Rendezvous (9781301288946)

by Susan Carroll

  Sinclair stepped behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. He began to knead the tension from her muscles. "I doubt if those whom you helped save from the guillotine would say that."

  "Perhaps not," she murmured, soothed in spite of herself by Sinclair's touch. "But I so wish the good memories would outlive the bad. At least that would be something to hold on to on a long dark night."

  Sinclair turned her to face him. "You could hold on to me, Angel."

  He made no move to force her, only beckoning her with his eyes. Belle responded to that unspoken call, winding her arms about his neck. How good it felt to be held by him, his fingers stroking her hair.

  Belle sensed that he would have restrained himself to just that, offering her comfort alone. It was she who sought more. Raising her face, she invited his kiss.

  He brushed his lips against her brow, her temples, her cheek. Belle closed her eyes, savoring the warm contact, dreading that he might stop, draw away as he had done earlier today after being interrupted by Paulette.

  "Sinclair," she whispered. "Help me, please. Help me make it through this night."

  Never in her life had she begged, never had she asked such a thing of any man before. But she felt no shame, no wish to call back the plea that had escaped her. She knew that Sinclair would understand.

  He pressed his mouth to hers in a gentle kiss, then swooped her up in his arms to carry her upstairs.

  From the beginning Belle had refused to allow herself to imagine what it would be like to make love with Sinclair. If she dared any thought at all, she supposed that because the physical attraction between them coursed so strong, they would come together in a feverish rush.

  She was bemused when Sinclair's first action upon entering her bedchamber was to tuck her into bed, pulling a coverlet snugly about her shivering form.

  While she watched from the bed, he gathered logs and rekindled the fire upon the hearth until the flames crackled, sending out waves of heat to ward off the chill of the room.

  A smile, part amusement, part gratitude tugged at Belle's lips. What an eminently practical man Sinclair was. When he had the fire going, he went about the room, lighting lamps and candles, until the chamber glowed, the shadows dispelled. It was almost as if he knew-

  The flickering firelight illuminated the strong line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes and the intensity of his eyes. Mesmerized, Belle studied his every movement as he piled on more logs, the way the muscles of his back rippled beneath his linen shirt, the striking contrast the white fabric made against his bronzed skin.

  He spread out a downy coverlet and piled pillows before the hearth before returning to her side to offer her his hand.

  "Milady?" he said, his teasing drawl coming out hoarse.

  Belle slipped her hand in his and followed him as though she walked in a dream. They stood facing each other before the fire. Although he did no more than trace the contours of her cheek with his fingers, Belle felt the beginnings of desire flicker to life inside of her, a desire that seemed to run far deeper than the wants of her flesh. She had a strange feeling that she had been waiting a long time for this moment.

  Sinclair brushed back her hair, allowing the strands to cascade over his fingers as though reveling in the feel of it.

  "Belle," he said, his face more solemn than she ever remembered. "I don't want to take advantage of—" He drew in a deep breath. "What I am trying to say is, you don't have to offer yourself to me to make me stay with you. I could simply hold you in my arms until morning."

  "Could you?" she challenged softly. She ran her fingers slowly up the hard plane of his chest, feeling the thud of his heart beneath the crisp linen of his shirt.

  His lips crooked into a reluctant smile. "No, likely not, but it was a most noble impulse."

  "I don't want you to be noble, Sinclair." She wound her arms about his neck, pressing close to him. "Not tonight."

  He caught her hard against him, his mouth descending over hers. He coaxed her lips apart, invading her with the fiery sweetness of his tongue, swirling in slow tormenting circles. The heat of his body seared her even through her nightgown.

  As of one accord, they sank down to the coverlet. Sinclair tumbled her back against the pillows. Bending over her, he explored her face and the column of her neck with feathery kisses that sent lashings of fire through her veins.

  She began to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one. The material parted, falling away to reveal the crisp dark hairs matting his chest. Belle slipped the shirt down his arms, letting it drop to the floor.

  She ran her hands over his hard muscled flesh and felt a quiver course through him. He undid the ribbons of her nightgown, slipping it off her shoulders until she lay naked beside him.

