by Shana Galen
“Notice what?”
“The change in him.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “The emptiness in his eyes and the haunted look on his face. Later, I would think of that morning and know that the night before was when he’d sold his soul to the devil. I don’t know any details, and my father would never speak of it, but he was a large man, a strong man. He went to those in power and asked for a job, any job. I suspect they had him do away with their political enemies.”
“Everyone says he was one of the best,” Beaumont said softly. “You must know that.”
She lifted her wineglass and watched the light filter through the golden liquid. “No one ever said it to my face, but I heard whispers. My mother and aunt sheltered me from much of it, but when my mother died, there was no one to protect me. My father kept me safe, of course. He fed me and provided shelter for me. In fact, we moved to a better house in Paris. We left the forge behind and moved into a fancy flat, much like this one. My father often worked at night, and I was alone much of the time. I didn’t have any friends. Everyone was afraid of me—not me, of course, but my father. Even then, I didn’t fully understand. I knew my father had a position in the new government, the one under Napoleon Bonaparte. I knew he was an important man and he did not talk about his work. But then I met Marcel.”
Beaumont’s eyebrows lifted. “Marcel? I don’t like him already.”
She smiled. “I did. I liked him too much. Remember, I was all alone. I was desperately lonely. What little education I had I’d gathered from books and my mother’s teaching. But now that my father had funds, he hired me a tutor to teach me the classics as well as music and drawing. Marcel was quiet and shy, like me. I don’t think he took the position with the intention of seducing me, and I don’t think I can even argue that I was seduced. But I was young and he was young, and my lessons gradually turned into something less innocent.”
Beaumont nodded, and though she hadn’t expected to see censure in his eyes, it still relieved her to find it absent. She had made a mistake and knew that it was one that could never be put right. She’d been ruined, not publicly, but ruined nonetheless. She was not the sort of woman any man would ever want for a wife. The most she could hope for was to be some man’s mistress, and she had too much pride in herself to settle for that life.
“Your father found out,” Beaumont said.
“Of course, but not before Marcel told me what he knew of my father. He said half of Paris didn’t consider Fortier real. He was known for his stealth. He could be silent as a ghost and he could slit a man’s throat cleanly with a flick of his arm. That was his preferred method of killing, but he would not argue if Napoleon wanted a man strangled or shot. My father always got his man. Always.”
“He did have that reputation,” Beaumont said, placing his empty wineglass on the table. “We all made sure to steer clear of him when we were in Paris.”
“I didn’t believe Marcel at first. The way he described my father was not the way I knew him. He was always gentle and kind to me and to my mother. I never saw him raise a hand in violence to anyone. He rarely even raised his voice. But when I confronted my father, he didn’t argue.” She wiped the moisture from her eyes. “He said, ‘So now you know.’ And he apologized.” She rose and paced the room. “But he didn’t need to apologize to me, Mr. Beaumont. Because I knew why he’d done it. He’d done what he had to for the money to save my mother. And then when she was gone, he was in too deep.” She stopped before the fire and stared into the dancing flames.
“And what has any of this to do with why you are here now and with the letter? Your father died in the war.”
But she simply stared at him and then very slowly shook her head. “No, my father is alive.”
Nine
Rafe’s blood chilled. Collette might have described Fortier in sweet, glowing terms, but the man was a monster. He’d killed dozens, and he’d done his work coldly and expertly. Was the assassin in London? The very thought made Rafe want to peer over his shoulder. Instead, he clamped his hands on the wooden arms of the chair he occupied and took a breath.
He had to question her. He had to find out how everything fit together, how Fortier was involved. The note he’d sent her had been vague enough. He had deduced she had someone to report to and something to lose if she failed. But her reaction had been akin to panic. He thought he might have to send more notes before she confided in him, but whatever she stood to lose terrified her.
And he didn’t like seeing her terrified. He didn’t like knowing he was the one who’d caused it. “I need more wine.” He rose and crossed to the bottle, collecting her glass on the way. “So do you.” He poured them both a healthy measure of wine and set the empty bottle down. Returning to his chair, he placed her glass beside her, then sat and drank deeply from his own.
“You are upset,” she said.
“Rather more afraid for my life, but I’ll set that aside for the moment. Where is your father now?” Not London. Please, not London.
“Imprisoned in Paris. He was arrested under orders of the new king.”
Rafe let out a breath. “Then he can’t kill me tonight.”
“He wouldn’t kill you anyway. I told you, he is not a violent man. He only killed because it was his job. He didn’t take any pleasure in it. He did what was required of him because he didn’t have a choice. I even have a letter from your own Foreign Office that says as much—if I could only read it.” She waved a hand to dismiss this last statement. “It’s not as if an assassin can simply retire and walk away. He knows too much. Napoleon would never have let him live.”
“We didn’t think Napoleon had let him live. The reports I saw stated that his body had been recovered and he was dead.”
