It was a boastful question tinged with a real desire to know, and she couldn't help but brighten inside. "Of course, Jonathan," she answered pleasantly. "You're a marvelous kisser. But then one does get better at almost anything with practice, and I know you've had plenty of it."
He gazed out to the roses, shaking his head in a small measure of defeat as his lips turned up. She could see amusement etched on the side of his face, although he tried to hide it.
"I suppose you've broken the rule, then, darling Natalie. You were marvelous at it the very first time."
He had to say that and throw a spark to the brush. She'd had the upper hand with her comments, keeping him guessing as to her thoughts and intentions, and like always he knew exactly what to say to return the advantage to him.
She straightened a little and changed the subject. "Let's see… What did I do today? Oh, yes, I took a long bath, listened to the innkeeper loudly scolding local children for picking strawberries from the garden vine, watched bees pollinate flowers, and other equally exciting things. Did you do anything quite as thrilling while you played in the big city without me?"
He tossed her a quick glance, possibly to see if she were really annoyed, then looked down at the graveled pathway as he began tapping his fingers together in a triangle in front of his face. "I'm sure your day was far more relaxing than mine."
"I've been relaxed for a week now."
"It's also safer here—"
"What are you keeping me safe from, Jonathan? Pickpockets?" She gasped sarcastically and clutched her throat with her palm. "Goodness gracious, what if I caught one in the act? I wouldn't know what to do with a thief if I had one in my hands."
He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, or perhaps just to stop himself from delivering a crass rebuttal. Before he could attempt one, however, she jumped to the most important issue.
"And while we're on the subject of thieves, were you able to steal my mother's indecent love letters?"
His tensed a little, breathing deeply, hesitating just long enough for her to gather the worst.
"You didn't find Robert Simard, did you?" she asked in a tone nearly pleading for reassurance that he had.
He continued to stare at the ground. "I know where he is."
She had no idea what that meant, uncertain if she should feel relieved or worried. He wasn't acting at all like a professional thief who'd completed a successful day of work.
"But you don't have the letters," she affirmed slowly.
After several silent seconds, he started shuffling his right foot back and forth along the gravel.
"Robert Simard lives in Switzerland," he revealed quietly, "with his wife and family, and has done so for five years. It's highly unlikely he's involved."
It took a long time for his words to penetrate her mind, for her to grasp the information and compile it into coherent thought. She scrutinized the thick, shiny hair falling over his brow, the dark stubble on his chin and jaw as evening growth began to shadow his face. She could feel the heat from his shoulder and leg so close to her, and in a moment of absurdity, she wondered why she noticed these things when her life suddenly seemed to be whirling out of her control.
"He's a well-respected professor of letters, Natalie," he carried on, subdued. "With students, a wife, and six children, I don't see how he'd have the time to blackmail your mother even if he wanted to. I also learned he's held in high moral regard by his peers and makes a good living. He doesn't need the money, and I can't imagine him going to this much trouble for revenge. If he were caught and arrested he'd lose everything he values."
Natalie's mouth went dry. Her heartbeat quickened. Never had she imagined it could be anyone else. "I don't understand," she mumbled. "My mother is positive it's him."
Jonathan turned and looked at her directly, brows creasing. "What makes her think so?"
She shook her head faintly. "I-I'm not sure. I know he detested her and felt she was the one to start the affair, seducing his father who was also married."
"Was that likely?"
"Probably." She closed her eyes and wiped a palm across her brow, feeling hot color creeping into her cheeks again, finding it now difficult to look at him as she revealed private family secrets. "She's received three anonymous, threatening letters demanding money, by courier, and that's how she's been paying. By courier. She refuses to tell the authorities, obviously because of the social implication, but I also suspect because she may have been unfaithful before—with someone in England—and doesn't want that to become known."
After a second or two of silence, she opened her eyes to his once more. He regarded her attentively, thinking.
"And your father knows of the relationship she had with the Frenchman, but is ignorant of someone blackmailing her with the threat of exposing the explicit love letters she wrote to him?"
"Yes. Exactly."
He waited. "Is he aware of the letters she wrote Paul Simard?"
"Yes," she said very softly. "Their existence came out during an exchange."
"An exchange?"
That made her uncomfortable again, and she sank a little lower on the bench. "Between them. A—heated argument."
"I see…" After another short pause, he asked guardedly, "Was your father ever in residence when the courier arrived?"
She frowned. "I don't know. Why?"
The breeze shifted, blowing her hair in front of her face, and without thought he reached up and brushed it from her cheek, studying her silently, his gaze taking in her features one at a time. He was piecing together a puzzle of his own, but he didn't share it with her. He was being cautious—overly so.
"What are you thinking, Jonathan?" she demanded gently.
He hesitated before answering, so clearly weighing the decision to reveal his opinion on the matter, but she refused to back down.
Finally he lowered his voice to a deep whisper. "The letters obviously exist, but I don't know who's threatening your mother, Natalie, or where this person is exactly. I'm willing to steal them for you but I need more information. And I need more time."