  Then he stood to remove his breeches, easing the cloth down over the taut line of his hips, past the lean hardness of his thighs. He towered naked above her in the full glory of his manhood, leaving her in no doubt as to the extent of his arousal.

  He paused a moment to stare down at her. "You are beautiful, Belle," he said hoarsely. For once the compliment did not ring hollow in her ears.

  She remained quite still, making no self-conscious effort to cover herself, permitting Sinclair to devour her with his eyes. For perhaps the first time in her life, she experienced a genuine gratitude for the perfections of her form, grateful because of Sinclair's response.

  He sank back down beside her and hungrily pulled her into his arms with a kiss that was long and deep. The fire that blazed upon the hearth behind them seemed as nothing beside the flames Sinclair stirred inside her.

  He sought her lips again and again, the softness of her hips and breast molding to the hard length of him. His fingers whispered over her flesh, exploring her most intimate curves, rousing her wherever he touched.

  Who would have thought, she marveled, that he could be so tender—Sinclair Carrington, that arrogant rogue, that teasing rakehell.

  Jean-Claude had ever been a gentle lover, approaching her like a pilgrim to a holy shrine. Belle had once teasingly accused him of making love to her as if she were the Virgin Mary. He had been deeply shocked by her blasphemy.

  But for all his gentleness, there remained no doubt that Sinclair came to her as a man to a woman. When he lowered his mouth to her breast, teasing the pink crest with the roughness of his tongue, she was pierced with longing so fierce, she nearly wept. How she did need this man's loving, perhaps too much.

  Yet for all his expertise, Sinclair felt more awkward than he ever had in his life. Never had his partner's pleasure meant so much to him. Curbing his own raging desires, he deliberately prolonged the love play until it became the most delicious torment to them both.

  "Now," Belle cried, her nails raking his back. "Please, Sinclair, take me now."

  She opened herself to him, and he could no longer resist the invitation. He eased himself inside her, his own pleasure heightened by the sight of her flushed features, so beautiful.

  He began to move slowly at first. Moaning, Belle rose to meet his thrusts, urging him on to a faster, more frenzied tempo. Fighting against his own climax, he sought to bring her to the peak of her desire. He knew when she had reached it, for she flung back her head, emitting a soft cry of ecstasy.

  Only then did he give way to his own passion, which had mounted to the point of pain. The release was shattering and sweet. He collapsed, spilling his seed deep within her.

  For long moments after, he held her, burying his face against the softness of her throat, her heart thundering in rhythm with his own.

  Have no regrets, Belle, he prayed silently, for I have none. He knew not how long they lay there, lost in each other's embrace. When he felt Belle stir, he raised his head to seek out her reaction now that all passion was spent.

  She smiled tremulously and stroked his hair back across his brow behind his ear. "Thank you,” she whispered.

  Her simple expression of gratitude tugged at his heart. He cupped her hand in his and p
ressed a kiss against the upturned palm.

  "For what?” He chuckled. “I was not exactly a disinterested party. I had a few selfish desires of my own, you know."

  She shared his laughter, but sobered immediately. "I fear it is I who has been the selfish one. I want you to know that I have not just been using you because I felt lonely and afraid. Tonight has meant more to me than you could ever know. I only wish—" She paused ruefully. "I only wish I could say more to you than that."

  "Hush, Angel." He silenced her with a quick kiss. "I don't expect you to pledge your undying devotion simply because I made love to you."

  "The only man I have ever made such promises to was—"

  "Yes, I know," he said when she was not able to finish. A dull ache throbbed near the region of his heart, but he managed to shrug it off. He cradled her closer. "You keep your memories of Jean-Claude. I don't mind, for it's my arms you are in right now."

  Crooking his fingers beneath her chin, he tipped up her face. "We are practical people, you and I, Belle. Neither of us believe in forever, but we both know what has happened between us tonight is very rare indeed. Let's not spoil it by trying to offer apologies and explanations."

  She gazed back at him, her eyes wide and searching. Then she nodded slowly, moving closer to accept his kiss. Locked once more in each other's embrace, it did not take long for the passion to build again.

