Rendezvous (9781301288946)

by Susan Carroll

  That was her mistake, forgetting one of her own basic rules and allowing her attention to wander when training a weapon upon someone. Sinclair was quick to sense how she wavered and took full advantage. With a lightning-quick movement he tossed the rope toward her face. In the second she took to blink, he pounced, deflecting the hand that held the make-believe weapon. If it had been a pistol, it would have discharged harmlessly in the air.

  Seizing her wrist, Sinclair forced her arm down and the candle end dropped to the floor. He pinned her against the bookcase, his face only inches away, his eyes glittering.

  "Checked again, milady."

  Did he truly think so? Belle tilted her face upward, her lips curved in a deceiving smile, Then she trod down hard on his instep.

  Sinclair's smirk vanished, his eyes widening with pained surprise. "You little vixen—" He had loosened his grip enough for her to hook her foot about his ankle, setting him off balance. But the maneuver backfired. As Sinclair went down, he pulled her with him. As they tumbled to the carpet, he still maintained his grasp. They wrestled for a moment, banging into the chair, until Belle felt her carefully secured hairpins coming free, her tresses falling about her shoulders. She shook her hair back, clear of her eyes, just as Sinclair pinned her flat on her back beneath his weight, both of them slightly breathless with laughter.

  "So you want to play rough?" he asked with a low seductive growl. Her struggles to pull free of his viselike grip on both wrists were futile. She could not match him for sheer strength. Pausing, she panted for breath, staring up at him.

  As their eyes locked, the laughter shared between them stilled. Belle became all too conscious of the intimacy of their position, the hard length of his masculine body trapping her against the floor, just as she sensed Sinclair's awareness of it, too. His eyes hazed a smoky shade of green, his dark hair tumbled over his brow, his pulse beating at the base of his throat.

  "Surrender, Angel." His light taunt came out somewhat unsteady.

  "Never," she said. "You gloat too soon, Mr. Carrington."

  She allowed herself to go limp beneath him and cast him her most sultry look from beneath the thickness of her lashes, then slowly undulated her body against his.

  He regarded her with astonishment that soon became a flash of some more heated emotion. When he released her wrists, she insinuated her hands between them, caressing his shoulders. Undoing the top button of his shirt, she slipped her fingers inside the linen, the crisp fabric in marked contrast to the warm pulsing flesh of his chest beneath.

  "You don't fight fair, Angel," he said.

  "Alas, sir," she whispered. "I am but a poor weak woman. I haven't a gentleman's notions of honor."

  "The problem is, neither have I."

  His arms closed roughly about her, his mouth seeking hers, claiming her with a searing kiss. He shifted onto his back, pulling her on top of him, but Belle felt no rush of triumph, for she was no longer in any more control of the situation than he.

  Like a reckless child, she had played amongst the embers, and fire is what she had found. She tasted of it on Sinclair's lips, felt it in the heat of his body beneath her. As her lips parted, inviting the probing sweetness of Sinclair's tongue, those same flames flickered to life inside of her.

  She should stop him, but how she had needed this. Last night had been so endless, she still felt the chill of it in her soul. Sinclair was all that was warmth, all that was life, stirring in her desires she had too long ignored.

  He made an effort to put her from him, although she could tell from the tremor coursing through his arms what effort it cost him. "Angel, I am sorry—"

  "No!" Recklessly she pressed herself atop him. "Don't stop. Please. I have been alone for so long."

  Her plea dissolved whatever resistance he had mustered. With a low groan, he reclaimed her lips. She buried her fingers in his hair, clutching him to her, prolonging the heady sensation of the kiss, for once casting caution to the winds. Her whole life had been a gamble, so why was she so afraid to take one more risk—that perhaps with Sinclair, this time might be different.

  The apartment fell silent except for the crackle of the fire, the more raging inferno Belle felt building inside her. Sinclair was just beginning to undo the braided loops of her spencer when they heard the click of the latch on the outer door. The sound, soft as it was, seemed to crack through the apartment with the force of a pistol shot.

