His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3)
Page 21
Chapter Nineteen
She was bathing Jack's forehead, ever so gently, with warm water. It smelled, very subtly, of lavender.
"Don't try to move yet," the voice said. It was Marguerite's voice. His incredible Marguerite. "It will cause you pain if you do. And I would prefer to learn no more new oaths, if you don't mind."
He heard the sound of the cloth being soaked again, and wrung out. Then she was stroking his forehead once more. His body relaxed under her hand. The motion was very soothing. It must be magic, for it seemed to lessen the pain.
"Where am I?" he croaked. Mindful of her words, he was lying very still.
The bed sagged as she leant across to put her lips against his ear. He could feel the tiny tickle of her curls against his cheek. The scent of pure lavender filled his senses and conjured up pictures of purple fields, their flowers swaying together in the breeze like the skirts of a ball gown moving in time to the music.
"We are still in Beauvais, Jacques," she whispered in French. "It is dangerous to speak English here. If your brain will not function well enough to speak French, you must not speak at all."
He was finding it very difficult to concentrate on what she was saying. His brain did not want to respond to such mundane things. The tiny puffs of her honeyed breath against his ear were much too distracting. She was so close to his skin that she was almost kissing him. And he wished she would. Somehow, he knew that a kiss from her would cure all his pain.
"French, Jacques," she said a little more forcefully. "French, or nothing."
He understood then. "What happened?" he croaked, but in French this time.
"Let me bring you something to drink first."
He heard her moving away from the bed, followed by the sound of liquid being poured. Why could he not open his eyes?
She slid an arm under his shoulders and raised him slightly so that he could drink. The pain was excruciating, even from that tiny movement. He tried to swallow his groan, but he was only partly successful.
"Drink," she said, putting a cup to his mouth. "Slowly now."
He sipped and swallowed. It was barley water. It tasted of lemon, and fresh air, and made him think of summer pastures. It was nectar to his parched throat. When he had drunk as much as he could, she let him relax back on to the pillows. This time, by a supreme effort of will, he managed not to groan.
"You are a stubborn man, Jacques." There was a thread of amusement in her voice. "It does not matter if you admit to being in pain. No one else will hear, you know."
He groaned theatrically.
"Very good," she said, laughing. It was a glorious sound. He could imagine her sitting there beside him, her beautiful hair catching the light, her sea-green eyes wide and gleaming with good humour. His mind might be confused about how he came to be in this state, but it was absolutely clear about the woman who was tending him. She was radiant. And she was a heroine.
He heard her walk across the room and open the door, then close it again gently. Why had she done that? He tried to work it out, but it was too taxing.
"We were together in the coffee room downstairs, eating supper while we waited for our chaise to Rouen. Do you remember that?"
Jack grunted assent. The memory was dull, but it was there.
"Good. The surgeon did say you might have no memory at all of what happened. That young man from the diligence, the one with the Bonaparte snuff box, heard us talking." She cleared her throat. "Or rather, he heard me admitting you were a spy for England. So he shot you. He meant to kill you."
Jack grunted again. The stark picture came back to him. He had stood there, defenceless, facing a man with a pistol in his hand. It was the sort of tiny pistol that a lady might carry in her reticule, but it could still be lethal. And that was why— "Oh, God, I'm blind. He blinded me."
Marguerite seized his hand and held it fast. "No, Jacques. You are not blind. The surgeon assured me that your eyes were undamaged. It was simply that the wounds on your head were so extensive that he had to wrap the bandages round your face as well." She stroked his hand slowly, caressingly. "Later, I shall change the dressings and you will be able to see. I am certain of it."
He wanted very much to believe her. She would not lie to him, would she? No, what she said must be the truth. He sighed out a long breath.
She stroked his hand again. "I see that you believe me. I am glad. We have quite enough to worry about, without that."
"How long have I been lying here?"
"Since yesterday. The assassin's bullet only grazed your temple, but you fell back and struck your head on the hearth. There was a great deal of blood. Perhaps that was why that man was so sure he had killed you. You were certainly lying there like a corpse."
He had failed to protect her. He should have protected her. "Marguerite. What did he do to you? You—"
"I managed well enough," she said curtly, reminding him that she was a very resolute woman and capable of defending herself. "He informed me that he did not kill women, even enemy women. He tossed me a gold Napoleon to pay for your funeral."
An icy shiver ran through him. What kind of a man would do such a thing? It was so cold-blooded. "And what happened then?" He could not bring himself to voice his fears. Such a man could have done anything to Marguerite.
"It appears he mounted a hired horse and rode off back towards Paris. At least, that is what the landlord told me."
"The landlord?" In his swirling thoughts, Jack could not quite remember why the landlord mattered, but he was sure it was something to do with danger. "Don't trust him, Marguerite. He—"
"Oh, have no fears on that score. The landlord was out in the stables and did not hear the pistol shot. As far as he knows, you fell and cracked your head, probably as a result of too much wine. A lot of blood, but no real harm done. He won't gossip about it, since it does nothing for the reputation of his house. Only the surgeon knows the truth. Nothing will be said about mad young men waving pistols about. And before you ask, I did buy the surgeon's silence."