“A ruse. One my father and I concocted. Before Bonaparte was sent to Elba, we knew his regime was falling. We orchestrated my father’s death and left Paris. We hid in the country, becoming the Fournay family. Although my father had never farmed before, he bought a small plot of land and a cottage and made an effort. So when I told you my father was a farmer, I didn’t lie.”
Rafe stared at her. “No, you simply left out some important details.”
She raised a shoulder, not disputing the statement. “Then Bonaparte escaped Elba and came back. But my father and I stayed in hiding. Bonaparte had many enemies when he returned. My father could have made a fortune, but he had finally escaped that life and we wanted to live quietly and safely.”
“But now you are in London, not living either quietly or safely.”
“The Bourbons have been restored to the throne, and though the king seems to want forgiveness and peace, not all of his supporters feel the same. Courtiers who suffered with him while he was in exile, those who watched their ancestral lands stripped from them, who saw their husbands or wives dragged from their beds to be hung from lampposts or sacrificed to Madame Guillotine want blood. And they want power back.”
“Secrets are power.” No one knew that as well as he did. He had been in the business of collecting secrets throughout the war.
“Yes. They had my father arrested, and when I pled for his release, they sent me here to collect secrets.”
“How did they find your father?”
She sighed. “One would think after the turmoil of the revolution that the people would have learned something, but that’s not the case. Neighbors still turn on neighbors, and one of ours had grown suspicious and reported us. One of the courtiers who came to investigate remembered seeing my father at Versailles all those years ago. They took him prisoner.”
“And they sent you here to spy because he might be recognized, but you are virtually unknown.”
“And the warden of the prison has written to say my father is ill. He will die if he’s left in that prison. That’s why I need your help. I don’t have the information they want. Will you help me?”
“Just one questi
on.” Rafe raised a finger, interrupting her. “What happened to our friend Marcel? Did your father…” He drew a finger across his neck.
“When my father discovered the relationship, he discharged Marcel without a reference. As far as I know, Marcel is still alive. He’s probably married by now with children. I told you, my father didn’t kill for pleasure. You worry about your own throat?”
“We are alone in my flat. I didn’t want your father to learn of it and formulate the wrong idea.”
“And what is the wrong idea?” she asked.
“That I brought you here to seduce you.”
One of her brows lifted. “So the fire, the fruit, the wine—none of that was calculated to seduce me?” She set her wine down and moved closer to him.
“I am your friend. Nothing more.”
“And as a friend, will you help me?”
This was the opening he’d been looking for. This was why he’d sent the false note and—if not lured her here—orchestrated this meeting. He’d weaseled his way into her confidence and he would take advantage of that position. Not that he felt smug about it. But he had done worse in service to his country.
“I’ll help you.” He raised a hand to stave off any exclamation from her. “But I cannot betray my country. What is it the royalists want?”
She glanced down. “Codes,” she murmured. “They want the codes to be able to decipher British secret messages.”
Rafe shook his head. “You know I cannot give those to you, even if I had access.”
She looked up at him. “Your former commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Draven, has access.”
“And he’s a man I would never betray.”
She slumped. “Then my father is doomed.”
“We will have to think of another way to help you and your father.”
“I don’t know another way! I have a coded letter in English, which I believe states that my father was forced to work for Napoleon. If I could get my hands on the British codes, I could decipher the message. But even that knowledge would not be enough to exonerate him completely. It might sway the French king toward leniency, but there is no guarantee. I have to hand over those codes to ensure my father’s freedom. If I can’t steal those codes, I may never see my father again.”
Rafe could not feel sympathy for the brutal assassin, but he did feel it for the woman who loved him. But even sympathy would not sway him to deceive Draven or play traitor to his country. “I will think of something. Give me a day. Meet me tomorrow night, and we’ll discuss the plan.”
“Will you bring me here again?” she asked.
“Not if you object. I don’t enjoy standing about in cold gardens in the middle of the night, but it won’t be the worst hardship I’ve had to endure.”
She glanced about his flat, her eyes lingering on paintings and a few of the pieces he’d collected—vases, lamps, and other accoutrement. “It’s dangerous coming here,” she said.
“Because you think I will try to take you to bed?”
“Because I think you won’t.”
Rafe stared at her. Women did this sometimes. As well as he understood them, at times, they still managed to say something that flummoxed him. “I’m at sea here,” he finally admitted. “We are friends, nothing more.”
“Correct.”
“And when I proposed something more, you were not interested.”
“I was interested. I simply did not think becoming your lover a good idea.”
“And now it is?”
“Oh, definitely not.”
He gave her a long look. “My ship is sinking.”
“That’s why you’re dangerous. Because you make me want what I cannot have.”
“Oh, you can have me,” he said, rather too quickly. “What I mean is—”
She laughed. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”
Where the devil had she acquired that notion? She was the only woman he did want. “How could I not want you? That has never changed. If you want to change your position on the matter…”
“No. I meant only to say you tempt me. Coming here tempts me.”
