Suzanne gazed down at the invalid. He was sleeping peacefully now, and the smooth white skin of his bandaged chest was rising and falling slowly with each long breath. With her to nurse him, he would soon recover.
"Miss Suzanne."
"Oh, Guillaume, do not fuss so. What risk can there be to me when he is so ill? He needs a nurse, not a…a paramour."
"It is not right for you to be doing this. You should—"
She laid a caressing hand on his arm. "If it will content you, dear Guillaume, I will confine myself to dressing his wound, and feeding him. You may tend to his other bodily needs yourself. Though I fail to see how you will find the time."
"I will make the time," he growled.
She twinkled up at him. "If you have so much time to spare, you can come and chaperon us, too. Would that satisfy you?"
He grunted. They both knew it was impossible. Guillaume, as the only man in the house, had far too many chores to do. He could not watch over Suzanne, even though she was the apple of his eye. "If I had the time to chaperon you, missy, I'd have the time to change his bandages myself."
She seized one of his callused, work-worn hands and rubbed it against her cheek. "I know you mean well, Guillaume, but imagine how your rough hands would feel against tender, wounded flesh." She used her own soft hand to stroke his stubbled cheek. "My hands will hurt him less. He will heal more quickly with me to tend him. Wait and see."
He pushed her hand away. "Enough of your wheedling ways, young lady. You always did know how to get the better of me, but you won't do so this time. A lady's reputation is her most treasured possession, and once it's lost, it can never be regained. You don't understand the risk you are taking."
His concern was all for her, and she must not distress him any further, even though she was quite determined that she would have her own way in this. "I will nurse him while he lies insensible, Guillaume. Once he comes to his senses again, I will consult Marguerite about what is proper. Will that content you?"
"Aye." He smiled reluctantly. "I suppose so. Now I'd best bring up some more coals for that fire, or your precious gentleman will end up dying of cold."
The moment he left the room, Suzanne sat down by the bed and took Herr Benn's limp hand in both her own. He seemed so weak. Would he ever be well enough to sit up, to look at her, to speak to her? What would he think of her? Would his eyes warm and his lips smile?
She stroked his hand, once, and then tucked it under the sheet before pulling the coverlet up to his chin. He was her dear invalid, and she was determined that it would be her nursing, and her care, that would cure him.
Jack stood watching from the doorway of the tiny room, but she was totally unaware of his presence. She was a pretty little thing, but unworldly. Shy, probably, perhaps as the result of having a managing elder sister. She would not have had the opportunity to acquire the steel of Marguerite.
No, that was not quite right. Miss Suzanne had shown considerable determination when she insisted that she would be the one to look after Ben. And now, it seemed, she had achieved her aim, though Jack was at a loss to know why she should be such a passionate advocate of a man she had only just set eyes on. Perhaps such things happened in a house full of women? Having no sisters, Jack had always found it difficult to fathom the female mind. This time he was going to have to try, however, for he had to ensure that, when Ben finally came round, neither Marguerite nor Miss Suzanne was in the room.
He stepped forward and coughed loudly.
She jumped to her feet. She was blushing rosily.
"Forgive me, ma'am. I did not mean to startle you. How does my friend?"
"I …er… he is sleeping peacefully, sir."
"Splendid." Jack crossed to the bed and touched his fingers to Ben's forehead. "Not a hint of fever. I imagine he'll be on his feet again in no time. I may tell you, ma'am, that he's as strong as a horse, however delicate he may appear. It is more than generous of you and your sister to house us, but we will be gone as soon as Benn is well enough. A few days at most."
Her blush had subsided. Without it, she seemed paler than when they had first met. She tried to smile in response to his hearty words, but it was far from convincing.
"Poor Benn. He is in a sad way. His hair hasn't seen a comb in days—"
"I can do that for him," she exclaimed.
"—and he is much in need of a shave," Jack continued, without a pause. "If you would be good enough to order me some hot water, ma'am, I could make him presentable enough to entertain a lady." He grinned at her, and waited.
