Before he could gain his feet, the girl gave a squeak and hurried out, dragging the maid with her, even though the maid stared back over her shoulder at him, admiration warming her eyes. As he stood, he heard their rapid footsteps hurrying away. Would they return with food? Or with Alexandria?
In either case, he was bored with lying in bed. The landlord had come up earlier to shave him, but now his stomach grumbled its complaints of neglect.
He dragged a sheet around him, clutching the ends of it at one hip. Not the most fashionable garb. But good enough. He had to wait a moment for the room to steady before he started for the door, intent on finding something to eat and to wear, and wishing this dizziness would go away.
The hallway also kept wanting to tilt on its side, so he paused in the doorway to lean on it and catch his breath. When he heard firm steps on the stairs, he stayed where he was, waiting for her.
A moment later, Alexandra came up the narrow stairway, her skirts lifted, showing those trim ankles of hers. She had changed, he saw, into a different gown from this morning—something very pretty, he thought, in a deep gold with a pattern in it of red and brown. She had tucked a white scarf around the low neckline, and a garnet-and-topaz broach pinned the scarf between her lovely, high breasts.
He watched her for a moment, eyes narrowed, and made her an elegant bow, baring one leg from the sheet to do so. "I thought you were going to send me up some beef?"
She shook her head. "You are as pale as that linen you are wearing. Please go back to bed."
"Only if you come with me."
Eyebrows arching, she came forward and wrapped her arm around him. She looked up at him, gray eyes almost silver in the light. "Very well. I shall."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Her agreement surprised him. "You shall? What is this—more false promises? Such as my meat."
"Are you still harping on that? I was annoyed when I said I should give you what is bad for you. But what if we compromise—on beef broth?"
He laughed, winced, and moved his arm from the door jamb to lay it over her shoulders. She had been speaking mostly French, but with English words used whenever she could not find a translation. She mangled the language, but he found it charming. It made her seem less the so-very-correct Lady Sandal.
He slanted her a glance. "Is that what you want in my bed, too—compromise?"
"What I want in your bed is you!" She spoke quick and sharp. Seeming to realize what she had said, she flushed, color streaming up from her neck and into her face.
He spoke low, and in English, intending the words for her alone. "You could have me there—just by asking. Will you ask now, ma chére?"
The images flooded his mind, sending his senses reeling. Her naked and arching with pleasure. Silken hair loose. His hands on that creamy skin of hers. He had reason once to call her Lady Scandal. Reason to know she could be as wanton as any Parisian amazone. And he wanted to see her like that again. Wanted to see her eyes glazed by passion. Wanted to hear soft, helpless moans of shivering pleasure from her. Wanted her lost to everything but him.
He stroked a caress from that slender neck, over a supple back, and to a waist still as trim as he remembered. With that memory, his body stirred. The sheet slipped from his loosened fingers, shifting dangerously low. He ignored it and brushed his lips against her cheek. "Ah, but it's been so long, too long, since I touched you. I could hold you like this forever."
"That is an absurd thing to say," she answered, her tone sharp but with a betraying quiver underneath.
"Then I am absurd. Or still hot with fever, and not with the intoxication of you."
Trying to focus on her task—and not on his lips, nor the caress of his hand, which had inched lower on her back—Alexandria took hold of the ends of the sheet with one hand. She kept her other arm around him. She tried to be careful of his wound, and so she ended with her hand pressed against his bare skin just below the bandages and above his narrow hips. Her throat tightened. It had been too long. But he was in no condition for this. Neither was she, with too little sleep and too many things happening too fast.
She must remember, too, that he had been shot not that long ago for being in another woman's bed. But why did that not seem to matter so much with his lips brushing across her jaw?
"What of your desire for beef?" she said, focusing on the practical and pulling him towards his bed.
His voice dropped lower. "Why must I choose? Why can I not have both?"
"I ought to call the landlord to assist you."
"But you are so much more charming. And I think perhaps you smell better, too." He pressed his nose to her neck, and rubbed his lips from her neck to her cheek. "You smell of...of onions actually. What have you been eating?"
"Onion soup—the landlord's wife is an excellent cook."
He pulled back from her, his eyes bright with indignation. "You eat such things and send me gruel—you torture me!"
"No, that would be allowing you to make yourself deathly ill!" With the words, she pulled away from him and pushed hard on his chest. The bed caught him on the back of his knees and he tumbled back, arms flung out as he lost his balance. He ended up laying diagonally across the narrow bed. Bending over, she lifted his feet and put them up on the bed.
The sheet had twisted around him, revealing one muscular thigh and a glimpse of flat, hard hip and stomach. She tried not to stare at the bare skin, the taunt muscles—how unfair that ten years sat so well on a man. And how lovely.
The momentary distraction gave him time. Grabbing her hand, he gave a sharp tug, and pulled her down so that she lay next to him, pressed against his uninjured side. He smiled at her. "Now are you happy? I am in bed again."
"Paxten! This is not good for you!"
"Let me judge that," he said, nuzzling her neck.
She pushed against him, but he had his arm around her and more strength than she had expected. Parting her lips, she started to reason with him.
