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

by Joanna Maitland

  He had been sitting motionless, staring out of the window, but he half-turned towards her and said coolly, "I did, ma'am. And the team also. I have found that a little attention at the start of a journey pays dividends by the end of it."

  How pompous he sounded. Was that intended as retribution because she had mounted without his assistance? Petty then, as well as pompous.

  She was taxing her brain to think of a suitably pithy response when he leant towards her a little and said, in something more like his normal deep voice, "If you will allow me to advise you, ma'am, it would be safest if you did not address me as 'Mr Jacques'. We are travelling as brother and sister, remember? We do look very different, as you remarked once before, but I have a solution to that. You shall be the daughter of our father's second wife. We must use the Grolier name, naturally, since it is Grolier silk we are trying to sell. So I shall be Jacques Grolier. Thus you can call me 'Jacques', and I can call you 'Marguerite', as we did on the journey north to Lyons. What say you?"

  "I say it is remarkably convenient that you have a surname which can double as a given name. Do you not agree?"

  He smiled rather smugly, Marguerite thought, but he did not reply, merely raising his eyebrows, and waiting for her to agree to his proposal.

  "Obviously, we must use those names in company and when there is any risk of being overheard," she began. "But to use them when we are quite alone suggests a degree of intimacy that could become …er… uncomfortable." She sat up very primly and frowned across at him. She intended it to be a challenge.

  "I had credited you with more sense, ma'am," he retorted. "You believe you can spend hours in this chaise addressing me as 'Mr Jacques' and then remember, the moment you step out of it, to call me just 'Jacques'? With never a slip?"

  He was being truly superior now. She would have loved to give him a sharp set-down, but she could not. Unfortunately, he was right. "I had not thought of that," she admitted generously, with a rueful smile. She had expected him to unbend a little in response, but he did not. His eyes remained hard. "I will call you 'Jacques', even when we are alone. In return, Jacques, you will have to stop addressing me as 'ma'am'. I may have no direct experience of brothers, but I am quite sure no brother would address a younger sister with such courtesy."

  "I bow to your superior understanding, ma'am. Marguerite," he added quickly, with the tiniest twitch of his lips.

  He was trying so hard not to unbend. Had he resolved to be cool and distant in order to make it easier to fulfil his vow? Marguerite smiled inwardly. She had the whole journey to make him repent of that ridiculous gesture. He and Guillaume had reminded her forcibly of a spitting contest she had once seen among the local urchins, with each little boy making strenuous efforts to prove himself able to spit further than his fellows. She had assumed that boys grew out of such childish rivalry when they became men. Perhaps they did not? She could not tell whether Jacques's behaviour was typical. She understood so little of men.

  They drove on in almost total silence until the first change.

  Jacques opened the door and jumped down. No doubt he wanted to ensure that the replacement team was up to his exalted standards. To her surprise, he did not immediately march off to consult the ostler. "Would you like me to order some coffee to be brought out to you, sister?" he asked politely. "It would not delay us too much if we waited while you drank it."

  That was definitely intended as a set-down, and Marguerite was not about to accept it. It was time she put her plan into action. It was time Jacques discovered that swearing such a stupid oath had consequences. Uncomfortable consequences.

  She rose in her place. "No, brother dear, there is no need. I prefer to drink my coffee in the comfort of the inn. I shall become intolerably stiff if I sit in this chaise all day. Be so good as to help me down." She sounded, as she had intended, like a silly empty-headed chit who had been too much indulged by her family.

  His brows contracted into a black frown, but there was nothing he could do. He reached up a hand. Smiling vacantly, Marguerite put her fingers into his and made to step down. It seemed as though she was not paying proper attention, for she missed her footing and had to grab his shoulder with her free hand. Even that was not enough to save her. Her whole body fell against his with so much force that he staggered back a pace. It was a wonder that he did not overbalance completely when Marguerite flung her arms around his neck.

