"That is all very well, Marguerite, but what will you do once you get there?" The priest shook his head. "Jacques will be taking one berth for England, not two. Unless you were planning to continue this charade all the way to England?"
"No, Father. I planned to see him safely out of Dieppe harbour and then return to you."
"Unescorted?" The curé sounded horrified. "I could not permit that."
"And neither will I," Jack said grimly. "Let that be an end of the matter."
She was not so easily routed. "Say you so, Jacques? And by what right do you presume to direct me? You—"
"There is a simpler solution," the priest said, raising a hand to calm her angry words. "All three of us shall go together. And then I can escort Marguerite back here."
Marguerite beamed at having won her point. For Jack, however, the curé's intervention was doubly unwelcome. Jack had been hoping to say his farewells to Marguerite in private, where he could at last confess how much he valued her and repeat his promise to return. He could not possibly say such things in front of the priest. And it would be purgatory to travel all those miles with the good father looking on and judging every word he spoke to her.
He turned to look her full in the face. She was no longer beaming. Perhaps she, too, had realised the drawbacks of travelling with the curé as chaperon? He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away, frowning at him. He was not prepared to be denied, however. He rose to his feet and offered his arm. "Marguerite, there are things that must be said between us, in private. We both know that there may not be another opportunity. Let us take a stroll in the garden." He nodded towards the window. "Father Bertrand will be able to watch us from here if he has any concerns, though I can promise him that there will be no impropriety. My oath still stands."
"But I—"
"Go along, my child. I think, in the circumstances, that you ought to give him a hearing. You have endured much together, from all you said. And we none of us know what dangers we may face tomorrow."
High colour had flared in her cheeks, but she nodded meekly. Then she walked straight past Jack and out of the room, leaving him to follow in her wake.
The curé chuckled. "If you'll take my advice, my son," he said genially, "you will tell her the truth. It is what she is waiting for."
Chapter Twenty-One
"You, Marguerite Grolier, are a very stubborn woman."
She looked blankly at him but said nothing.
He made the most of his opportunity, seizing her hand and drawing it firmly through his arm. "You agreed to a stroll in the garden. So that is what we shall do." She began to struggle to free her arm. "Marguerite, the good father is watching us. What on earth will he think of such appalling manners?"
She snorted angrily. But she did stop struggling.
"Thank you," Jack said calmly. "Shall we walk?" They began to walk slowly along the path that led through the small vegetable garden and towards the orchard, where the cherries were coming into bloom. "Marguerite, there are many things I have to say to you, beyond thanks for the risks you have taken to help me in my mission. You have done more than I could have expected from any man."
She was starting to blush a delicate rose. She murmured some words that Jack could not hear.
"But I am concerned that—" He swallowed. There was no polite way of asking this. "Marguerite, where did you sleep last night?"
She stopped dead. "What?"
"Your valise was in my bedchamber this morning. Where did you sleep?"
She was now bright scarlet. She tried to speak, but no words came out.
It was as bad as he had feared. "I take it you spent the night in my bedchamber? After you told the landlord that we were man and wife?"
She nodded dumbly, staring at the gravel beneath her feet.
"Dear God, woman, have you no thought for your reputation? Rouen is not even fifteen miles away. Do you think that tale will not follow you here?"
"I did what was necessary for the sake of the cause. My behaviour is no concern of yours, Louis Jacques," she protested, pulling away from him.
He was not prepared to let her go. Not over this. He reached out to grab her by the shoulders, to hold her still. But his fingers tangled with the fichu around her neck. It came undone and sagged off her shoulders. "Good God." That bruise on her neck looked like— He stared and stared, trying to think of an acceptable explanation for it. He could find none. The fichu drifted lazily to the ground.
Marguerite bent to retrieve her lace and calmly retied it. She was no longer trying to escape him. She lifted her chin proudly.
"That bruise," he said, trying to control the self-loathing that was threatening to overwhelm him, "is a lover's mark. You admit you shared my bedchamber last night. I take it I attacked you?" He had broken his oath. He was dishonoured. Worse, he had defiled the woman he desired more than anything in the world, the woman he loved. What he had done was unspeakably foul. No woman could ever forgive such a betrayal. "I quite understand why you have recoiled from me," he went on hurriedly, "but I will make amends. Marguerite, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"
Her eyes widened. The colour had turned to almost pure green. She put a slightly nervous hand to her throat, clutching at the lace. "I am very conscious of the honour you do me, Jacques, but I cannot accept your offer."
He seized both her hands and held them fast. He loved her. He would spend his whole life making amends for what he had done, but he must not lose her now. "I can understand that I have given you a disgust of me, but I will do everything in my power to be a good husband. Marguerite, you cannot refuse me. What if there should be a child?"
She smiled tightly. "There will be no child. You did not rape me."
He groaned at the sound of that terrible word. Then he realised what she had said. "But I did attack you, did I not? That bruise is the proof of it. By God, I swear I shall never touch brandy again. Marguerite, I—"
Marguerite swallowed hard. She was going to have to tell him the truth. If she did not, he would believe the worst of himself. She could not bear that. His honour meant so very much to him. She must be ready to sacrifice her own honour, her own self-respect, for his. It was only fitting, for it was all her fault.