"Where else can you look?" she murmured bleakly. "Where would you start?"
His eyes crinkled as he attempted a comforting smile. "I don't know yet. But we may need to stay in France longer than expected."
Never in two years had she considered that the Black Knight might fail. He was the best, a legend with remarkable successes attached to his name. Only moments ago she had lived with the joy of being in France with him, and with hope. Now she struggled beneath the crushing weight of an imminent defeat.
"My parents will be returning to England soon, Jonathan."
The reassurance expressed in his features gave way to concern. "When?"
"In three weeks," she replied, running her palm up and down her leg. "That doesn't give us much time together."
He sighed and sat back fully against the cushion, knees apart, hands folded in his lap. "No," he admitted, once more turning his gaze to the roses. "But probably enough." She wondered how he would know this, but since he added nothing more, she didn't push for detail. He was evidently considering ways he might help her and hadn't mentioned the emeralds at all in the discussion, or her promised gift of appreciation. He felt a genuine commitment to her, and that was all she could ask of him. She treasured it because she had no one else in the world now.
Suddenly, sitting alone with him in a glorious flower garden, through the soothing sound of rustling leaves and the scent of roses lingering in looming twilight, time stilled as a breath of clarity enveloped her. Jonathan had always been truthful with her, even now, as he was likely embarrassed by his lack of success and unsure of what to say. And from her own sense of compassion, with the tender filling of her heart, she recognized just how deeply her emotions ran—not with distress or anger at his apparent failure, but with a flourishing devotion only to him.
She dropped her knees to her side, resting them along his thigh, then reached for his arm, locking h
ers around it and pulling it against her bosom. Curling her feet up farther under her gown and snuggling into him, she leaned her head on his shoulder.
"You'll find them for me," she whispered passionately, staring out at the roses. "I believe in you, Jonathan. You're my truest friend."
Jonathan had never been more profoundly moved. His throat closed tightly from a sudden, violent invasion of his soul, and he couldn't speak, couldn't respond. He'd never expected this reaction from her, such sweet acceptance of his words, such total faith in his experience and abilities—in him. He felt an immediate rush of guilt for selfishly exaggerating the truth just to keep her by his side as long as possible, and annoyance with himself for wasting time in the city when he could have been here; for not believing in her.
A magical silence surrounded them, and he relished the moment, her head on his shoulder, her body so close to him, warm and soft. The sun had finally slipped below the hilts to the west, and the windows of the inn were illuminated with lamplight, causing a golden hue to spread across the garden.
He lowered his head just enough to feel her hair on his cheek, closing his eyes to the softness of it against his face, brushing it back and forth with his lips, inhaling the scent of it, wanting nothing more than to sit there with her for hours, savoring their extraordinary closeness.
And then, very slowly, it began. She turned to him, and with a delicate, almost hesitant touch, pressed her lips to his cheek. She kept them there for seconds before moving them to his jaw, then gradually upward to his temple. They weren't kisses exactly—just a soft caress of her warm mouth against his skin.
An instantaneous fire erupted within him; outwardly he didn't move, could hardly breathe. He kept himself motionless, basking in the feel of her legs against his thigh, her full breasts against his arm, in the gentleness she gave him freely at that second in time. It would be enough, for now, if she pulled back. But she didn't. She lifted her free arm, placing her palm on his neck, running her thumb along his jaw, her fingers in the hair at his nape.
Still, he did nothing, waiting for the affection she unveiled to end, though hoping desperately that it wouldn't. She had never reached for him before, had always denied the strength of the attraction between them, so perceptible to him even the night they had met five long years ago. Then at last, as if gradually coming to terms with an internal struggle she could no longer avoid, she ceased all movement of her lips and fingers, and lifted her head to look up into his face.
His heart began to pound. The glow from the inn cast only a dim light on her features, but even in the shadow of dusk he read her thoughts, comprehended the ache she felt for an experience she had never known, witnessed the charge of emotion to escape her eyes and sear through his own.
Jonathan would always count this as one of the most powerfully touching moments of his life. She stared into his eyes conveying only a trace of apprehension, but more clearly an overwhelming marvel of something discovered, something new and wonderful.
Gingerly she raised her fingers to his lips, skimming them in slow form, her gaze never moving as she attempted to assess his response to the contact. And from that he could hold back no longer. He kissed them delicately, first one, then another, then all of them, one at a time, as he reached for her face with his own hand, placing his palm on her cheek and stroking it with his thumb.
They remained like that, caught in time, until finally, in a deep, choked voice, he whispered her name and she gave in, closing her eyes and turning her head just enough to kiss his palm, to rub her cheek in his hand.
His heart melted from wonder; his body weakened from incredulity at the change in her he had never anticipated.
Eyes shut, she leaned up to his face again, placing tiny kisses on his cheek and jaw, his chin and lips.
He responded in kind by at last pulling his arm free of her grasp, turning slightly and cupping her face in his hands, returning with kisses of his own, brushing his lips against her cheeks and forehead and lashes. She placed her palms on his shoulders, her fingers caressing him through the layers of his jacket and shirt.
