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

by Joanna Maitland

  That thought was too much for her fragile composure. Jack was her husband. She had the right to want him. "Might we not rack up for the night, Jack?" she asked shyly. His tantalising kisses were beginning to drive her wild.

  He stopped abruptly and lifted his head. With his free hand, he pulled her bodice back to its proper position. "It was unfair of me to do that. I apologise." When she began to protest, he touched a finger to her lips. "Believe me, I should like nothing better than to find a comfortable inn and make you my true wife. But my mission—our mission—comes first. We have risked our lives to bring this information home. We must deliver it with all speed. Only then will we be free to take our pleasure of each other."

  "Oh. You are right. I should have thought of—" That wicked memory surfaced again in her brain, beckoning seductively. There were other pleasures, too. With her free hand, she undid the buttons at the waistline of his coat and slid her hand inside, so that there was only his fine linen shirt between her fingers and his skin. He drew in his breath in a quick gasp. And then he sighed, relaxing against her touch. She put her lips to his ear and whispered. "We may not stop for the night, but since we are confined together in this dark, private carriage, might there not be other ways of—?" She stopped short, shocked by her own daring, and buried her face in his shoulder.

  He put a hand to her hair and caressed it. "My love, I do believe I have married the most seductive woman in France. Yes, there are other ways. And since you require it of me, it shall be my pleasure to show you what they are." He tipped up her face to bring his mouth down on hers. "Starting now."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Aikenhead Park, England

  Marguerite was sitting in front of her dressing-table mirror, trying to adjust her earrings so that they would not catch in her hair. And trying to ignore her husband, who stood behind her.

  Jack stroked lazy fingers across the back of her neck.

  She shivered. But it was a shiver of pleasure. She recognised that, and knew that he had, too. Narrowing her eyes at his reflection, she tried to sound stern. "If you persist to do that, husband, we will be late for dinner."

  Jack, predictably, grinned wickedly over her shoulder. "Not for the first time, either. And I can't think of any excuse more reasonable." He dropped a quick kiss on her bare shoulder, above her favourite blue silk gown, but she flapped a hand at him and turned back to the mirror.

  He shrugged off her implied rebuke. "By the way, it's 'persist in doing', not 'persist to do'."

  "Pfft."

  "Precisely so, my love. But that's the first mistake I've heard you make in ages. Your English is pretty fluent now. Mama was saying the same, only this morning."

  "Your mama has been helping me to find new words. And with pronunciation. She is very patient with my mistakes and I am most grateful to her. To all of you, in fact." Marguerite made a face. "Even Cousin Harriet."

  Within a week of her arrival, Marguerite had become fair game for Cousin Harriet's sharp tongue. That, she was solemnly assured by her laughing husband, was a singular mark of distinction. At first, Marguerite had not known how to respond, but, with Jack's encouragement, she had learned to reply in kind. Now that her English was so much improved, she could even hold her own, some of the time. Sophie, recently arrived with Leo from their own estate, had the advantage of speaking fluent English already. So she had been quicker to master the rules of Harriet's verbal jousting matches.

  Marguerite sighed. "Speaking English all the time is very tiring, however. I have to concentrate so hard. Might we not use French, now that my English is so much better? Please, Jack?"

  "Soon, love, but not yet, I think. You have made amazing progress, considering that we've been here less than three months. But I think Mama was right to suggest that you should keep using English all the time, even with the family. It is how she learned, when she first came to England. Practice makes perfect, and your English will soon be as perfect as the rest of you." As he glanced appraisingly at her reflection in the mirror, his smile became warmly intimate. Marguerite could feel her body beginning to respond.

  But then he spoiled the moment by adding, "Though I did notice that you were having trouble talking to some of the tenants, the other day."

  Marguerite snorted. "Some of their accents are difficult. And when they talk so fast…"

  "Your ear will become attuned. Eventually. Though I should warn you that even Mama still has trouble, sometimes."