  "Oh, goodness. How clumsy of me," she exclaimed. "But for you, dear brother, I should have measured my length in the dirt." She smiled innocently up at him. There was considerable suspicion in his eyes, but what could he say? The postilions were watching, and listening to every word. "Thank you for saving me," Marguerite gushed. In a spirit of pure sisterly mischief, she tightened her arms into a hug and reached up to place a kiss on his cheek.

  She might have gone a mite too far there, Marguerite decided, on reflection, for his face was flushing a deep red. Anger, was it? Or embarrassment? It was a very satisfying reaction, whatever the cause. She slowly unwound her arms and took a step back. He was looking daggers at her. And yet there was something more behind that furious gaze. She guessed that the touching of their bodies, and her lips on his skin, had produced a reaction he could not control. And he clearly wanted to be in control.

  "You will find me in the coffee room when you have finished making your arrangements, Jacques," she said airily. "I shall order coffee for two." Without allowing him a moment to reply, she started towards the inn, allowing her hips to sway provocatively as she walked. She did not once look back. She knew he was unable to take his eyes from her.

  "A little more care this time, sister, if you please."

  It was difficult to resist the urge to smile, but she managed it. Just. It would not do to give him any clues to her behaviour. He was puzzled and already a little frustrated. She intended that he should remain that way.

  "Thank you, brother dear." She took the hand he offered to help her back into the chaise. She wobbled a tiny fraction on the step, and gripped his fingers tightly. "Goodness," she said, glancing over her shoulder at him, "I am not normally so unsteady. I declare that you must have put brandy in my coffee. Fie on you, brother, for playing me such a dastardly trick." Behind his back, the postilions had begun to laugh. She sensed that, if Jacques had not been a true gentleman, he might have lifted her bodily and thrown her into the chaise.

  "You try my patience, Marguerite," he muttered grimly, pulling his fingers free. Then he spun round to glower at the grinning postboys. "If you have quite finished, gentlemen, perhaps we might be on our way? I fear that we have lost a great deal of time." He pulled out some coins and began to jingle them in his hand. "Unless we can make it up, I fear I shall have to keep my silver in my pocket."

  The chaise was moving again almost before Marguerite had taken her seat.

  Marguerite waited a full quarter of an hour. Then, without looking at Jacques, she slowly began to remove her gloves, finger by finger, smoothing the fine leather down her skin in long, sensuous movements. Next, she undid the ribbons of her bonnet and dropped it on to her lap. "Ah, that is such a relief," she said, as if to herself, before driving her fingers through her hair and shaking out her curls. "Travelling in a bonnet gives me the headache." She turned an enquiring look on Jacques. "I hope you do not object to my disrobing?"

  He made a sound that was something between a groan and a snort.

  "I beg your pardon, sir? Oh, forgive me. I should treat you as a brother. Could you repeat what you said, brother dear? I did not quite catch it."

  He was staring straight ahead, refusing to look at her. She could see movement in the muscles of his jaw. "I seem to recall, sister, that you wore your bonnet for the whole of our journey from Marseilles to Lyons." His voice seemed to have risen by almost half an octave. She could hear the tension in it.

  "Ah, but that was a much more comfortable bonnet than this one," she replied brightly. "This one is new, and a little tight. We poor females have to su
ffer to be fashionable, I fear."

  He did not reply, but his fist clenched against his thigh in the most satisfactory manner. He had begun to shift in his seat, too, as if he were unable to find a comfortable position. Unfortunately, those movements made Marguerite conscious of his body in a way she had, thus far, managed to avoid. She cursed silently. She wanted him to suffer, to lose control, but she could succeed there only if her own control was absolute. Until now, she had not allowed herself to think about how it felt to touch him. For that brazen kiss on his cheek, she had told herself she was kissing her sister. It had worked at the time, but it was not working now, for she was starting to remember the feel of his skin, the beginnings of his dark stubble, rough against her lips, and the all too masculine scent of his body. Somewhere, deep in her belly, something began to quiver and melt.