Jonathan realized where she would take him in only the deepest corner of his mind, but he couldn't allow himself to believe she would take him there tonight. Not yet. Dreams became a painful thing when hoped for too much and never fulfilled. He wanted what she would give but he would only guide, never push her toward it.
Sometimes, though, the best of dreams became breathtaking reality, as this one did when at last, after only the briefest hesitation, she reached forward through a sigh of surrender and placed her mouth directly on his.
Jonathan knew this was the final yielding of her innocence to him. Perhaps she had yet to acknowledge the loss tonight of what would be her greatest gift, but he knew, and he would give her so much more in return for it. He would give her all that he was.
Taking the directive, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him, molding his lips to hers, relishing in her softness, her tenderness, in the warmth of the breeze and the smell of flowers lingering in quiet nightfall. She kissed him back fully, pressing her breasts against his chest, moving her mouth in rhythm with his, opening for him should he decide to invade. And he did, tasting the sweetness, his breath quickening, hunger mounting, one hand splayed across her back, the other through her hair.
She pulled him tighter still, her own needs rising to surface as she resigned herself to the passion, a tiny whimper escaping her as he flicked his tongue across her top lip. She ran her fingers through his hair, teased his lips with urgency from hers, unconsciously rubbed her thigh against his.
But it wasn't until she turned into him and crossed her leg over his in an attempt to move closer that Jonathan knew he'd had enough of the prelude. They were still in the rose garden, behind an inn full of people, and in only moments they would lose themselves to each other and forget that.
Reluctantly he stilled, placed both palms on her cheeks, and gently lifted his mouth from hers. He pulled back just enough to gaze at her beautifully flushed face, her closed eyes and parted lips, moist from contact with his. Her breath came fast and unevenly, and within seconds she raised her lashes to look at him.
She knew. He could see it in her eyes.
Managing only a hint of a smile, Jonathan slowly traced her bottom lip with his thumb, then whispered huskily, "Come with me."
She blinked, her thoughts unsteady, and then she nodded.
He released her cheeks, took her hand in his, and stood, helping her rise and stand beside him. Quickly she reached for her shoes and slipped them onto her feet, then he turned and led her along the narrow gravel path toward the back of the inn.
Neither spoke as she followed him through opened French doors. He strode with purpose past the salon now coming to life with mingling visitors taking hors d'oeuvres as they awaited dinner, then up the central oak staircase. On the landing he turned left and headed to their room—the last on that floor. Still clinging to him with her left hand, she passed him the key she'd kept hidden in one of the pockets of her skirt and he swiftly unlocked the door, entering the darkened room without delay. Just as rapidly she stepped in behind him before he closed it and once again bolted it for the night. Silently, in near blackness, he released her hand and walked three feet to the bedside table, lighting the small lamp sitting upon it. That done, he pivoted back to her, eyeing her at last with penetrating confidence.
She stood uncertain but not fearful, and still aroused enough to want to continue where they'd left off—he could see it in her shining cheeks and full, rosy lips, her glazed eyes. Quickly he removed his jacket and waistcoat and tossed them on a nearby chair, then reached up and untied his neckcloth, dropping it on the table behind him.
"Are—are we going to kiss some more, Jonathan?"
She exuded a certain nervousness, but her voice was thick and saturated with desire, and it took everything in him not to yank her against his chest, to draw the breath from her with a bruising kiss, to pull her har
shly against his aching erection, to force her to feel—to know—what she did to him. But her inexperience also gave him pause as he considered just how slowly the night was going to move for them.
Softly, eyes transfixed on hers, he started by stating the obvious to the naive woman he was about to seduce. "I'm going to make love to you, Natalie."
The muffled sound of roaring laughter filtered through the floorboards from the dining room below but did nothing to quell the sudden charge in the air between them. It was final now, he'd made his intentions clear, and after only seconds of absorbing exactly what he'd said, she faltered from the words, bringing her hand up to clutch her throat.
Faintly she replied, "I think I'd rather just kiss."
Her timid sweetness liquefied him. She fought the passion because she was so raised, but he was also quick to note that she hadn't denied what was about to take place, hadn't protested the impending occurrence. She knew it was going to happen. She'd accepted it, too, and this realization made the blood rush through his veins.
"Kissing is part of making love," he said quite seriously, moving his fingers to the buttons on his cuffs, "and I intend to do a great deal of it with you."
"Kissing?" she asked hopefully.
He smiled into her eyes. "Everything."
Hugging herself, she glanced to the bed—downy soft and covered with an embroidered quilt of pale yellow daffodils and plum roses—so inviting. "I don't think this is a good idea, Jonathan."
She was losing her nerve, or perhaps just becoming aware of the immediate complications to arise from their actions, and he refused to allow anything to invade the pleasure about to be realized by both of them. They were ready for each other, and now was the time.
Jonathan took a step toward her and reached for the hand she still held at the base of her throat. She looked up at him again as he raised it to his lips and delicately kissed her knuckles.
STOLEN CHARMS Page 23