  "Does she?" Marguerite couldn't imagine that the dowager was ever at a loss. Why should she be, when she had been living in England for nearly forty years? But then, some of the locals—and some of the servants when they thought themselves alone—seemed to talk a language that was nothing like the formal English Marguerite and her sister had been taught at their mother's knee.

  She sighed again. "You are probably right. About the practice, I mean."

  "Oh. Not about the excuse for coming late to dinner?"

  Marguerite rose, trying hard not to smile. He was incorrigible. She resolved to give him his own again. "Perhaps I should ask your mama for lessons in bedroom English, also? Or brother Leo, now that he is here? I understand he is well versed in—"

  Jack grabbed her and silenced her, by kissing her thoroughly. Eventually, after a very pleasurable few moments, he said, "If you wish for lessons in bedroom etiquette, Marguerite, you will please to apply to your husband. And he is more than happy to conduct such loving, er, exchanges in French. As we have always done."

  That, at least, was true. In bed, they spoke only French. Jack had said, by way of explanation, that he didn't want his darling wife to be concentrating on anything but pleasure when they were making love. She had gone red to the roots of her hair, but she had been grateful.

  "Besides, Leo is the last person you should apply to."

  "Really? And why is that?" she asked innocently. She knew the answer perfectly well, of course. Leo's reputation with women was legendary. And Marguerite could understand why. Although Leo was not outrageously handsome, he had an aura, an indefinable appeal, that made him irresistible to almost every woman he met. Which was hard on the women these days, since he was deeply in love with his wife. It seemed that a reformed rake could make a good—and faithful—husband.

  "You know very well why not, you hussy."

  "Um, 'hussy'?" She made a play of raising her eyebrows and putting her head on one side. "I am not sure that I understand—"

  "You understand perfectly, madam. Which only goes to prove that you are one." Keeping a remarkably straight face, he provided the French translation. Though they both knew it was not necessary.

  Marguerite tried to look both surprised and affronted. She failed. "Oh, very well," she admitted with a smile. "I am a hussy. Where you are concerned, Jack. And I am proud of it."

  Jack glanced at the little silver clock on the dressing table. "We still have time enough," he said slowly, softly.

  Marguerite shook her head. "I am glad. But not for that reason. There is something I wanted to ask you."

  "About Suzanne and your mother? I'm afraid there is no more news, love. But I am sure that they will still be safe. The house is stout. And Guillaume can be relied upon to defend the family."

  Marguerite nodded. Ever since the news of Bonaparte's defeat at Waterloo, she had been worrying more and more about the lack of reports from Lyons. Under Napoleon, France had been full of suppressed violence between factions. Now that the hated king had been restored, the savagery might flare up in earnest.

  "I know that," she said. "And I know you would tell me, the moment you had any news of them. So I will not plague you on that."

  He drew her gently into a closer embrace. "You may plague me on whatever you like, love."

  She tipped her head back to look into his eyes. They were warm and welcoming. Could this be the moment to ask the question she had not had the courage to ask before? "I was wondering… Shall we always live here at the Park, Jack? I understand that you are only
a younger son and dependent on the duke, but—"

  Jack stiffened. She heard the sharp intake of breath between his teeth.

  "—Sophie was telling me about Leo's splendid estate and how much she loves it. She is mistress there, of course, whereas here she must give way to your mama. And to the new duchess, too, once she arrives."

  "And you, as the wife of the third brother, are at the bottom of the pecking order," Jack said tightly. "I had not imagined that it would irk you so much."

  Oh dear. This was not going well. She had not intended to upset him—she had not expected him to be quite so thin-skinned about being the youngest—but she had no option now. She had to finish it. She would never muster the courage to tackle him about this again.

  "This is not about me, Jack. I have watched you going round the land, taking care of everything and everyone while the duke is absent. You were brought up here and you love the place. You were born to run your own estate. But now that Leo is here, he will naturally take all the decisions. And one day, the duke will return, to take the reins again. You will…you will have no role."

  "A spare part, you mean?" He gave a short, hollow laugh. "That is a phrase you should learn. Aristocratic houses aim to produce an heir and a spare. In our case, I was the second spare. And I remain a pensioner of the duke." To judge from his tone, he hated being beholden to his brother.