  She clasped her hands together and forced herself to concentrate on the passing landscape until her strange feelings had subsided. She had been trying him too far, she concluded. And herself too, perhaps. She would give them both a little respite. "One thing I did not have a chance to ask you," she began, keeping her eyes fixed on a distant stand of trees. "How was it that you came to escape? Guillaume assured me that you had given him your word not to do so. I know nothing of that," she added airily, "but I will admit to being intrigued as to how you removed your bonds. Guillaume promised me they were as tight as could be."

  "I can assure you that they were exceedingly tight."

  She waited. He said nothing more. His jaw was working again. Was it the indignity of being a prisoner that roused his fury?

  "I am sure Guillaume would be pleased to hear you say so," she continued, almost without a pause. "Though, to his mind, that was not the most important matter. I am afraid he felt he had been deceived, wronged even. You—"

  "Guillaume was not deceived by me," he thundered. "He deceived himself."

  She turned to face him then, looking suitably incredulous. Wide-eyed surprise had the advantage of drawing attention to the colour of her eyes. "Indeed? Might I ask how he did that?"

  "Certainly, ma'am." This time, he made no attempt to correct his mode of address. "Your man Guillaume hears what he wants to hear. I gave him my word of honour that I would not use my voice to draw attention to myself. In return, he did not replace the gag. I can tell you—though I hope, ma'am, that you have no need of such reassurance—that I did not use my voice. Not in any way."

  "No, of course you did not," Marguerite said quietly. She understood everything now. "You found another solution, did you not? A solution that you had already decided upon, long before you offered Guillaume your parole."

  She thought he looked guilty for a second or two, but he said only, "I gave Guillaume my word. I did not break it."

  "No. You would not have done so. I have not the least doubt that you always keep your promises. To the letter."

  He bowed slightly. "As you say, ma'am."

  What on earth had possessed him to agree to travel alone with Marguerite Grolier? And what a fool he had been to assume that she would understand the difficulties of their situation, and behave.

  He risked a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. She was gazing calmly out of the window, as if she had not a care in the world, but her right hand was softly stroking the fingers of her left. He could almost sense the gentleness of that touch. He needed those fingers to be on his skin, stroking his—

  He only just succeeded in swallowing the groan that rose in his throat. He shifted in his seat and adjusted his coat, trying to conceal the evidence of his arousal. Confound the woman, she must be doing it on purpose. She could not fail to be aware of the effect she was having on him, could she?

  Of course she could. She was a complete innocent. He had known that, the moment he kissed her. But if she continued in this vein, he was going to find the journey very uncomfortable indeed.

  She turned and smiled at him. With her fair curls dancing around her face, and the sparkle of excitement in her eyes, she looked good enough to devour. "You were going to tell me how you escaped from your bonds," she said calmly.

  He had thought he had diverted her from that. "No, Marguerite, I was not. The fact that you ask a question—twice in this case—does not mean that it will be answered." Let her make what she would of that. He was not going to betray what her mother had done, at least partly because he felt guilty about having taken advantage of the lady's weaknesses. "I did not break my word to Guillaume, but I did find a way of escaping from my prison. The prison, I should add, that you and he conspired to put me in." Yes, that had turned the tables on her at last. She was blushing, conscious that she had done something outrageous.

  "I…I apologise for drugging you, and for…for the rest. I thought you a staunch Bonapartist. I did what I believed was necessary to protect Herr Benn." She was staring down at her bare hands. They were clasped together now, so tightly that the knuckles were turning white.

  He felt truly ashamed then. What way was this to treat a woman who was risking her life for Jack's cause? It was not her fault that his body was responding so eagerly to her every movement. She was beautiful, and unconsciously seductive. But as a mature man, he should be able to control himself, and to behave as a gentleman should.

  "Pray do not blame yourself, Marguerite," he said, trying to appear much calmer than he felt. "It would have been an excellent plan if I had been the enemy you thought me."

  "Sir, I think you seek to belittle me." She sounded hurt.