  She and Sinclair exchanged a startled glance. The clatter of footsteps on the marble floor of the antechamber beyond terminated their mounting passion as effectively as if the casement had been flung open, dousing them with chilling rain.

  Sinclair was the first to react. Cursing under his breath, he scrambled to his feet. Grasping Belle by the wrist, he hauled her up after him. She had time to do no more than draw in a composing breath and attempt to smooth back her hair before Paulette peeked into the drawing room, rainwater yet beading upon the covered basket in her hand.

  Paulette's lips rounded in momentary surprise, then her insolent gaze swept from Belle's disheveled hair to the undone buttons of Sinclair's shirt. Belle was annoyed to feel a wave of heat course into her cheeks.

  "I hurried to finish the marketing, chérie, for fear you might need me for something else,” Paulette said, “but I see that my return is most out of time."

  Sinclair glared at her, but Belle straightened, gathering up the ends of her dignity.

  "Not at all. It is fortunate you are back so soon. I will be going out tonight and need you to help me with, my hair and gown."

  "Certainment." There was mockery in the curtsy Paulette made. She raked Sinclair with a hungry gaze. "My congratulations, chérie. You have the bon chance. Do not allow me to disturb you. I will be in the kitchen."

  Smirking, Paulette backed out of the room, leaving an awkward silence behind her. Belle turned to face Sinclair, but there was no question of resuming her place in his embrace. Paulette's return had effectively shattered whatever longings had pulsed between them. They regarded each other for a moment, both feeling somewhat foolish.

  "Good fortune, indeed!" Sinclair said, echoing Paulette's remark. "The pert trollop! Though perhaps we ought to thank her for the intrusion. We appear to have gotten somewhat carried away with our role-playing."

  "So it would seem, Mr. Carrington." Belle managed to force a smile.

  "I am sorry, Angel. I usually have a little more finesse than to attempt to make love upon the drawing room carpet. I don't know what the devil got into me."

  His apology was all that was gallant, but Belle would have none of it. She had ever borne responsibility for her own actions.

  "I was the devil," she said. "I deliberately provoked you."

  "But I am sure you never meant matters to go that far—"

  "Don't try to tell me what I meant. It is not my way to arouse a man and then play the part of outraged virtue."

  "And it is not my way to compromise a lady's reputation, either."

  "Compromise? Good God, Sinclair." Belle essayed a bitter laugh. "You talk as though I were some sort of an innocent—which you well know I am not."

  "What you are"—he cupped her chin with his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze—"is a woman with a most vulnerable heart."

  His words, the tender look that accompanied them, pierced her with a feeling so poignant it was nearly akin to a physical pain. Belle thought it would be far easier to stand naked before him than have him peer into the most hidden recesses of her soul.

  Gently, but firmly, she pushed his hand away from her. She said as brightly as she could, "I am a woman who must look a positive fright. I best make some effort to bring myself to order, or there will be no need to abduct Bonaparte. I will scare him to death."

  Kneeling down, she allowed her hair to veil her face as she made a great show of searching for her hairpins. She feared Sinclair would bend down to help her, but after heaving a deep sigh, he said, "I think it might be best if I went out for a bit. I could use a
breath of air."

  She nodded, making no effort to dissuade him, only saying, "Take care not to get lost. The streets of Paris are like a maze."

  He promised to be careful, and then he was gone. Belle could hear him in the antechamber beyond, gathering up his cloak and umbrella. She rubbed her arms, still so conscious of his touch, fighting an urge to fling open the drawing room door and summon him back.

  How ridiculous, she thought. It was not as though she would never see Sinclair again. If she truly wished it; she knew there would be other opportunities to find herself in Sinclair's embrace, uninterrupted by Paulette.

  She was glad of Paulette's untimely return. It had saved her from rushing headlong into something she might have cause to regret, gave her more time to think.

  Over the years she had learned life could be far less painful that way, trusting more to reason than feeling. There was only one problem with such an approach. One frequently ended with a clear head, but an empty heart.