"Jacques, listen to me," she began earnestly. She squeezed his fingers to gain his full attention. "You did not attack me. You did not. I— You—" She could feel the tears of shame welling up into her eyes. She blinked hard. She refused to weep. "Everything that happened between us was with my consent."
"But—"
"You were three-parts insensible. You kissed me. That was all." It was not all, but he need not learn the rest. "I was a virgin yesterday. I remain a virgin today."
He frowned down at her, trying to make sense of her words. She thought she saw a flash of relief in his eyes. He would not feel obliged to offer marriage now. He would not offer for a woman without honour.
"I think perhaps we should return to the house," she said quietly. She tried to free her hands, but he would not let her move.
"Wait. Please, Marguerite."
She let her shoulders slump. She could not fight him any more. Her hands lay limp in his and she stared at the ground.
"Whatever I did, I dishonoured you and broke my oath. I must—"
"No, Jacques," she whispered, "you did not." She hesitated, but it had to be said. "You did nothing dishonourable. I came to you of my own free will." She wrenched her hands loose and started to run back to the house.
He caught her before she had gone more than a few steps and pulled her into his arms. She could not escape this time. It felt so warm, so wonderful, to be in his embrace that she did not try. It would be the last time.
He held her close with one arm and used the other to tip up her chin so that she could not avoid his gaze. "You came to me of your own free will," he said, very softly, caressing each word. "Why, Marguerite?"
She tried to shake her head. The tears had begun to spill over. "Because I—becau
se I—" She could not say the words.
Jacques bent his head and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss at first, as if he were uncertain of how she might respond, as if he were afraid that she might reject him. But she could not. The moment his lips touched hers, her whole body went up in flames. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, returning kiss for kiss. She had not been able to say the words, but she could show him the passion she felt. And then she would let him go.
"Harrumph." It was the little curé. He was standing on the path watching them, with a very smug look on his face. "Perhaps you would like to continue your …er… discussion indoors?"
Jack was jubilant. Marguerite loved him. There was no other possible explanation for what she had done. Or for the way she had returned his kiss. He had found the woman of his dreams.
The woman of his dreams? Was that what had happened? Had it been real? Had Marguerite—?
That was something for later, when they were quite alone. He would tease her unmercifully for this. Once he had the right.
"We will travel together to England," he announced.
"No," Marguerite said firmly. "We will travel as far as Dieppe only. Once you are safely on the boat for England, you will have no more need of me. I shall stay here. If I were to leave with you, I should become an outcast. I would never be able to go home. No, I shall remain here with Father Bertrand."
Jack could not believe his ears. She was rejecting him. How could she, if she loved him?
The curé shook his head sadly and rose. "I will leave you alone. I …um… I have things to do in the church." He picked up some papers from the desk and scuttled out. He even closed the door.
Jack took that as an encouraging sign. He had Marguerite to himself, but probably not for long. He must make his case, and persuade her to marry him. He must weigh every word before he spoke. It would be so easy to frighten her away.
He thought hard. Why might she be unwilling to marry him? Because he was the son of a duke and she was only a weaver's daughter? No, it could not be that. Their stations were unequal, but only he knew that. He did not care that she was only a weaver's daughter. His family would not care either. Dominic held the title, and he was marrying a woman who had served in the Russian cavalry. Jack's marriage would be commonplace compared with Dominic's. Marguerite might be a bourgeoise by birth, but she had the bearing and manners of a lady. And the courage of a lion. His Amazon was more than fit to be the wife of Lord Jack Aikenhead.
It was a great deal to ask of her, even if she did love him. She would have to leave France, and her family, and everything she knew in order to join him in England. She knew no one there; she understood nothing of English ways; she probably did not even speak much of the language. Perhaps she felt she had already made enough sacrifices for the sake of Jack's mission? Perhaps she did not love him enough to make so many more?
The single church bell began to toll.
Marguerite raised her head and looked solemnly at Jack. She did not smile. "That bell reminds me how I have sinned, in thought and in deed. I will not go with you, Jacques, though I freely admit I will suffer once you are no longer by my side. There is a remedy, however. I shall go to the Abbaye des Dames."
Jack rocked back in his chair. Then, at last, he understood. The bell was telling him what he should do. He must join honour to honour, and truth to truth. "Marguerite, my darling girl, I think you would make a much better wife than a nun." For a second, her eyes widened in shock. "I love you with all my heart. Please say you will marry me."
"Marriage? You want marriage? Truly?"
He smiled. His suspicions had been proved right. How could she have thought, even for a moment, that he would offer her anything less honourable than marriage? "I love you, Marguerite, and I think you love me." He paused. She blushed, but then she nodded, smiling shyly across at him. "Precisely so. For two people so grievously afflicted, is not marriage the obvious and only solution?"
"Jacques, that is the most pompous marriage proposal I have ever received."
He grinned. "I hope, my love, that it is the only proposal you have ever received. And that you will never entertain another."