  He was tempted to reach across and put his hands over hers, to ease that painful clasp, but he did not dare. Distance, he reminded himself, was the only defence he had. But he could not allow her to believe that he looked down on her. For all her strange starts during this journey together, she was still the most admirable, the most courageous woman he had ever met. "No, Marguerite, I would never do that. I swore on your mother's bible that any dishonour to you would be dishonour to myself. I swore to treat you with all honour, as a sister."

  Her head whipped round to stare at him. "But you di—" She stopped, in mid-word. Some of the tension seemed to leave her body. "I take it that you will keep your oath, to the letter, as you did your promise to Guillaume?"

  He sat a little taller in his seat and spoke proudly. "Most certainly I shall," he said. "As long as we travel together, I will treat you as an honoured sister."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marguerite hugged her new-found secret to herself. She was hard put not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Not only had he sworn a ridiculous oath in order to spite Guillaume, he could not even remember the way of it. Oh, it was delicious. And she had so nearly spoilt everything, by blurting out the truth.

  She continued to gaze out of the window, with all sorts of madcap ideas racing through her mind. So far, she had been tempting him, punishing him, in order to make him regret that rash oath and view her as an object of desire. He had become uncomfortably aware, she was sure, that treating her with all honour was more than his body was prepared to do. But his position was even worse than she had imagined. He truly believed he had sworn to treat her as a sister. Ways might have been found to satisfy his urges while sticking to the letter of what he had actually sworn. But there was no leeway at all in an oath to treat her as a sister.

  Louis Jacques would never, ever break his word. That was one of the many reasons why Marguerite loved him. He would suffer the torments of the damned before he would be forsworn. Poor, poor Jacques. How on earth was he going to survive the remaining days of their journey together?

  Her conscience intruded then. Should she not tell him the truth, or at least stop her wicked teasing? She considered that carefully—for at least ten seconds—before rejecting it. No, her main purpose here was to make him burn for her, as she burned for him. Behaving demurely, like a sister, would certainly not achieve that. In this case, the demands of conscience must give way to the demands of Marguerite's heart.

  They had stopped for the night in Mâcon, at
a posting inn on the quay overlooking the River Saône. Jack assumed that Marguerite was very tired from the journey, for she spoke very little during the supper they shared, and took the first opportunity to retire to bed. Apart from her parting shot—she insisted on wishing him goodnight with a sisterly kiss on the cheek—she behaved with admirable decorum. Perhaps she had thought better of her actions earlier in the day? He hoped so. He doubted he could endure many more days of watching her, from a distance of barely a couple of feet. After only one day, the chaise seemed to be filled with the scent of her—not an expensive French perfume, but the scent of fine soap plus the lavender she no doubt used in her clothes press to keep away the moth. It was, he decided, the scent of a very desirable woman.

  Except that he had sworn to treat her as an honoured sister. Desire, in any form, was forbidden.

  He did not retire early. He knew that he would not be able to sleep, and he feared where his thoughts might turn. If he had travelled on horseback, instead of riding idly in a chaise, his body would have been tired enough to allow him to sleep. As it was, he must find something to occupy himself. Preferably something involving physical activity.

  He could visit a brothel, of course. That would certainly involve physical activity. Mâcon might be small, but it was bound to have at least one house to cater for the needs of travelling men. Jack glanced across at the landlord, standing behind the taproom bar. He was the sort of man who would be able to point a customer in the right direction. Provided he was properly greased in the fist.

  Jack finished his brandy and started across to the bar. Travelling with Marguerite had shown him how much he needed a woman. He could not have her—he had sworn it, had he not?—but he could find some relief elsewhere for his tormented body. He might even be able to sleep soundly afterwards.

  He leant his elbow on the bar and raised an eyebrow to the landlord who came forward eagerly to serve him. "Tell me, landlord," Jack began, "do you—?" He stopped dead. What was he thinking of? He couldn't do such a thing. Was he about to neglect his duty for a quick fumble that would probably bring him no more than momentary relief?