  "If it is merely a question of money, could we not make some?"

  He pulled a sour face. "Tried that. Didn't work. M'luck ran out."

  "What? Gambling?" Her heart began to race. She had seen no signs that Jack was a gambler, but he had been busy with the Aikenhead Park estate since their arrival. If he was at a loose end once his brother returned, might he return to the tables? That could be disastrous. "I have a better idea than gambling," she began tentatively. "A much safer bet. We could set up a silk weaving house, here in England. You know that I ran House Grolier in Lyons. And successfully, too. We could—"

  He took a step back from her, pushing her away. "Are you suggesting that we go into trade, Marguerite?" His voice was colder than she had ever known it.

  He sounded affronted, but Marguerite was not fooled. He had joked about this before. He might have forgotten that exchange, but she had not. He was adopting the starched-up attitudes of his class, because he refused to admit that his wife had the knowledge and experience to earn money, while he did not.

  She swallowed. She could not tell him what she was thinking. Instead, she said baldy, "It is an honest way to make money. And a great deal better than gambling." She held his gaze, waiting.

  Spots of colour appeared high on his cheeks. "The Aikenheads do not soil their hands with trade, wife. And what, may I ask, gives you the idea that I am a gambler?"

  "I— Only that you said your luck had run out. I assumed—"

  "It is dangerous to assume, you know." He raised his chin another notch. "I do not gamble. You have my word on that. You do not doubt me, I hope?"

  She put a hand on his arm but he shook her off. He was rejecting her proposal. And apparently rejecting Marguerite at the same time. Her laughing, loving husband had vanished, to be replaced by a man she did not know at all, a man encased in ice.

  She sighed out a long breath and sank onto her dressing stool. Fixing her eyes on the floor, she said, "I do not doubt your word, Jack. But I am grieved that you think I might." Silence stretched between them. At last, she forced herself to look up at him. She had to try to mend the rift she had created. "I am your loving, loyal wife, Jack. Always."

  In that instant, his ice melted, as if it had never been. "Oh Marguerite, my love." He pulled her to her feet and into his arms for a long, and very tender kiss. "Forgive me," he said at last, reverting to French. "I know it is difficult for you to be merely a guest in this house, in a country that is foreign to you. You have always been used to taking charge of the household and, here, you cannot be what you were before." He shook his head sadly and looked away, before saying, very quietly, "But as things stand, we have no choice."

  "Why?" Her question was automatic.

  "Why?" He sighed. His necked had reddened. His voice sank almost to a whisper. "Because we have no choice."

  What did he mean by "as things stand"? And what was it that he was too embarrassed to share? She touched her hand to his cheek and said, "Jack, I—"

  The sound of footsteps in the corridor interrupted them. Jack glanced at the clock again and said, in a matter-of-fact English voice, "I think it is time to go to dinner, love."

  Marguerite fancied he was relieved. She was sure—almost sure—that he was hiding something from her. She was equally sure that he would not allow her to raise the subject of money again. For the moment, at least, she had lost.

  But she had not lost his love.

  He was gazing down at her. He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her palm. When he raised his head again, his eyes were dancing, in his old, laughing way. "Will you allow me to escort you downstairs, my love? I would deem it an honour."

  For the moment, she would be content.

  "Poor Father Bertrand. He was adamant that he had to marry us before we left for Dieppe, but it came as a shock when he found out who I was." Jack grinned at the company assembled round the dinner table. Leo and Sophie had not heard this story before.

  "I am not surprised the poor priest was shocked," his mother said. "It came as a shock to me, too, that you should have proposed to Marguerite without first telling her the truth about yourself, Jack."

  Jack shrugged and reached out to take Marguerite's hand. "She was prepared to marry Louis Jacques, a simple English gentleman travelling under an assumed name. I took that as a great compliment, especially when I discovered that she was the daughter of a French marquis."