“Good. I like to know I’m not the only one tempted.”
She rose, and he did the same. She twined her fingers, looking nervously about.
“What would we do were we hedgehogs, Miss Fortier?”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t—”
“Would you approach me? Would I approach you?”
“The, uh, boar pursues the sow, attempting to mount her.”
“I see. And what does the sow do?”
“She will persistently reject his advances. A high percentage of observed hedgehog courtships do not result in cop-cop—”
“Copulation?”
She nodded.
“I do wonder what tempts a hedgehog.” Before she could answer, he moved closer and placed a finger lightly over her lips. “That was a rhetorical question.”
“I wonder what tempts you,” she said shyly. “Do I tempt you now?”
Washed in the golden firelight, she was lovelier than words. And Rafe knew a lot of words to describe women. With her glossy hair piled on her head and her cheeks tinged pink by the wine and the flickering fire, she looked young but regal. He dared not allow his gaze to dip lower than her chin. “Immeasurably,” he murmured. She stepped closer, and he took her hand. It felt warm and soft in his, and he lifted it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Then, turning it over, he placed a lingering kiss on her palm. Her dark eyes turned even darker when his mouth skated up her flesh to brush against the skin at the inside of her wrist. She must have dabbed scent here because, above the clean smell of her skin, he also detected the fragrance of juniper.
His mouth explored her sensitive flesh until he found her pulse, which fluttered rapidly. She might have pulled her hand away at any time. He held it with the lightest touch, but when he slid his lips higher to the tender skin at the inside of her elbow, she trembled. Rafe’s gaze never left hers when he flicked his tongue out and tasted her flesh.
She inhaled sharply. “You are very good at this, aren’t you?” she whispered.
“If my imaginings count, I’ve had extensive experience touching you.”
“Did you ever imagine kissing my lips?”
He grinned. “Once. Or twice.”
Her free hand wrapped around his neck, sliding into his hair. He straightened and she pulled him close. When he released her hand to wrap his arms around her, she linked her arms about his neck and looked up at him. Rafe had never wanted to kiss a woman so badly. And he’d never feared doing so before. The last time he’d tried to kiss her, she had pushed him away. What if he kissed her now and frightened her? What if the kiss ruined the friendship, and she wouldn’t see him any longer? Draven would kill him, but even worse, Rafe would lose Collette.
“Kiss me,” she said when he hesitated.
“Are you certain this is a good idea? I don’t generally kiss my friends.”
“Surely you can make an exception for me.”
“Surely.” He bent closer, then pulled back again. “But should I? This might change everything, and I do value our friendship.”
“As do I.” She pressed closer to him, and the air caught in his lungs when her breasts pushed against his chest.
“Then we stay friends,” he said, voice choked.
“Friends who have shared a kiss.”
“Yes.” He brushed his lips over hers, then jerked back again. “That’s actually a new category of friendship for me. Should we discuss its parameters before we go on?”
She sighed, sounding suspiciously frustrated. “No. Just kiss me, Rafe.” But she didn’t wait for him to comply. Instead, she rose on tiptoe and took his mouth with hers. Her lips were soft and gentle but insistent. He couldn’t have refrained from kissing her bac
k if he’d wanted. Kissing her was as necessary in that moment as breathing. And when her mouth became more insistent, he met her demands, kissing her deeper, holding her tighter, teasing her with his mouth until he felt her tremble.
He trembled as well. He’d never reacted this way to kissing a woman before. He’d always enjoyed kissing women—some more than others—but he’d never been so moved, never felt as though he needed a woman like he needed Collette.
“I think this is enough for now,” he said, pulling back.
She blinked up at him, her brown eyes almost black. “Really?”
He ran his thumb across the satin of her cheek, marveling at the silky flesh. “I think it’s for the best.”
“And I thought it best if we continue.”
That was a rather appealing idea as well. Who the devil cared about restraint and all the rest of that rot? She was in his arms and he wanted her and she wanted him…and if he took her, he might just ruin everything. Because he was not who she thought he was. At least, he hadn’t been entirely truthful with her about his intentions and reasons for becoming her friend. And there was the small detail that he’d created the crisis he now offered to guide her through. Added to those damning facts, he had already decided he would do all he could to protect her from any sort of punishment, but his determination was no guarantee of success. He might just be the one who was responsible for her father’s death and her imprisonment and possible execution.
One of those reasons alone was reason enough to resist further complicating their relationship by taking her to bed.
Cursing Draven and the French government and his own surprising reaction to her, Rafe stepped back and held her at arm’s length. “It’s late and you’ve had a scare today. I’ll see you home.”
She nodded. “You’re right. I should go home before I’m missed.”
With a nod, he reluctantly released her and strode to the rack where he’d hung her cloak. She allowed him to drop it over her shoulders, but before she drew the hood up, she said, “Perhaps we can continue where we left off tomorrow.”
