The Secret of Love (Rakes & Rebels: The Raveneau Family Book 3)

by Cynthia Wright

  The wind increased, the rickety fiacre rocked and shuddered, and a branch of silvery lightening cracked the night sky.

  “Monseigneur!” wailed Eustache from his uncovered driver’s perch on the front of the fiacre. He sounded on the verge of hysteria. “Must we continue?”

  Gabriel glimpsed a few wavering lights through the gloom and realized that they were approaching a village, perhaps even the larger town of Morlaix. They already had a time advantage of four hours. Surely that weasel Adolphus Lynton could not possibly give chase—or even discover their departure—until morning. And who could be certain which direction Denon had gone upon leaving Roscoff? If they paused for a few hours of sleep, the weather would likely improve.

  “There is a relay station here!” he shouted back to Eustache over the howling wind. “We will spend the night.”

  * * *

  Izzie thought that she might weep with relief when she heard St. Briac’s order to seek shelter at an inn. She’d been surprised by her feelings of terror as they’d lurched and rattled over the rain-lashed road from Roscoff. The night had resurrected memories of the old, frightening dreams of her parents’ carriage accident more than a decade ago.

  “You see, my lady,” Lowenna said in soothing tones, “we will be safe this night.”

  Their patched-up conveyance rolled over cobbled lanes lined with overhanging timber-framed buildings until they came to a stop outside a particularly tall and narrow structure. St. Briac appeared to hand her out while Eustache went and lifted the knocker at the massive entrance.

  At length, an old man appeared, clad in a nightcap and long, old-fashioned banyan. He carried an oil lamp, its wavering flame sending shadows dancing over his scowling face.

  “I don’t take guests who rouse me from my slumber at this hour,” the man barked in French.

  Gabriel stepped forward with a winning smile, and swept off his hat. “My old friend Guennec, am I unrecognizable in this rain? It is I, St. Briac.” At the same time, he drew out a leather pouch and proffered coins that gleamed gold in the darkness. “We offer sincere apologies for our late arrival, but the storm has made travel impossible.”

  “Ah, oui, St. Briac!” The man’s expression turned genial. “I have not seen you for some time. Our tobacco farm continues to thrive, but perhaps you no longer deal in contraband goods?”

  Izzie watched with weary amazement as M’sieur Guennec accepted the coins.

  “I don’t think this is the time to converse about my business,” came Gabriel’s casual reply. “Do you have rooms for us?”

  “Only one, and there’s space in the barn for your servants.” His curious gaze lingered on Izzie. “Madame…?”

  Her heart sank. Wet and trembling from the ordeal of the last few hours, Izzie leaned on Gabriel for support.

  “You are addressing Madame St. Briac,” Gabriel interjected. His arm, solid as an oak, rounded her waist and held her upright. “Perhaps you were unaware that I have a wife?”

  The old man chuckled. “Why should I know such a thing, given your—ah—adventurous spirit?” Then, seeming to realize that it would be wiser to protect St. Briac from his wife’s wrath, Guennec sobered and turned toward Izzie with a respectful bow. “We are honored to have you visit our humble auberge, Madame St. Briac.”

  “It is late and we are very weary. Kindly show us to our room, m’sieur.”

  Izzie felt the heat of Lowenna’s outraged expression as Gabriel took her mistress’s arm and they entered the inn, leaving the maid behind with Eustache, the horses, and the miserable fiacre. But what could she do? At least Lowenna would be able to sleep for a few hours in the hayloft, and Eustache was there to make sure no harm came to her.

  Guennec’s lamp fitfully lit their way up a spiraling, heavily carved staircase. In a whisper, Gabriel told her it was called a pondalez. It wasn’t until they had reached the third floor that Guennec paused before a low door, brought a large key out of the folds of his banyan, and waved them into a small chamber.

  As the innkeeper lit candles, Izzie made out the shapes of a small bed covered with an embroidered cloth, a table with two rustic chairs under a leaded-glass window, and a small chest with a pitcher and bowl. A cracked chamber pot peeked out from under the bed while a framed likeness of Napoleon Bonaparte seemed to glare at all of them at once.