  Marguerite felt herself reddening. Her husband seemed determined to make up for his hurtful words, earlier, by praising her to his family. It made her a little uncomfortable, though she knew it was done out of love.

  "I suppose that was another shock for the poor priest," the dowager said with an indulgent smile for Marguerite.

  "Oh, no, ma'am." Marguerite smiled back, glad to be included in the Aikenhead banter. It lightened the atmosphere. She and Jack would now be as they had been before. "Father Bertrand has always known the truth. It was because of his loyalty to the Jerbeaux family that he had to flee to Normandy. In the years after the Reign of Terror, it was very dangerous to have the wrong allegiances."

  "And it will be dangerous still," Leo said seriously. He was presiding over the dinner table in the absence of the duke. Poor Jack had had to move down a place. "I hear that France is in turmoil since Bonaparte's defeat at Waterloo. Reprisals everywhere. From all sides, too. And—" He stopped short and looked round in surprise at his wife.

  Sophie ignored him and said innocently, "Leo exaggerates, I am sure, Marguerite. Try not to worry. Your family clearly knows how to keep close. And you did say that the Lyons house is strong and easily defended. I'm sure they will be safe there."

  Leo, looking slightly chastened, nodded reassuringly to Marguerite. It lessened her anxiety a little.

  "No doubt they will." Cousin Harriet Penworthy raised her lorgnette to her eyes. "By the way, Sophie, did you kick Leo's ankle then, or was it sufficient to step on his foot?"

  "Why, ma'am, I—"

  "Cousin Harriet, I swear you go out of your way to prove to these poor ladies that you are the most outrageous woman alive." Leo smiled mischievously at Marguerite and then at Sophie. "But since you ask, I will cheerfully admit that my dear wife kicked me. Hard. If it were not for the fact that she is wearing evening slippers, I should have a broken ankle."

  "Nothing more than you deserve," Cousin Harriet retorted, but she could not conceal her smile. She was a very outspoken old lady, as Marguerite had soon discovered, but she loved the Aikenhead family very much. She had quickly taken the two new members to her heart. It was enough for her that Marguerite and Sophie were loved by Jack an
d Leo, and that they loved her boys in return.

  The butler entered, with a bevy of footmen at his back. "Shall I remove the dessert, your Grace?"

  The dowager glanced round at her guests. "Thank you, Withering." In next to no time, the table had been cleared and the decanters set on it. Once the family was alone again, the dowager smiled down the table at Leo and then across at Jack. She rose elegantly to her feet. "I suppose, ladies, that we had best withdraw and leave these two …um… gentlemen to their port."

  "I'd much rather you remained, Mama," said a voice from the doorway behind her.

  "Dominic!" The dowager spun round in her place. Leo and Jack exclaimed in unison, and then rushed to welcome the new arrival. Marguerite had risen with the dowager, but now she felt more than a little awkward. This new arrival was clearly Dominic, Duke of Calder, Jack's oldest brother. The resemblance was uncanny. Dominic was taller, and a little broader than Jack, but otherwise they could have been twins. Yet there was something more than a little daunting about Dominic. He had an air. She was sure he could be intimidating in a way that her beloved Jack would never achieve. For Jack was much too ready to laugh.

  Marguerite glanced across at Sophie, standing in her place on the opposite side of the table. She looked as uncertain as Marguerite felt. Marguerite smiled tentatively and received a broader smile in return. They understood each other. Their turn would come, once the initial uproar was over. There was no doubt that the three Aikenhead brothers could make a great deal of noise.

  Eventually, the duke called for quiet. The hubbub and questions quickly subsided. "Mama, Harriet, you will allow me to present my wife, Alex, Duchess of Calder." He held out his hand to a dainty lady with reddish-brown curls threaded with ribbon. She came forward and curtseyed elegantly to the dowager. "Alex," the duke continued, "this is my mother, the dowager duchess, and my cousin, Miss Harriet Penworthy." The new duchess curtseyed again. "And these two so-called gentlemen," he continued, with a soft laugh, "are my brothers, Leo and Jack."