His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3)

by Joanna Maitland

  This lady was no helpless invalid. She appeared well-nourished and healthy. She was dressed in what Jack took to be a silk gown, though the style might be a little old-fashioned. Another sign that the Grolier silk business was less prosperous than it had been, Jack decided.

  "Have you lost your tongue as well as your manners, young man?" she asked waspishly, taking a couple of paces into the room.

  Jack craned his neck to see beyond her, to the door. It seemed she was quite alone. Berthe, for some reason, had abandoned her vigil.

  "I beg your pardon, ma'am. Most humbly. It was not my intention to offend you in any way." He sat absolutely still, waiting to see what she would do.

  "Hmmph." She came slowly across the room, and then walked round the chair, frowning down at Jack as if he were an exhibit in a museum. Jack could not help noticing that she had a remarkably elegant carriage, again very reminiscent of his mother. Most odd in the wife of a lowly silk-weaver.

  "It's a fine day," she said abruptly. "Spring has come at last. A young man should not be inside doing nothing when there's work to be done on the land. The peasants will be doing the ploughing. They need a master's supervision."

  Jack held his breath, waiting.

  When he did not respond, her voice began to rise indignantly. "Young men today. I don't understand them at all. Thoroughly work shy." She cuffed Jack around the ear. "Now, get along with you, do."

  "My lady," he said humbly, judging it the best form of address to use with this strange female, "it would be my pleasure to obey you but, unfortunately, I seem to have got myself caught in this chair. The fault of my own clumsiness, I readily admit. If your ladyship could perhaps help me to free my hands, I would be able to go out straight away. Heaven knows what kind of furrows the peasants may be ploughing without me there to supervise them."

  She seemed to be noticing his bonds for the first time. "I'm not at all sure," she said, beginning to untie his left hand, "that a man who can tie himself in knots like this should be entrusted with any kind of supervision."

  Don't let her stop now. "I am clumsy with my hands, as your ladyship has said, but I know what needs to be done in the fields. I can direct others, even if I do not have the manual skills to do the work myself. I came highly recommended."

  "An aristocrat does not need recommendations," she said flatly. She had freed his left hand but was making no move to start on the right. She frowned. "I had taken you for a gentleman, not a mere steward. Clearly I was mistaken."

  Surreptitiously, Jack flexed the fingers of his left hand. He would be able to free himself now, but it would be so much quicker if she did it for him. He would have to humour her strange fancies. "I am no steward, my lady." He had injected the appropriate note of pride into his voice. "I am the son of a duke."

  She nodded, as if it was all perfectly normal, and began to untie his right hand.

  The moment both his hands were free, Jack bent to untie his ankles. The lady had taken a step back and appeared to be watching him. She had not spoken again, however, and a vacant look had come into her eyes. Jack was not at all sure that she had the first idea of what was happening.

  He resolved to continue this weird charade. As soon as he was able, he stood and made her his most elegant bow. Even a duchess could not have expected more. She did not seem at all surprised. She acknowledged it with a slight nod and an airy wave of the hand as she walked across to the shuttered window.

  "If your ladyship will permit, I will be off about my duties at once."

  She did not turn. She was fiddling with the latch. "You have been very remiss until now, young man. Do not repeat your failings. You may go."

  Hardly daring to believe his luck, Jack fled out into the passage and silently closed the door on that extraordinary encounter. He was free. But he still had to rescue Ben, and to get them both out of this house. He had very little time. Someone might come searching for Madame Grolier at any moment.

  He slipped down the stairs, carefully avoiding the creaking treads. The passageway below was empty, and there was no sound from any of the bedchambers. He crept forward to put his ear against Ben's door. No voices. No movement. He must take the risk. He put his hand to the latch and began to raise it, a fraction at a time. Mercifully, it did not grate. In a trice, he was inside, the door was closed again, and he was leaning against it, letting out a long breath.

  "You!"

  Marguerite Grolier had sprung to her feet. On the bed, as motionless as a corpse in a coffin, lay Ben, his eyes closed and his head swathed in bandages.