"I… Certainly, if you will excuse me for a moment." She cast a long look at the figure on the bed and then made for the door.
"Do not be concerned, ma'am," Jack called after her. "I will sit with him. Our invalid shall not be left alone."
The moment she was out of sight, he took the two steps to reach the door and closed it silently. Then he turned back to the bed and shook Ben by his good shoulder. "Ben. Ben. For God's sake, man, wake up." His whisper was low, penetrating, and in English.
To Jack's relief, Ben gave an answering groan and half-opened one eye. "Jack?" His voice cracked. "What on earth—?"
Jack clamped his hand over Ben's mouth. Ben's eyes widened a little, but it seemed he was able to focus, so Jack risked removing his hand. Ben did not attempt to speak again.
"We have very little time. Listen," Jack hissed. "We are in Lyons, in the house of Bonapartists. They are good people, but if they suspect what we are, they are bound to have us arrested. You must speak only French, and give nothing away. Do you understand me, Ben? Ben?"
Ben let his head roll sideways on the pillow. His eyes drifted shut. "I could do with a drink," he croaked. In French.
Chapter Seven
Jack stood in the doorway of the office with his hand on the latch. "May we have a private word, Marguerite?"
She appeared to be working on accounts. She looked up, frowning.
Jack realised his mistake. "I beg your pardon. Miss Grolier, I should have said."
She inclined her head graciously.
"May I close the door?"
She looked up again. This time she seemed intrigued, but she nodded.
Jack shut the door and crossed to the desk. "I have kept my promise to you. I have said nothing about the Emperor within these walls. But much is being said outside, as I am sure you know. The Emperor will reach Grenoble soon, if he has not done so already, and the King's brother has sent a detachment of the army against him. I must ride south. I cannot remain here in such a crisis."
"You are going to enlist?" She sounded worried. Was it possible that she was concerned for his safety? "But what of Herr Benn?" she continued, dashing Jack's rising hopes. "You said you would do nothing until he was recovered."
"I am not going to enlist, ma'am. I will fulfil my trust to Herr Benn first, as I promised. But, equally, I cannot sit idle in Lyons while the Emperor is in danger. I have to—" He stopped. It was such a lame excuse, but what other could he offer her? He had to see, with his own eyes, what was going on, so that he could report to London. Somehow. "I have to be there, when the Emperor meets the King's army, even if I do not actually fight."
He tried to assess her reactions from her changing expression. Surely she would never swallow such tosh?
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I see," she said slowly, nodding to herself. "And if you do not return, what is to become of Herr Benn?"
"You have no need to be concerned, ma'am," he said, relieved. Clearly she had concluded that he was a young hothead who was determined to join in the fighting on behalf of his idol, but was not honest enough to admit it. Since a real Bonapartist might act in exactly that way, he would say nothing to suggest she was wrong. "I do intend to return to Lyons, and with a whole skin, though possibly not for two or three days." Seeing her returning frown, he added, placatingly, "Herr Benn is himself again this morning. He is still very weak and in a lot of pain, but he appears to have suffered no ill-effects of
the laudanum. It is as you said, ma'am." He smiled down at her. He hoped she would take that as the compliment he meant it to be. "I no longer have any concern for his survival. It is a matter of time, and good nursing, which I know your sister is determined to provide. And you, too, obviously," he added hastily.
She rose from her chair and came round to his side of the desk. She was not returning his smile. "Mr Jacques, I can promise you that we will take good care of Herr Benn in your absence. As to your mission—"
Jack started in shock. Surely she could not know?
"As to your mission," she said again, "it is not for me to restrain a man who is going to the aid of our beloved Emperor. I wish you Godspeed, sir, and a safe return." She looked up into his face then. Her glorious sea witch's eyes were so clear that he fancied they offered an opening on to her innermost thoughts. She was certainly afire for someone but, sadly, the man of her dreams was Napoleon Bonaparte, usurping Emperor, rather than Jack Aikenhead, English spy.