He stole her words, covering her mouth with his.
Heat rushed into her in a dizzying, sweet flush. His tongue brushed across hers lips and she let out a breath. Oh, she had forgotten the drugging passion of him, how soft his lips could be, how demanding, how caressing.
She wound her arm around his neck, and arched against him. His palm brushed across her breast and his fingers closed there, pulling another sigh of pleasure from her. She pushed against his chest, but not really hard enough to free herself. Ah, it had been too long. So very, very long.
His kiss deepened to something harsh, something more demanding, and panic flared inside her.
The clatter of hooves, and shouts from the yard, gave her reason enough to at last drag herself from his grip.
Dazed, she rose from the bed. He stared at her, eyes narrowed and an angry flare in them, but he seemed to hear the commotion from below. His eyebrows lifted as he glanced towards the open window.
Alexandria moved to the window, heart thudding hard and her stomach quivering—from Paxten, or the alarming sounds coming from the stable yard? She did not stop to find an answer. Instead, she brushed at her hair and looked out.
At the sight of the uniforms, she spun around and the word came out with a panicked breath, "Soldiers!"
Paxten muttered something in French. Pushing up from the bed, sheets tangled around his legs, he asked, "Where are my breeches? And do you know, does this inn have a back entrance?"
#
Frustration simmered in Taliaris. Having to stop at every village for word of three women traveling in a coach made for slow work. But he wanted no more mistakes. The trail had been here and then gone, but always it led towards Calais. He still could not believe it. Did these English have no sense to take side roads? To vary their direction? Or were they so arrogant they did not fear anyone would follow? Or perhaps he was on the wrong trail entirely, following innocents who did not need to hide?
That last worry made him cautious. And so he took his time, stopping at every town, every v
illage, every farmhouse near a crossroad, accounting for every change of horse they made and every glimpse of that black coach.
They'd had one piece of luck—a footman had indeed come back for Marie-Jeanne. Now they would see if he had told them the truth when they had questioned him.
Swinging off his horse, Taliaris handed the reins to his orderly and watched as his lieutenant barked orders to dismount. He glanced around this sorry excuse of a village. The English had at last left the main road to come here. The footman had not wanted to say anything—a loyalty Taliaris could admire, even if it was misplaced. But putting a man in front of a firing squad made most forget noble ideals in place of survival. Before muskets could even be shouldered, the footman had betrayed the name and direction of this village as the place where the English had stopped.
It had taken long enough, first to ride back to interrogate the footman, and longer still to ride here. Would the English still be here? Even if they weren't, his men needed food, and their mounts needed water and rest. They would stop. And he would hope their quarry had been foolish enough to feel safe and remain.
The landlord came out from his inn, a frown in place as he took in the soldiers and horses in his yard. Taliaris gave the man the same examination. Not every Frenchman held a deep affection for the First Consul and those who served him in the army. Some called Bonaparte the Little Corsican, never mind that Corsica had been part of France for years. Others called him dictator and murderer of the Revolution. Of course, they did not do so in public. But Taliaris had heard the whispers.
And this landlord did not look pleased to see them.
Wiping his hands on his apron, Gustave Lepic singled out the man who seemed in command. Not the one shouting orders. But the one who stood watching everyone else jump. Armies—bah! Bad for business. Too often they ate and drank, and when the time came for the bill, they said it ought to be a glory to serve those who served France and left without paying. But he kept those thoughts to himself and gave them a stupid grin.
In troubled times, a fool might stay alive. And these times seemed always troubled.
He put on a smile. "Good day, General. And what may I do for such fine soldiers of France? Is it food you need? Drink? My brother owns the best vineyard in Champagne."
No jovial smile answered him, just a face that could have been carved of oak. He had to look up at the man—a tall fellow. His shako made him seem even taller. The dolman jacket swung over one shoulder by a cord and the gold braid across his chest also made him dauntingly broad. But he had a young man's face. An earnest face. Deadly so.
Gustave kept smiling. What else did one do with men who carried muskets and sabers and had the right to do anything in the name of France and the man who had made himself Her master?
"We are looking for some English. Two women with their maid. They would be traveling by coach. They also might have lost the maid in place of a man—an injured man."
English—ah, he had known it. The girl had that look to her in that fair skin and golden hair, and the lady, well, no Frenchwoman spoke so little as she.
Rubbing his chin, Gustave took time to answer. Was there a profit to be made here? Not from these men, but from how grateful an Englishwoman might be that she had been kept safe? Finally, he said, "Well, now, a coach left just this morning, it did. With three women inside. They hired fresh horses from me."
"Describe them."
Gustave hesitated. So far he had not lied—he had given nothing that could come back to him in accusations. What did he say now without stretching his neck out?
His hesitation did not serve. This time as he rubbed his jaw and tried to look befuddled, the man's mouth thinned with impatience. Turning to his soldiers, he called out, "Search the inn!"
Gustave pulled in a breath. If they found those guests of his, what would they do to him? Might they take him for something other than a fat fool and arrest him as well?