He rose to his feet and drew her, unresisting, into his arms for the kiss that would bind them together always.
Marguerite sank into the corner of their carriage with a sigh of relief. It had been a long and very painful crossing. She was extremely glad to be back on dry land, even if it was not in her own country.
Jack leant his head back against the deeply-cushioned seat and closed his eyes. In the feeble light from the inn yard, Marguerite could see that his face was returning to something like a normal colour. It had been a sickly green throughout their voyage, for he had suffered very much.
He recovered remarkably quickly, however. The carriage had barely reached the high road for London when he spoke. "England." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the countryside through which they were passing, ignoring the fact that there was not enough light to see any of it. "This, my lady wife, will be your home from now on. I hope you do not dislike it?"
She laid her hand over his. "Since I took a solemn vow, less than twenty-four hours ago, to love and honour my husband, how should I dare to dislike the home to which he brings me?"
"Very true. Very true." He was trying to sound superior, but he failed to maintain his pose. After a moment, he began to laugh.
Marguerite smiled broadly. "I can see that you are very much better. I can admit to you now that there were times, on board that filthy little boat, when I thought that we would never reach land. I worried for you, my love." She squeezed his hand.
He responded by pulling her into the crook of his arm. "My seasickness looks dreadful, I admit. And it feels dreadful at the time, too. But it passes almost as soon as I step onto dry land. Brother Dominic used to accuse me of feigning illness in order to avoid duties on board his yacht."
"Surely not?"
"Well, I exaggerate perhaps. A little. And Dominic does have a tisane than helps. If I'd had it on the crossing, I probably wouldn't have frightened you quite so much."
"What is in it?"
"Ginger, mostly, and some other herbs and spices. You can ask Dominic, if he ever returns from Russia. He's been gone for months now. Didn't even return to England after his marriage, which seemed strange. But I suppose he had his reasons. He usually does."
Marguerite was not paying attention. She was making a mental note to discover the receipt for Dominic's tisane and then to ensure that she always had the necessary ingredients by her. She was not prepared to admit it to Jack, but towards the end of their crossing she had been afraid that he might die.
She snuggled into his side and rearranged the fur rug so that it covered Jack's knees as well as her own. She sighed with pleasure. Jack was safe at last.
He began to play with her hair, picking up curls and rolling them round his fingers. "You have beautiful hair, my Lady Jack." His voice was a sensuous and seductive murmur.
Marguerite was tempted to respond in kind, but a carriage—even a closed carriage like this one—was not where she wished to give herself to her husband for the first time. She longed for him, but she wanted their first joining to be perfect. Everything in France had been done in too much of a hurry. The curé had insisted on marrying them on the spot. She had had to plead for time to don her favourite blue silk gown. And then to remove it again, before their mad dash to Dieppe to slip on to the first available boat. They had found one that claimed to be sailing to Brest. Its shifty captain had been more than willing to take a bribe to cross the Channel instead, and he had even provided a tiny, smelly cabin for his only passengers. It was no place for passion. In any case, Jack was much too ill to leave the open deck.
"Lady Jack." She tried the title. "Is that how I am to be called?"
"As my wife, you are Lady Jack Aikenhead. But, if you prefer, you could be Lady Marguerite. Your father was a marquis, so you have the title in your own right."
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She was not sure which she preferred. She would consider it. Later.
"I'm sorry I didn't believe your mama when she said you were the daughter of the Marquise de Jerbeaux. At the time, it seemed so very strange."
"For a weaver's daughter, you mean?"
"Well, yes. In England, the aristocracy may make money from trade, very quietly, but none of us ever sullies our hands with actually making things." He laughed in a slightly embarrassed way.
"In England, you have not had a revolution, followed by terror. Necessity changes much. For us, it was work, or starve."
"Father Bertrand knew the truth, I collect? He did not seem surprised when he was noting down your parents' names."
"The good father served my family for many years. He had to flee Lyons because of it. But I do think he was very surprised to learn that Mr Jacques was the son of a duke. As was I."
"Now that, my love, is because you did not listen to your mama. She did tell you, you know." He bent his head and began to kiss the side of her neck below her curls.
She could not prevent the tiny moan that rose in her throat. His touch conjured up memories of that night in Beauvais, when he had done precisely this, but remembered none of it next morning. One day, she would tell him what she had done. But not yet. Not now.
He was dropping a line of tiny kisses down her neck and throat. When he reached her bosom, he did not stop.
"Jacques. Jack. Someone will see."
He did not raise his head. "I doubt it, my love. Why do you think I insisted on a closed carriage rather than a chaise for this journey? I wanted you to myself for once." He nuzzled the top of her breast. "A husband has duties, you know, and so far I have signally failed to fulfil them." He turned his head on one side for just long enough to leer up into her face. Then he spoiled the effect by laughing.
She put a hand to his hair and ran it carefully down the back of his head, mindful of his wounds. He did not wince away from her touch. He was definitely mending. There was no reason now why they should not be lovers, fully and sweetly.
His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3) Page 23