  "What have you done to him?" Jack cried, starting forward.

  "Stand where you are!" she spat.

  That stopped him in his tracks, but only for a second. "And if I do not? You will shoot me, I suppose?" he asked sardonically. Her hands were empty, and he could see no sign of a weapon in the room.

  Her response flashed back at him. "I shall scream for Guillaume, and he will shoot you without hesitation."

  Jack moved quietly to the end of the bed, only a couple of paces from her.

  "Keep your distance," she hissed, "or I warn you, I shall scream."

  He lunged for her, pulling her close against his body so that she could not strike him, and clamping his large hand across her mouth. "You waited too long, ma'am. Don't be afraid. I will let you go, but only if you promise not to scream. And if you tell me what you have done to Herr Benn."

  She responded by sinking her teeth into the fleshy part of his thumb.

  "Argh!" he gasped, instinctively pulling his hand away. She was still pressed firmly to his chest, but she was opening her mouth to scream at the top of her lungs.

  There was no help for it. He kissed her.

  In all her twenty-three years, Marguerite had never been kissed by a man. She had hardly ever had the time to wonder how it might be, except on those few occasions when she and Suzanne sat alone together, late at night, spinning stories before the dying fire. Suzanne's girlish fantasies had centred on an all-conquering hero who would sweep her off to a life without hardship, or care. Marguerite, older and more down-to-earth, had spoken of companionship, and mutual regard, and security. Even with her beloved sister, she could not bring herself to share her secret dream—of a man who would simply love her, a man whose kisses would transport her to paradise.

  This was not paradise.

  Jacques was determined to silence her, and she was determined to fight him. She tried to bite him again, but this time he was ready for her. No matter how much she tried, he would not permit her to open her lips wide enough to bare her teeth. And she could hear him laughing, deep in his throat, though he never once lifted his lips from hers. He was enjoying this, damn him.

  In desperation, she began to kick him, but he laughed all the more. With only soft house shoes on her feet, she was probably hurting herself more than him.

  "Mmm." It was a long moan of satisfaction. He slid one arm up her back until his fingers were on the nape of her neck, and then in her hair.

  She shivered. It was a caress, and she did not dare to think about being caressed by this man.

  He moved her head a little, so that he would have easier access to her mouth. He moaned again, never for a moment breaking the kiss. This time, it was a deeper, richer sound, the voice that could make her whole being vibrate like the strings of a violin. She found herself longing to return his kiss.

  He must have sensed it, for he gentled the kiss and touched his tongue to her lips. She could have bared her teeth then, but she had lost all desire to attack him. Instead, she parted her lips in welcome. When the tip of his tongue flicked along the length of her upper lip, a shaft of pure molten gold lanced into her belly. She clung to him, and began to return his kiss with sudden, unstoppable fervour.

  "Mistress, where are you? There is terrible news." It was Guillaume's voice, from the top of the stairs. The door swung open with a crash. "That monster Bonaparte has—" The old servant stopped dead, his mouth open.

  Jacques dre
w Marguerite more tightly against him. Both her hands were still trapped between their bodies. "And what, pray," he began in an impudent, lazy drawl, "has that monster Bonaparte done, exactly?"

  Chapter Eleven

  Behind his deliberately cool façade, Jack's mind was turning somersaults. And his body's reactions were under even less control than his mind. Kissing Marguerite Grolier had been a mistake, especially once she had begun to kiss him back. Though she was clearly untutored in the art of kissing, her innocent responses had set him ablaze, as if a lighted spill had been touched to dry tinder.

  He was still holding her crushed against his body. They were so close that she must be perfectly aware of how he was reacting to her. Since he had been able to feel the pouting of her nipples through the combined layers of their clothing, she must surely have felt his equally physical response. Unless she was such an innocent that she understood nothing at all about men?

  At that moment, she began to push against his chest with the flat of her hands. "Let me go," she muttered.