He swallowed his disappointment and bowed, resisting the temptation to kiss her hand once more. That earlier kiss had been most unwise and must not be repeated. He had intended it to be a kiss of farewell, before he removed Ben to the local inn. He had told himself that one simple kiss on the hand would not be an assault on her virtue. But it had rendered her speechless, and the effects on his own body had been even worse than when they were cooped up together in the carriage. Only his greatcoat had saved him from real embarrassment.
And yet he was not sorry that the sisters had insisted they stay in the Grolier house. Jack was going to find it very hard to part from Marguerite, even though being close to her was a sore trial.
She was standing with her back against the desk and no longer meeting his eye. Both hands were behind her back. The message was clear. She wanted him to leave. And she did not want him to touch her.
He bowed again and left without a word. It was only when the cold draught in the corridor hit his neck that he remembered what he was about to do. He must concentrate on his mission, his real mission, and banish all thoughts of his beautiful, fair-haired Amazon. He was riding south into real danger. If he did not keep his wits about him, he might well fail to return.
Marguerite stood totally rigid, clutching the worn edge of the old wooden desk behind her, until she heard the sound of his horse's hooves disappearing up the street towards the cathedral. He had gone. He was going to throw himself into the battle to save his damnable hero, Bonaparte. How ridiculous. She had not been wrong when she judged Jacques to be part-man and part-schoolboy. The callow youth, filled with impossible heroic dreams, had been very much in evidence this morning. Did men never grow up?
She shook her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts. She must be practical. Jacques might return, in a few days. Or he might not return at all. She must not brood on that, for that way lay nothing but pain. Surely she had too much common sense to indulge her emotions in such a way? Whatever happened, Marguerite had to defend Herr Benn, for only she knew that he was an English spy. She had to ensure that he recovered enough, here in Lyons, to continue with his mission, whatever it might be.
She had slipped in to see him before anyone else was about and had found him much improved. He had greeted her lucidly, and thanked her for her kindness, in slightly accented French. Since he was no longer delirious, there should be no risk that he might babble in his native tongue, but to drive home the point, she had complimented him on his French, stressing how fluent it was, coming from a German. He had frowned a little at that, but she was fairly sure that the message had gone home. He would surely stick to French from now on. He would be safe.
There was a knock on the door. It was Guillaume, come to build up the fire. He looked searchingly at Marguerite, but said only, "I am glad he is gone. He asks too many questions, that one. I even caught him asking Berthe about where your father might be."
The muscles of Marguerite's belly clenched to the point of pain.
"You need have no fear there, miss," Guillaume went on, kneeling down in front of the fireplace next to the desk. "Berthe knows better than to betray this family's secrets. But it is dangerous to have these men in the house. What if they were to start asking the neighbours about when your father was last at home? Even the neighbours might become suspicious then, if they thought about it for long enough. You should have sent them both to the Hôtel Dieu, as I said at the time."
Much as she trusted Guillaume, she could not tell him the truth about Herr Benn. It was not her secret to share. She muttered platitudes instead, about the debt she owed Jacques.
Guillaume was in full flood, now that there was no risk of being overheard by strangers. "Your sister, too, is determined to throw away all claim to the reputation of a lady. I have warned her, but she refuses to heed me."
"Suzanne—"
"I even asked Berthe to act as chaperon, but that did not last above ten minutes, I'm afraid. Your lady mother—may heaven bless her—was soon in the bedchamber as well, enquiring after Berthe and talking to the invalid. When she began to say some …er… rather awkward things, Berthe had to take her back to her room. So Miss Suzanne is still alone with a half-naked man in his bedchamber. You should not permit it, Miss Marguerite. Truly you should not."