Jack digested that information for a while. His memories were beginning to put themselves into some kind of order, thank goodness, though he had clearly been totally useless for hours. Marguerite appeared to have been very busy in the meantime, and very efficient at covering their tracks. Then Jack realised the flaw. "But the gunman—"
"He's gone, Jacques. If he was an agent of Bonaparte, he will have returned to Paris to report his success. And yet, surely a real agent would have made certain you were actually dead? I think he may have been simply a young hothead who had taken it upon himself to defend his hero. He suspected you at the Tuileries, and followed you here. If I'm right, he has probably drunk himself insensible, somewhere between here and Paris. Whatever he is, I doubt he will return here."
"That sounds like the sort of speech I might have made to you, Marguerite."
"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" There was a smile in her voice. "But it also has the advantage of being logical, and probably correct."
His brain was too confused to cope with logic. "So what do we do now?" He was in her hands. He could not see and he could barely move. He was in no fit state to make decisions, even if he knew what was going on, which he did not. He would have to rely on Marguerite. It would be the first time that he had ever entrusted his mission, his very life, to a woman, but he found that he had total confidence in her. She was extraordinary.
If anyone could bring them safely out of this coil, it was Marguerite Grolier.
The hired carriage was proving to be much more comfortable than Marguerite had expected. Thankfully, the road to Rouen was not too rough, either. Jacques had been carefully installed, sitting back in one corner with his legs stretched along the seat, and his poor head cushioned with every scrap of padding she had managed to buy from the landlord. Jacques had barely moved, and had not spoken, since they left Beauvais. He might even be asleep under those bandages, though she doubted it. She fancied he was concentrating on not allowing her to see how
much he was suffering from the rocking and lurching of the carriage.
It made her feel guilty, but what else could she have done? His wounds had healed enough to allow him to travel. She had the surgeon's word for that. One extra day's delay was as much as she had dared to risk. In spite of what she had said to Jacques, she was quite sure in her own mind that the would-be assassin was a Bonapartist agent. It had been their good fortune that the man was incompetent and had fled. But he, or his accomplices, could well return. Marguerite had to take Jacques away from the scene of the shooting. She had to get him to the coast, and on to a ship for England. Until then, he would not be safe.
Those two nights at Beauvais had changed much. After the surgeon had assumed she was Jacques's wife, she had deliberately chosen to act as if it were so. That first night, she had lain on the bed beside him, wide awake and watchful, waiting for the slightest sign of fever or distress. In the silent hours of darkness, it had felt normal to behave so, and absolutely necessary; but now, in the broad light of day, she understood that Jacques might view her actions as scandalous. If he learned the truth, what would he do?
She prayed that it would not happen. He appeared to remember nothing after the shot, which gave her a little reassurance. She would not want him to remember how she had held his hand and stroked his poor, bandaged face, or the quiet words of love she had dared to whisper in his ear. He had been deeply unconscious, but he had murmured softly in response, as if his body was happy to ignore the oath he had sworn. He would not remember any of that. But for Marguerite, being able to touch him, and to say the words, had been enough to bind her to him, for ever. She loved this man. No matter what happened between them, she would never love anyone but Jacques.
The carriage hit a pothole and swayed dangerously. Marguerite gasped and automatically grabbed for the strap. Opposite her, Jacques did the same, but he missed and began to fall. Marguerite threw herself forward, putting all her weight against him to keep his body on the seat. By the time she succeeded in pushing him back into his corner, he was moaning with pain. He swore vehemently. She tried not to listen. At least he was not swearing in English.
"Marguerite, I need to be able to see," he groaned, clawing at his face.
He was right. If he had had the use of his eyes, he would not have missed the strap. He would not have been further hurt.
"Very well. I will try to redo the bandages so that they do not cover your eyes." It would take a long time, since she was hampered by the lack of space and the rolling of the carriage.
Jacques bore it stoically with hardly a murmur. "I'm surprised you have not dosed me with that laudanum you always carry," he said quietly, when she was about to uncover his eyes.
"I would have, but the surgeon warned me it was dangerous to use it with head wounds. I'm sure you would have been a much less troublesome patient if I had kept you insensible," she added mischievously, slowly unwinding the last bandage.
He blinked and then opened his eyes wide in the gathering gloom. "Have I been so very troublesome, Marguerite?" he asked, his voice very soft and deep.
She caught her breath.
He turned his head to look into her face, but the movement was too sudden. He gasped with pain.
"Yes, very troublesome," she said firmly, avoiding his eyes.
"In that case, you had better give me something instead of the laudanum. If you put your hand down the side of my valise, you will find a flask of brandy. I dare say the surgeon did not forbid me that."
Jack let his battered body relax into the soft bed and closed his eyes. The journey from Beauvais had seemed never-ending. He felt bruised all over. Without the brandy to help him doze, it would have been unbearable. Now all he wanted was to rest on a bed that did not lurch and sway.
Bells began to toll. They were very close and very loud. He tried to sink deeper into his pillows to muffle the noise, but it did not help. He groaned in frustration.