  He looked down into her face. She had turned quite scarlet, but whether with passion, or with fury, he could not tell. "I said I would let you go when you promised not to scream. And when you told me what had happened to Herr Benn. The first of those is of no moment now." He glanced towards Guillaume, who was standing thunderstruck in the doorway. "But I am still waiting for the second."

  "It is not Bonaparte who is a monster," she cried angrily. "It is you." She pushed hard against him, and this time he let her go. It was so sudden that she stumbled backwards. He had to grasp her arm to stop her from falling.

  "I— You—" She looked totally confused, and totally adorable, like a ruffled kitten. "Oh, a plague on you, sir." She dragged her arm free. For a moment, it seemed she was about to stamp her foot in vexation, but then she remembered her dignity and drew herself up, trying to look down her nose at Jack. It was more than a little difficult, since he was so much taller than she.

  Jack turned to the servant, deliberately giving Marguerite a moment to collect herself. "Close the door, Guillaume. I want to talk to you," he added. This was much more serious than kissing. He was quite sure he had not misheard. Guillaume had referred to Bonaparte as a monster. So had Marguerite. Had Jack been mistaken in thinking they were ardent Bonapartists? Surely not? Marguerite had spoken at length about her beloved Emperor. She had been utterly convincing.

  Guillaume did not move. "This has gone on long enough," Jack snapped and marched round the bed to put himself between Guillaume and the open door. When Jack turned to close it, the servant retreated to stand protectively alongside his mistress. He was glaring at Jacques with acute dislike.

  Poor Ben was still lying motionless, and he must be Jack's immediate concern. "Now tell me, one of you, what happened to Herr Benn."

  "It's more important that you tell us—" Guillaume began hotly.

  "He attempted to leave his bed." Marguerite silenced Guillaume with a sharp gesture. "He was far from well enough to do so. It seems that he swooned, and hit his head when he fell."

  "It seems?" Jack repeated, the question clear in his voice.

  "Neither of us was here at the time," Marguerite replied firmly. "But Suzanne was. There can be no doubt of what happened."

  Jack nodded slowly. Miss Suzanne would have done nothing to harm Ben. It had probably been an accident, for why would they harm a man they had spent so long trying to heal?

  "It was not a bad wound." Marguerite was beginning to sound a little more confident. "Unfortunately, the fall also wrenched his shoulder and his first wound reopened. It will take him much longer to recover than we had previously thought. But he will recover," she added, with renewed steel in her voice. "No one in this house has done anything to harm him."

  Jack was in no doubt that she was telling the truth. She was clearly concerned about poor Ben and truly sorry that he had come to further harm. One mystery was solved. But the other—much greater, and much more important in the complicated dance of European politics—remained to be unravelled.

  "Now, tell me," Jack said softly, directing his question at Guillaume, "what was it that you were about to report? I think you mentioned 'terrible news'?"

  Guillaume's face was full of thwarted fury. Jack suspected he had been assessing the chance of fighting his way out of the room and had concluded that he would never succeed against a younger, stronger man.

  "I am waiting," Jack said silkily.

  "And I am waiting to learn how you come to be standing here," Guillaume retorted, his voice rasping, "when I left you bound and helpless not two hours ago. I should have known better than to accept the parole of a Bonapartist."

  At Guillaume's side, Marguerite nodded vehemently. Jack fancied she was trying to force herself into an outburst of fury. But what on earth was going on? Marguerite Grolier had given him to understand that she supported Bonaparte. Why? He racked his brains, trying to remember precisely when she had first declared where her sympathies lay. There had been nothing said at the Marseilles harbour inn, he was sure. She had been much too busy with her candlestick. And in the coach? He could not remember anything there, either. No, it had been later, at the inn at Rognac. Was it only after she had heard Jack repeat the surgeon's heartfelt "Vive l'Empereur!" that she had spoken?