  Gabriel’s expression was highly dubious. “I think I have overpaid, m’sieur.”

  “You should be grateful to have a warm bed on a stormy night,” Guennec scolded as he backed out of the room. “Most innkeepers would not have answered your knock for fear you might be a thief—or mayhap a smuggler.” He drew out the last word, waggling his brows for emphasis.

  “The least you can do is bring us some food and wine.”

  “But of course!” And with that, he was gone.

  When they were alone, Izzie sank down on the edge of the bed. Straw crunched in the mattress and she detected a faintly musty odor. “This is the longest night of my life.”

  “It is only two o’clock in the morning, so the longest night of your life is far from over,” came his terse reply. He was near the window, pulling off riding gloves and shaking rain droplets from his sodden greatcoat.

  “Why did you tell that man that we are married?” She looked at the small bed, cheeks flame, and was shocked to hear herself declare, “This episode would seem to permanently finish my reputation.”

  As Gabriel strode closer, she could see that he was angry with her again. “Did it occur to you that I may have been endeavoring to save your reputation now that Guennec has seen us traveling together?” He paused, blue eyes blazing in the shadows. “Did I ask you to come to France, to force me to bring you with me on this journey, to complicate my life?”

  Izzie’s heart thudded. She felt tears spring to her eyes and tried to blink them back.

  “No!” She cried at last. The word was saturated with emotion, too much emotion, she realized. “It is all my doing.”

  “C’est vrai.” Gabriel broke off at the sound of knock at the door. “Kindly remember that the next time you doubt my regard for your precious reputation!”

  Chapter 12

  Guennec had brought them a tray containing a bottle of fruity, dry Breton wine made with Muscadet grapes, with two glasses. There was also a plate of local ham, some roasted potatoes, and a plain buckwheat pancake.

  As St. Briac took the tray, he noticed how the old man looked over at the bed. It was two o’clock in the morning, but the covers remained in place and Isabella sat there stiffly, still clad in her traveling clothes and bonnet.

  “Are you unwell, Madame?” he inquired.

  Determined not to let the innkeeper hear even one more syllable of Isabella’s tellingly accented French, St. Briac set down the tray and steered him forcefully out the door. “My wife is merely feeling a trifle chilled from the storm. Bon soir.”

  “If I may say so, Madame has the look of a new bride.” Guennec followed up this observation with an exaggerated wink.

  St. Briac wanted to push him down the ridiculous pondalez staircase, but settled instead for getting him into the corridor and closing the door. Too bad there wasn’t a key he could rattle in the lock, for good measure.

  “I am ravenous!” Isabella exclaimed.

  He turned back to see her casting off her wet bonnet, pelisse, and gloves. As she crossed to the table, the damp muslin of her gown clung to her thighs and the curves of her breasts.

  Suddenly, Gabriel found that he was hungry, too. Joining her, he set a candle between them, poured wine into two glasses, and watched the color come into her cheeks as she drank. One long blond curl slipped from its pin atop her head and spilled quite charmingly down against her temple.

  “Try the ham,” he said. “The pigs of Morlaix are quite famous.”

  Isabella laughed, adjusting her spectacles. “And what about this?” She pointed to the simple buckwheat pancake. “I know that Brittany and Cornwall are supposed to be a great deal alike,
but that’s certainly not true of the food.”

  “The people have common ancestors,” he acknowledged with a smile. “Some say that the Bretons and Cornish have more in common with each other than with the rest of their own countries.” Gabriel dipped his thumb and forefinger into a tiny bowl of salt, captured some, sprinkled it over the pancake, then folded it in half and handed it to Isabella.

  She held it between her own pretty fingertips and took a large bite. “Delicious! I am feeling so much better.”

  “I hope you weren’t frightened by the storm, though you had every right to be, given the state of the roads and that sad excuse for a conveyance.”

  To his surprise, she paled. “I confess that I was frightened, but I am much better now.”