He hurried to the doorway, his apron flapping, the sweat cold on his forehead. "Ah, but, sirs, I run a good, decent place. Boots stomping through my inn will disturb my guests and frighten my maid. Come, why do you not allow me to show you about instead, after you have some bread and cheese, and good wine to wash it down?"
The soldiers pushed past, shoving him aside. He might as well have been talking to a storm, telling it not to blow. The man who had ordered the search remained in the stable yard, one hand resting on his saber.
Temper lost, Gustave swung on him. "It is not enough you take our sons and our crops, but now you have to take our homes apart! War! Always it is war with this Bonaparte! Why can you not—"
"Careful, Innkeep! You do not want to say things you will have to repeat before the Minister of Justice."
Sagging, Gustave slunk back.
And a shout came from the inn, from upstairs. "Captain—in here!"
Face pale, sweat stinging as it dripped into his eyes, Gustave watched the captain stride into the inn, his saber rattling at his side. He hurried after, his heart beating so hard it made him ill.
Could he pretend outrage to learn his guest were not French, that they had deceived him—and they had. Of course, he had not asked too closely about them once he saw their gold. Mary, Mother of God help me now. His stomach quivered, but he resisted the urge to cross himself. However, he did put a hand up to rub his throat for he could already feel the tickle of Madam Guillotine's blade.
The captain took the stairs three at a time. Gustave rushed after him, and stopped in the doorway to stare into a room empty of anything other than its usual furniture, too many soldiers, and three heavy, open portmanteaus.
One man held up a pink, silk dress. "Someone left in a hurry, sir. Quick enough to leave these."
Gustave blinked. The English were gone?
Gold braid loomed before him and he looked up into a tight-set face. He swallowed his fear, but it lodged in his throat.
"Tell me again about those women who left this morning in their carriage—and tell me this time why they left their dresses behind."
#
Alexandria sat with her jewel box at her feet, Diana pressed against her on the left and Paxten on the right. They sat three to a bench seat designed to hold two, and she knew Paxten's every movement. She felt him turn to glance behind them, knew when he braced his leg against the gig to better handle a turn, and knew when his shoulders sagged with the effort it cost him to drive this tiny gig. But he would not allow her to take the reins, even though she had offered three times now.
The worry had to come out somehow, so she put it into simmering indignation. "That broach cost eighty pounds!"
He glanced at her and looked back to the road. He had kept the pair of horses harnessed to the gig to a brisk trot ever since they had left the farm house that lay at the edge of the village. Judging from the sun's position, they traveled west, but Alexandria would not have made a wager on that. At least the sun shone, the air held a touch of spring warmth, and the road stretched open before them.
A smile curved up his mouth, even though she could also glimpse white brackets of pain there as well. "You ought to appreciate that you travel in a most expensive carriage."
"Did you have to pay that farmer with that particular broach?" she asked.
His answer came back unruffled, as amused as ever. "It was not a time for bargaining as I recall, and it caught his eye. Was it an heirloom?"
"I would never have allowed you to give away any of the Chetwynd family jewels!" And now I sound like my mother—or worse, like Bertram's mother, she decided. Was she becoming that—a sift-necked, prune-mouthed dowager with nothing good to say to anyone?
She bit down on the insides of her cheeks to keep from saying anything more.
On her other side, Diana fidgeted, fussing with the ties to the bonnet she had snatched up before Paxten had dragged them out of the inn.
Alexandria's temper flared. "Can you not sit still?" she snapped, frowning at her niece.
Diana stilled and mutter
ed, "I beg your pardon." But soon she was twisting again, almost bouncing in her seat. "Was that not the most exciting thing? I thought certain we were caught. And to have to run from house to house—how did you know how do to that, Mr. Marsett?"
He started to answer, glanced at Alexandria, and said, "Practice at the wrong sorts of things. You should forget you ever had to do such a thing."
"Oh, but it was just what we needed! And then to find a farmer just harnessing his gig, and to practically snatch it out from him!"
"Not exactly a godsend," Alexandria remarked, her tone dry. She glanced at the mismatched pair of horses—one brown, the other a roan. Heavy animals with thick, unruly manes, they looked as if they ought to be pulling a plough. As to the gig.... "This vehicle has no springs and we are like to be bounced to death in it."
"We won't be in it long enough," Paxten said. He had switched to speaking English as soon as they gained the open road, but now Alexandria stared at him, not comprehending him in the least.
"Won't be—? After you gave away my favorite broach to buy this...this...carriage, you say we will not be in it that long? Are we that near to the coast?"
"We are if you can sprout wings. But, no, what I had in mind when I spoke is that those soldiers will be busy only a short while, taking apart that inn. They may follow after your coach, but when they catch it, they will realize they were tricked. And they may come back to that inn we left so quickly."
Alexandria sat back for a moment, frowning. "You think they will talk to the farmer who sold us this gig?"
"Perhaps. If they do, the man might not want to talk about the broach given him, but there are ways a man can be persuaded into talking."
Diana leaned forward to glance at him from the other side of Alexandria, her expression worried. "Persuaded—do you mean as in using force?"
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