  Was it possible that she had been lying to him, humouring him, because she believed him to be a Bonapartist? He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Yet that one solution refused to be dismissed. It was the only one that fitted all the facts. She had claimed to support Bonaparte because she believed that Jack did. But now it was clear, from her own words, that she did not.

  There was only one way to be absolutely certain. Ignoring Guillaume's angry question completely, Jack fixed his stern gaze on Marguerite's face. She paled a little, but continued to meet his eyes. "You will tell me, pray, ma'am, where the sympathies of this house lie. You claimed to support, to love, the Emperor Napoleon. I take it that was a lie?"

  She raised her chin proudly. "Of course it was a lie. I could not put Guillaume or my family in jeopardy by telling you the truth. Though I might as well have done so, for you hold all the cards now. Your hero, your idol, has arrived in Lyons. Yesterday, he established himself in the royal rooms vacated by no less a man than the King's brother. And he is surrounded by the cheering soldiers of the King's army, every one of them forsworn. Since you have broken your word, as they have, I am sure it will not trouble your conscience to break the laws of hospitality as well. Are we to be delivered up to your little Corsican simply as foolish royalists? Or as spies?"

  By God, she was magnificent. He cared not a whit that she was accusing him of breaking his word. That mistake could easily be remedied later. What mattered now was that, even when she was convinced she was about to be executed, she was holding steadfastly to the cause she believed in. King Louis did not deserve such loyalty.

  "I must ask you, Marguerite," Jack said, speaking very slowly and distinctly, "to accept that I do not, and never will, support Bonaparte. I swore the oath to uphold my King, and that is what I continue to do."

  Her mouth opened, but the only sound she produced was a weak, strangled cry. For a second, all her limbs were shaking so much that she seemed on the point of collapse. When she eventually mastered herself enough to move, she picked up her skirts and fled, her hand extended in front of her to push Jack out of the way.

  He did not attempt to stop her. She needed time alone. And so did he.

  Jacques was not a Bonapartist. In spite of everything, he was not.

  She could scarcely believe it. Was it possible that he was still playing a part? But why should he? Bonaparte was here in Lyons, and triumphant. There was nothing to stop Jacques from declaring himself, and bowing the knee to his Emperor. Except that Bonaparte was not his Emperor. Jacques had sworn his oath to the King and would hold to it.

  It had all been a charade, a terrifying, dangerous, misguided charade.

  She stopped pacing and
sat down on the very edge of her bed, clasping her hands together in an attempt to stop them from shaking. Her body felt as though she was in the grip of the ague. Her bones ached, her every limb trembled, and her skin burned hot as fever. Could it be true? It must be. There was no other explanation.

  And she had drugged him, and imprisoned him, as if he were the enemy. She had even dreamt, however fleetingly, of what it would be like to shoot him. Even if he never learned of that, could he ever forgive her for what she had done? He had every right to feel revolted, exactly as she now did.

  She dropped her head into her hands, but the bloody pictures that rose before her closed eyes were too much to bear. She raised her head again and stared unblinkingly at the blank partition between her chamber and the silk store.

  Her thoughts became as clear, and as simple, as that flat, whitewashed wall. Louis Jacques was no longer her enemy. It was not wrong to be attracted to him, to value him. It would not be wrong to love him.

  Her heart began to thump in an erratic rhythm, racing and missing beats by turns. Was that what she felt for him? Love?

  The soaring joy that flooded her showed her where the truth lay. Yes, she loved Louis Jacques. Now that she knew the truth about him, she could at last allow her battered heart to feel. She had denied it to herself, and shrunk away from her own emotions, but she had loved him the very first time she saw him, wrapped in that ridiculous bed sheet.

  She laughed at the memory. It was like being released from a dark dungeon to gaze in wonder at the sky. She loved him. Yes, he had looked ridiculous, but he was also brave and chivalrous. How many other men would have raced, unarmed, to the aid of a lady they had never met, to face an unknown danger?

  Louis Jacques was certainly worthy of her love. But, after all she had done, what chance did she have? Would he ever forgive her enough to accept that she was worthy of him?