She should not permit a servant to talk in such terms, either, but she could not berate this man who had served them, and cared for them, since before they could walk. His words proved his deep affection for the Grolier family, and especially for Suzanne. "I have spoken to Suzanne," she said gently. "We are both agreed that once Herr Benn is able to rise from his bed, she will not enter his room again. If his wound needs dressing after that, she may do it downstairs. Or you may do it yourself, Guillaume, if you have time. For the moment, she is in no danger from him." He was shaking his head vehemently, but Marguerite would not allow him to speak. "The only risk to Suzanne's reputation would be if someone inside this household were to mention what is going on to an outsider." She fixed him with a stern gaze. "I am sure that no one would do such a thing, no matter how much they disapproved of Suzanne's behaviour."
Guillaume looked hurt. He rose from his knees, dusting off his hands. "You know that Berthe and I would never gossip," he said tartly, "and the boy is not permitted to go beyond the kitchen, so he has nothing to gossip about."
Chastened, Marguerite reached out to put a hand on his arm. "Thank you, Guillaume," she said. "You know we could not manage without you."
He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. Then, without saying another word, he picked up his bucket and left the room.
Marguerite slumped against the desk. She had not intended to upset him, but she had so many burdens to carry that she had not thought before she spoke. If only Mama were able to share the load, or Suzanne. But it was not possible. Mama spent most of the day in a strange world of her own, and Suzanne appeared to have become besotted with Herr Benn as soon as she set eyes on him. If she were ever to discover the danger he was in, there was no saying what she might do to protect him. That was yet another reason not to tell her that he was an English spy. Marguerite was going to have to deal with her problems all by herself.
And the first, and worst, of those problems was Louis Jacques. She had betrayed her family's trust by bringing him here, even though her motives had been of the best. A nagging seed of guilt was growing in her mind over that. Had she done it for the royalist cause? Or perhaps it was the aura of danger surrounding Jacques that drew her to him?
She tried to bring some sense to her tumbling thoughts. She had sworn to protect Herr Benn, whatever the risk. That had been a patriotic decision, nothing more, for she felt not a shred of attraction to the man. For Jacques, on the other hand… Oh dear, that was so very different. Unlike Suzanne, she had not fallen at first sight—indeed, she refused to admit that she had fallen at all—but theirs was not a normal relationship between chance-met acquaintances. At least, not on her side. Every time they were together, she found herself longing for the touch o
f his fingers on her skin. Or, better, of his lips. And his every word rippled through her like a warm breeze through pliant spring leaves. It did not matter that she had tried—oh, how she had tried—to keep him at a safe distance and to remind herself that he was the enemy. For she had failed.
She began to pace, angrily. She ought to be able to control her feelings, especially when they were so badly directed. She would control them. She forced herself to think with cold calculation. Jacques was a continuing danger to Herr Benn. If he discovered that Herr Benn was an English spy, he would be bound to have him arrested. Then the Grolier family would be arrested too, for harbouring a spy. And what would happen to Suzanne, and to poor Mama?
She shuddered. If Jacques had even the slightest inkling of the truth, she would have to find a way of stopping him. Permanently. But how? He was a wily man, good in a fight, and far stronger than she. In a confrontation, she would lose, for she could never bring herself to shoot him.
She began to consider all sorts of schemes, each more outrageous than the last. A knife thrust, perhaps, or poison in his coffee? But how would the deed be concealed? And could she ever steel herself to do it?
It was only when she heard the horse stop outside the house that Marguerite realised she had been listening for him almost since the moment he left. He had been gone for more than two days, and she had been waiting and praying for his safe return, hour after hour, without once admitting it to herself. Until now. So much for her plans to make away with him. She was precious little use as a conspirator, and even less as an assassin.
She forced herself to remain at her desk in the little office off the front hall. She would not go out to meet him.
But what if he was hurt? What if he needed help?
She was already half out of her chair when she heard his voice at the street door. It was that same rich, strong voice that had first invaded her senses. And it proved that he was fully in control. "Send the kitchen boy round to take my horse back to the livery stable, would you, Guillaume? He's covered a lot of ground today, and he deserves an extra ration of oats."
His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3) Page 8