  “I am truly sorry. I suppose I assumed you were fearless, stowing away, insisting on traveling with me—”

  Isabella stared out the rain-streaked window for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought, and he thought he glimpsed a tear on her cheek. Finally, she said softly, “I don’t like to talk about it, but my parents were killed in a carriage accident. I had terrible nightmares about it for a year or more, but I thought those feelings were far behind me now.”

  Slowly, he nodded. “It must have been terrible, losing your parents at such an important age.”

  “I was fourteen.” She shook her head wistfully. “I was away at school, you know. My parents were very busy with their aristocratic society obligations. The easiest thing was to send me far away, so that I couldn’t disrupt things.”

  “It couldn’t have been easy to be the child of a marquess and marchioness,” Gabriel said. “Perhaps your brothers looked after you?”

  “Sebastian was away with the Royal Navy for several years. I really didn’t know him very well until much later, after his marriage. However, my brother George did visit me at my horrid school. He’s made many mistakes in his life, but he alone came to me when Mother and Father died. He was very kind. I think he understood what I’d lost, since he’d been lonely as well.”

  “Isabella, I am so sorry.” Gabriel stretched a hand across the table to cover hers.

  “For a long time, when my parents were still alive, I could cheer myself up by pretending that they were going to visit me, perhaps the very next day. I would spin elaborate fantasies of my mother holding me, smoothing back my hair from my brow as she sometimes had done when I was very small, and telling me that they were going to take me home to London and I would never have to return to Florence Jarrett’s Academy for Young Gentlewomen. Even Father, who could be extremely difficult and even cruel, was transformed into a loving papa in my daydreams.” Isabella paused to wipe away tears. “At last, I received a letter telling me that they were traveling down to Devon to visit me. Father was holding the reins himself when the carriage went off the coastal road and fell to the rocks below.”

  As she spoke, Gabriel was reminded again of the vast difference in their stations. Isabella was the daughter of a marquess, with impeccable lineage and prospects. Even though her wastrel brother George had done his best to sully their family name and fortune, Sebastian had prospered in Cornwall and would provide a proper dowry for Isabella when she finally decided to invite suitors. There was every reason to believe that she would marry well and live happily, perhaps on a grand country estate steeped in history.

  “My lady, I hope you’ll accept my sympathies for your loss, as well as my apology for tonight,” he said softly. “I should never have allowed you to ride in that miserable equipage during such a storm.”

  “It was my choice.” She fixed her beautiful eyes on his face. “Why are you calling me that? Why are you suddenly being so stiff with me?”

  Shrugging, he withdrew his hand from hers. It was imperative that he stop looking at her, stop touching her, stop feeling so damned drawn to her as a woman. “Perhaps I have remembered that you are of noble birth and I should guard your safety more carefully. You have endured enough for one so young.”

  “I am sorry to have burdened you with my tragic tale,” she said. “As for this situation, you are not to blame for my rash behavior. I am here by my choice, not yours. You’ve scolded me often enough on that score, have you not?”

  “One of us has to behave responsibly.”

  “I see.” New tears sparkled in her eyes.

  “Let’s try to sleep for a few hours, while we can,” Gabriel said more gently. “I would like to be on the road again by dawn. Fortunately, the storm is nearly over.”

  Isabella stood, head high and back straight, and crossed to the bed. “I should sleep on the floor. Or in a chair.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” There were two woolen blankets folded on a nearby shelf. Gabriel took one of them, rolled it up lengthwise, and put it in the middle of the narrow bed. “There. We each have our own side to sleep on.”

  He blew out the candles, took off his boots, and lay down. When Isabella bent over next to him, the low bodice of her gown hugged her breasts in a way that he found alarmingly arousing. Intense longing rose from the very core of him, urging him to lean toward her, to cup her tempting breasts over the thin fabric of her bodice, to—

  Mon Dieu, had he lost all reason?!

  Isabella was already lying down, spreading the other blanket over both of them. “Goodnight, then,” she murmured.

  As her faint lavender scent wafted over the rolled-up blanket, Gabriel closed his eyes. He tried to think of something that would subdue his physical arousal.