"May I help you, sir?" That sounded like the voice of the inn servant who had helped him to undress and get into bed.
"Those bells. Don't they ever stop?"
"Them's the cathedral bells, sir. From over the way. You'll get used to them. Never hears 'em, meself."
Jack muttered an oath. He was beginning to feel bad-tempered, which probably meant he was mending. Alternatively, it was the result of the brandy he had drunk. If his head still hurt in the morning, it might be the fault of the brandy rather than his wounds. At present, he did not care. He simply wanted to sleep.
Marguerite watched from the shadow by the door where Jacques could not see her. When she was sure he was asleep, she nodded to the servant to leave, dropping a few small coins into his hand as he made his way out of the room. For two nights, she had tended Jacques almost unaided but, now that he was recovering, she could not do so without embarrassing him, and herself. Let him think that servants had seen to all his needs while he was insensible.
She crept across to the bed and gazed down at him for a long time. He was sound asleep now, and breathing easily. He was certainly improving. There was no sign of the spasms of pain that had twisted his limbs on the two previous nights. At Beauvais, she had lain on top of the covers, fully clothed, waiting to stroke away his pain with soft hands and soothing words. Here, in Rouen, it seemed that her touch would not be needed.
She took a deep breath and sighed it out. Surely he would never know if she lay down beside him one last time? He was bound to sleep soundly, for he was still very weak. And he had drunk quite a lot of brandy during their hours on the road.
Her conscience told her it was wrong, but her body was already melting at the thought of lying next to his warmth, and breathing in the scent of him. It was the last chance she would have. Tomorrow, they would travel the short distance to Father Bertrand's house, where Jacques would be able to regain his strength for the journey to Dieppe and a ship for England. The good father would certainly not permit an unmarried girl like Marguerite to be alone with a man in his bedchamber, no matter how ill he might be.
Jacques moaned softly. He was trying to roll over and finding it difficult. Marguerite decided it was a sign. She reached across and gently helped him to move into a more comfortable position. Then, with slow deliberate movements, she stripped off her gown, her petticoats, her stays and her stockings, snuffed the last candle, and slipped between the sheets to lie beside him, dressed only in her shift.
"Mmm." It was not a groan of pain this time. He was welcoming her, even though he was too deeply asleep to know she was there.
She took a long, slow breath and slid closer, not quite touching, but near enough to feel his warmth radiating out to caress her skin. Although she could see nothing in the dark, she closed her eyes. When she was not straining to see, her other senses were so much more alive. She could inhale his scent and listen to his slow breathing. If she wished, she could even put her lips to his skin and taste him on the tip of her tongue. In the light, she would be much too shy to do such outrageous things, but in the dark, blossoming in their shared warmth, she could dare anything. For this one night.
"Mmm," he said again. The sound was deeper than before. But he was trying to move his head again. Marguerite stiffened, worrying that his wounds might give him renewed pain. Apparently they did not. His head turned easily on the pillow and came to rest against Marguerite's neck, with his lips on her skin. He gave a low grunt of satisfaction and began to nuzzle the side of her throat.
She should stop him. She knew she should, for he was breaking his oath. Unwittingly, perhaps, but breaking it none the less.
His lips reached her earlobe, sending a spasm of wicked pleasure lancing through her. All her misgivings melted away, along with her defences. This was the man she loved, the man who had been avoiding even her slightest touch, and now he was avidly kissing her, giving and receiving delight. She had not thought that such feelings were possible. Even that picture of the lovers in the rose garden had not prepared her for this. She had to have more.
His response sent a thrill of desire through her. He groaned, deep in his chest, and began to kiss her in earnest, so fiercely that she wanted to swoon with the passion of it. She yielded her mouth gladly. Soon she was returning his kisses with increasing ardour, entwining her tongue with his in a dance of desire. She could feel her breasts swelling and straining against the silk of her shift as if they were begging for his touch.
He waited a long time. Then, at last, he was stroking her through the fine silk, and weighing her breast gently in his cupped hand like a precious gift. All the while he continued to kiss her mouth as if he could not get enough of her. She knew in her heart that she was truly desired, and she rejoiced in it.
He lifted his hand from her breast for a second and then began to touch her again, so lightly that she could not be sure it was happening. He seemed to be running the tip of a fingernail around the outside of her nipple, very slowly and deliberately. It was the most delicious torture. Her nipple was swelling in anticipation of the touch that did not come. She groaned into his mouth.
The sound seemed to urge him on. He circled his finger closer and closer until he reached her nipple and began to roll it between finger and thumb. The chemise which had seemed so fine now felt like a harsh barrier between them. She wanted him to touch her, skin to skin.
He must have sensed her need, for he skimmed his fingers over her ribcage and across her flat belly to lay the heel of his hand over the core of her. He cupped her and pressed hard. Heat flared and centred, until she ached with longing. When he removed his hand, she whimpered at the loss. But in a moment, his touch returned, this time without the chemise which had been lifted away.
She was kissing him in pure frenzy now, unable to get enough of him. She wanted him. So very much. When he touched a finger to the inside of her thigh, she opened to him like a flower to the sunshine. He was her sun, and her love would die without his light.