  From the room beyond, Belle heard the outer door slam and knew that Sinclair had left the apartment. Staring into the blazing fire, she wondered how the logs could crackle so, but still leave her feeling cold. And once more she was conscious of the rain.

  Sinclair emerged into the street, his steps aimless, with no other purpose in mind than to escape from the apartment, the overwhelming desire to go back and pull Belle into his arms. He didn't bother opening his umbrella, grateful for the cold rain that pelted his face and dripped off his hair in rivulets, cooling his overheated senses.

  He must have made a curious sight, he though wryly, except the other pedestrians appeared too busy in their efforts to keep themselves dry to worry overmuch about a madman who would thus expose himself to the elements. A driver of an ancient fiacre pulled by two raw-boned horses did slow to a halt, urging Sinclair to hire his vehicle. When Sinclair ignored him, the cabman cursed and drove on.

  Slouching back against a patisserie's shop front, out of the way of the traffic, Sinclair replayed over in his mind the recent scene between himself and Belle. He wanted to curse Paulette Beauvais, but he was forced to admit that her return truly had not mattered. Even if she had not interrupted them, Sinclair would have found the strength to thrust Belle out of his arms.

  That would have been a first. He nearly laughed aloud. The rakehell Sinclair Carrington refusing the seduction of a beautiful woman. But how could he have done otherwise, knowing he had been sent to spy upon her, even knowing he might have to betray her one day?

  "So now you're developing a conscience, Carrington," he muttered to himself. At that moment he realized his loitering in front of the shop was attracting suspicious glances from the owner. Prudently Sinclair moved along, the rainwater pelting his face.

  He expelled a breath and patted his empty breast pocket. He would have given anything for a quiet corner, the pleasure of one of his cheroots. He always seemed to think better with a cloud of smoke curling about his head, helping him to get his roiling emotions under control. But he had forgotten his cigars, and he was not about to go back to the apartment until he could put what had happened into some perspective.

  He had nearly made love to Isabelle Varens. That was not surprising, considering that his desire for the lady had been building all along. But what had driven him over the edge—that was the surprising factor. Not the scent of her hair, or the feel of her soft skin, or her lips so sweet and pliant. It had been that wistful look in her eyes, the whispered plea, "I have been alone for so long."

  "Damn it, Angel," he said, drawing up his coat collar tighter against the rain. "So have I." It had taken him until that moment to realize it. He was not a mooncalf like his brother Charles. He cherished no notions about romantic love or experiencing the grande passion. No, only an inkling that at last he had found the woman who was more right for him than any of the others.

  A woman who might also be his deadliest enemy.

  But it didn’t matter if she was. That was the hell of it. Even if Belle was Napoleon's spy, Sinclair was no longer sure he would be able to do his duty and hand her over to the British authorities.

  No, it could not be Belle, he told himself, raking one hand back through his rain-soaked hair. "She cannot be the one. I would stake my life upon it."

  That is exactly what you are doing, a voice inside him jeered. It was the most damnable coil, and he didn't see any way out of it—no way but one, to trust his instincts about Belle and lay all his suspicions to rest. To do that he must find the real spy as soon as possible, a purpose he was not going to accomplish by wandering through Paris and soaking his head in the rain.

  Sinclair reversed his steps. He had no difficulty finding his way back to the apartment, for he had not wandered that far along the Rue St. Honoré. He was within a stone's throw of the fan shop when he saw a familiar figure emerge upon the steps. Etienne Lazare paused long enough to pull his red cap down lower upon his head.

  "Well," Sinclair breathed. "Look what crawled down from the garrets." Some instinct caused him to dodge within the shadows of the entranceway of a nearby shop.

  Thrusting his hands deep in the pocket of his greatcoat, Lazare cast a seemingly casual glance both up and down the Rue St. Honoré. He did not appear to have noticed Sinclair, for he set off to cross the street, expertly avoiding a passing carriage and all the deeper mud holes.