  “Good night. I’m sorry I’ve been difficult. Perhaps it’s the prospect of seeing my brother again.” Perfect, he thought grimly. The mention of Justin quickly put a damper on his passions.

  “Do you have family issues as well?”

  Gabriel turned away toward the wall. “You have no idea.”

  * * *

  Although her body was heavy with exhaustion, Izzie could not seem to fall asleep. How could she sleep with Gabriel lying in the very same bed? Every fiber of her being ached for something she didn’t quite understand. She looked across the rolled-up blanket the separated them and saw his big body turned away from her, his fine white shirt seeming to glow in the shadows.

  Now that the dark storm clouds had blown away from the moon, there were silvery rays of light slanting through the diamond-shaped windowpanes. Izzie let her eyes caress Gabriel, from the broad straight line of his shoulders down the tapering strength of his back, to the hard, narrow hip that was partially covered by the blanket. His proud head, covered with tousled dark curls, was still. She could hear his even breathing.

  Rising on an elbow, she looked over his shoulder, drinking in the sight of his chiseled face in repose. Something in her began to ache with a gnawing sort of pleasure as she looked at the thick smudge of his lashes, the shadow beneath his sculpted cheekbone, and the firm male beauty of his mouth.

  For a long moment, Izzie imagined sliding her hand under his shirt, over the warm muscled surface of his back, around to his chest. She remembered the interlude they had shared just hours ago in Roscoff, when she’d perched on his lap and he’d suddenly drawn her against him so that her breasts pushed against his chest.

  Now, her nipples began to tingle, swelling involuntarily at the memory. He had nearly kissed her. Nearly…

  The tingling spread lower, between her legs. She knew about the deed that men and women committed together, but it had always sounded like a revolting form of torture. Now, if she let herself imagine St. Briac lying on top of her, pushing his manhood into her, her breath grew shallow and she felt feverish.

  Izzie lay back on her tiny strip of bed and rubbed her eyes. Sleep. She must sleep! She forced herself to conjugate French verbs until at last the hungry longing subsided and sleep pulled her under.

  * * *

  “What travelers have arrived tonight? I demand that you show me, old man!”

  Gabriel reluctantly came awake to the sound of someone shouting. An Englishman. After a moment, he remembered where he was, and t
hat Lady Isabella Trevarre lay sleeping beside him.

  “They claim to be husband and wife,” Guennec was saying, just outside their door.

  “Rubbish. He has abducted her. Open the door!” It was Adolphus Lynton, Gabriel realized with a flash of panic. His guess was confirmed when the Englishman repeated his command in execrable French: “Ouvrez la porte!”

  “I don’t think I have a key…”

  “Perhaps a few coins will help you find the blasted thing,” cried Lynton. “I am here in the name of the Crown.”

  “Crowns and kings are powerless in France these days, but coins—now that’s another matter,” Guennec chuckled.

  A ring of keys jangled.

  Gabriel swiftly pushed aside the blanket that separated him from Isabella and took her in his arms. She was staring up at him in the moonlight, eyes wide with terror.

  “M’sieur,” she whispered, “please do not let him take me!”

  “Never,” he said in a low, harsh voice. “But you must let me make love to you if we are to outwit that buffoon. Be convincing, my lady.”

  The instant his mouth covered hers, he felt her surrender to him and realized that this was about more than Adolphus Lynton—for both of them. A warm, throbbing heat spread over his own body as his tongue invaded her sweet mouth. She was kissing him back, moaning as she opened her lips to him and her hips arched against his.

  Gabriel pulled up the hem of her gown until he caressed her bare flank, and then the lush curve of her buttock. As his fingers grazed the curls between her legs, he felt the intoxicating wetness of her arousal.

  His hand moved to free one of the breasts that had so tempted him earlier.

  “Does that lady look like a hostage?” Guennec was saying from the doorway. “I tried to tell you, m’sieur, they are married. She is a Frenchwoman.”

  Isabella moaned again, louder, and embraced St. Briac, one pale hand in his hair, the other around his back. “More, my love,” she implored in perfect French.