear like a navvy. And yet the face in front of him was the most perfect he had ever seen. The widest blue eyes, a straight nose and a perfectly kissable pink mouth. There was the faintest scattering of freckles over the sweet little nose which he was certain she must despise but struck him as being quite adorable.
"Oh do stop looking at me like zhis," she said, the perfect mouth pursing into the most delectable pout. "You must drink some water. You have a very bad fever, must drink lots, oui?"
"Whatever you say, angel." He didn't have the faintest idea who she was or where she'd come from but his mind seemed too addled to care.
Obediently he tipped his head forward with a little help. It seemed a difficult thing to do for some reason, and he sipped at the water she gave him. It tasted sweet and he drank it like nectar, only now realising how parched his throat was.
"And now, you take this, oui? It will help you sleep."
He frowned as she tipped another glass towards him and he recognised the taste of Laudanum. The quack had dosed him with it when he'd been shot, or was it when he'd been injured at Trafalgar ... memories of war and ships and drowning men all merged together until he grasped one that stuck. "Bessie!" he gasped, remembering the cutter, the Revenue men and the storm that had tossed them like a child's toy and thrown them against the rocks.
"Bessie is not here, mon brave," whispered the sweet voice. "But I will take care of you."
Chapter 3
"Wherein our slightly wicked hero attempts to deny temptation and suffers the headache."
Céleste opened the door to her room with relief born of exhaustion, both physical and mental. She had been sure Madame Maxime would notice the missing Laudanum and had hardly dared breathe when she doled out the girl's measures. But she had gone about her business without any remark out of the ordinary and sent Céleste scurrying in circles as normal.
Now the usual sounds of merriment and debauchery filled the air and Céleste shut the door behind her with a sigh. Holding the candle high, she made her way to the bed and stopped in her track with surprise to see her smuggler awake and watching her, curiosity in his eyes.
"You are awake," she said, feeling her heart pick up a little. A sleeping man in her bed was one thing, a conscious one quite another.
"I am," he said, his voice a little rough. "At least, I think I am, everything is a little ... confused."
She smiled and sat down beside him. "It is the drug I gave you."
He nodded. "Laudanum."
"Oui, you were sick, very 'ot." She bit her lip as he smiled at her pronunciation. "Hot," she said again, struggling with the 'h' sound.
"Your English is excellent," he said, the curiosity in his eyes deepening.
"Thank you," she said, finding herself far too pleased by the compliment.
"Where am I?" he asked, a frown creasing his brow as he took in the mean little room and its squalid surroundings. She could hear a rat scurrying over the rafters and felt suddenly ashamed. Smuggler he may be, but his clothes had been good quality. He was obviously good at what he did. It suddenly dawned on her that he was quite naked beneath the thin blanket and he must realise she had undressed him. Her cheeks flushed and she looked away from him, glad of the dim candlelight to hide her embarrassment.
"Roscoff," she replied, in answer to his question. "I think your ship must have gone down in the storm. I found you on the beach, close to the 'arbour."
Looking up, she found him gazing at her. "You rescued me?" he asked, smiling.
She shrugged. "Mimi, helped," she said and watched the frown return.
"Your ... husband?"
She laughed at that and shook her head. "Non, I am not married. Mimi works 'ere, so do I."
"Where is here?" he asked, laying his head back and closing his eyes.
The frown deepened and she knew his head was hurting as he lifted one arm and tried to rub his head. She leaned forward and pushed his hand away, replacing it with both of hers. She rubbed his temples with tender care and he sighed.
"Oh, that's nice," he murmured.
She smiled, though he couldn't see it. "I used to do this for my, maman," she said.
"Is this her house?" he asked, though his voice was growing heavy.
"Non, she died, a long while ago, papa too, and Marie." She sighed, quite unable to keep the sorrow from her voice. She didn't allow herself to think on it, but just saying their names brought it all to the surface with painful force. "It is just me now," she added.
He opened his eyes for just a moment and she thought there was pity there, but then his eyes drooped and he drifted into sleep once more.
She watched him for a moment, reaching up to push his hair from his forehead and he sighed, moving towards her touch. Smiling she leaned down and pressed a small kiss to his temple.
"Sleep well, mon contrebandier."
Turning, she blew out the candle and moved close to him, welcoming both his warmth and the reassuring bulk of him at her side. She was so tired of being afraid, of always having to be brave. It was nice to think there was someone else with her, even if it was only for a day or two.
***
Alex awoke with a raging thirst and reached for his glass of water to find, not only that it wasn't beside his bed as usual, but it wasn't his bed. It wasn't so unusual to wake up in a strange bed but the surroundings ... he looked about at the cramped and dingy space and frowned. What the devil? As his faculties began to struggle through the fog in his head he also realised he was not alone. Again this was not terribly unusual, and he looked down to discover the most delectable bed warmer he had ever seen as his bruised mind struggled to recover the details of last night. The woman had coiled around him, her head on his chest, her hair spilled out around her. It was a light brown, shot through with gold and blonde highlights that glimmered even in the dull light of the room. Her slight, though curvaceous body was pressed firmly against his and he smiled as she sighed in her sleep and snuggled in closer.
The Earl's Temptation Page 2