  "Only a raving lunatic would be out in this weather without some good reason," Sinclair told himself, a self-mocking smile curling his lips. It might do no harm to attempt to trail his good friend Lazare, see what the man was up to. After all—Sinclair winced, feeling the rainwater trickle down the back of his neck. He was already soaked to the skin.

  He waited until he judged Lazare to have gotten a safe distance away but still within view before Sinclair left the shelter of his doorway. He put up his umbrella, using it to shield his face, and plunged across the street himself, the mud dragging at his boots and spattering his breeches.

  He had nearly gained the other side when he was all but knocked down by an auvergnot dragging his water butts mounted on heavy wheels.

  "Some drinking water, monsieur?" this bedraggled individual inquired. "Fresh from purified fountains. I could deliver it to your lodgings within the hour."

  More likely fresh from the Seine, according to what Sinclair had heard Belle say about these carriers.

  "No, thank you," he told the man curtly, shoving past him. He glanced anxiously down the street and cursed, fearing he had lost Lazare.

  But he spotted the familiar red cap not more than a dozen yards away. Lazare walked at an easy pace behind several elderly gentlemen huddled beneath the brims of their beaver hats. Lazare appeared in no great hurry, but Sinclair still found following him no easy task in the crowded street. Apparently the Parisians were accustomed to the rain. The inclement weather seemed to have kept few of them from shopping or otherwise going about their appointed business.

  Sinclair kept doggedly after Lazare, only hesitating when the Frenchman turned off the Rue St. Honoré and vanished down one of the side streets. Sinclair remembered Belle's warning about becoming lost and tried to read the street marker on the cornerstone, but the letters were worn too smooth. Looking about him for some sort of landmark, he settled upon the little peasant trader who had ensconced himself on that corner to sell kindling wood.

  The side street down which Sinclair forged was narrow, scarce wide enough to permit two carriages to pass each other. Sinclair remarked with dismay that there were fewer pedestrians here, making his chances of being spotted by Lazare far greater.

  But Lazare appeared to entertain no apprehensions of being followed. Although his pace took on a new urgency, he never once glanced back. He moved forward with the confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going.

  "Which is a great deal more than I do," Sinclair mumbled, picking up his own pace as he trailed Lazare down yet another street, then through a series of alleyways and murky lanes, the buildings about him growing inc
reasingly more dingy, the high walls of plaster cracked and flaking. Picking his way past piles of refuse, Sinclair struggled to avoid the torrents of rainwater pouring down from open gutter spouts.

  He judged he had been skulking after Lazare for more than half an hour when the Frenchman finally slowed his steps on one of the less frequented streets of the city. Many of the houses on the narrow roadway sported broken or boarded-over windows. Only one shop appeared to be in operation, a confectioner's, whose sign creaked on its pole, the letters barely legible. Lazare paused on the doorstep of this establishment.

  "Wouldn't that be a glorious end to your career, Carrington?" Sinclair thought. "Dying of pneumonia from trailing a man with nothing more sinister on his mind than a craving for chocolates."

  Still he watched from the opposite side of the street. Lazare made no move to enter the shop, merely drawing back into the shelter of the doorway as though he were waiting for something. To appear less conspicuous, Sinclair adjusted his umbrella lower over his face and pretended he was making a purchase from one of the street hawkers—an elderly peasant selling kindling wood, Sinclair noted with grim humor. These little men seemed to be found on nearly every street corner in Paris. So much for his landmark.

  The minutes ticked by and Lazare continued to slouch in the doorway. Sinclair began to feel as though he'd come on a fool's errand. He would have to move along in a moment or run the risk of attracting Lazare's attention. And how he would ever find his way back to the Rue St. Honoré, Sinclair did not know.

  But all such concerns were swept aside as Lazare stiffened to attention. A cabriolet drew to a halt in front of the shop, pausing only long enough to deposit a gentleman garbed in black before the vehicle trundled on its way.

  Sinclair abandoned caution as he strained to have a better look at the slender man approaching Lazare. He could not remark the man's face, the stranger's hat was pulled too low, the collar of his cape too high, but something about the fellow struck Sinclair as being elusively familiar.