  This time Sinclair scooped Belle up and carried her back to the bed. As he began to caress her, she stopped him, gently forcing him onto his back.

  "No, Mr. Carrington," she murmured, smiling down at him, "This time it's my turn to drive you to the brink of madness.”

  Propped up against the pillows, they watched the dawn break over the windowsill, the rosy-gold light creeping across the carpet to where they nestled beneath the coverlets. Cradled against the lee of Sinclair's shoulder, his strong arms locked about her, Belle sighed deeply. Never had she expected to view the arrival of morning as an intrusion.

  With the cold light of day, now will come the regrets, she thought, the confusion, the embarrassment. She waited but she felt none of those dreaded emotions, nothing but this wondrous sensation of contentment. Day or night, to be lying here in Sinclair's arms seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  She felt the warmth of his breath against her curls, so even and deep, she wondered if he had fallen asleep. Before she could raise her head to glance up at him, he stirred, depositing a kiss upon the top of her head.

  "I should be stealing back to my own room," he said. But he only held her tighter, making no move to do so.

  "Why?" she murmured teasingly. "Are you yet trying to protect my reputation?"

  "No, simply to let you get some sleep. You look exhausted. You did not get any rest at all last night."

  She laughed. "But for once it was because of the right reason."

  She felt his smile as he buried his face against her hair. Shifting slightly, she met his questing lips with a kiss that was chaste, but rife with warm memories of all they had shared the night before.

  Drawing back, she caressed the stubble of beard that roughened his cheek and the stubborn line of his jaw. She liked the stark contrast he made to the silken femininity of her bed, his dark hair tumbled against the pillow, the hard musculature of his frame, the swarthy cast of his skin. But she also noted the deep hollows beneath his eyes.

  "I suppose I should let you go," she said reluctantly, "and catch what sleep you still can. We have a busy day ahead of us."

  "Do we?" His eyes fixed tenderly upon her face. "Strange, but as tired as I am, I feel as though I could abduct a dozen Bonapartes."

  "One will do," she said. But she knew what he meant. She too had the curiously elated feeling she could accomplish anything, overcome any obstacle. "I never told you all that happened at the reception when I was alone with Bonaparte."

  Easing herself out of his arms, she plumped up her pillow and lay down upon it. Settled more snugly beneath the covers, she gave a tiny yawn and began to relate the conversation she had had with the first consul.

  But Sinclair barely heard a word she said. Propping himself up on one elbow, he played with one of the strands of her hair, twining it about his finger. How soft Belle was in the morning, like a lovely pastel, all hazy rose, cream, and gold. He studied the tranquility that had settled over her features.

  For one night she had not cried out in her sleep for Jean-Claude Varens. At least he had gifted her with that much, Sinclair thought with great satisfaction, a night of pleasure, a night of comfort. That had been all that he had set out to do. Why, then, did he feel he wanted to give her so much more, speak tender words she would not want to hear, words that would cause her to shrink from him?

  With great difficulty he thrust such foolish thoughts aside and attempted to focus on what she was saying.

  “And so I agreed to have supper with him, an intimate supper. The abduction promises to be much easier than I thought, and yet-" She frowned.

  Sinclair traced the furrows pinching her brow, attempting to smooth them away. "And yet?" he prompted.

  "I never expected to somewhat admire Bonaparte, to almost like him,” she admitted sheepishly. “What did you think of him?"

  "I suppose he can exercise a certain sort of fascination," Sinclair conceded. To him, as a loyal Englishman, Bonaparte would ever be simply his country's enemy. But if Belle was beginning to have second thoughts about the abduction, Sinclair was ready to encourage her, fearing as he did that the plot might be betrayed by the traitor in Merchant's organization.

  "Are you saying that you might not be disappointed if for some reason the abduction had to be called off?" he asked.

  "I don't know. Yes, I think that I would. After all, Merchant has offered us a considerable reward.-

  "Is the money that important to you, Angel?" Sinclair stroked the hair back gently from her brow. "What would you do with such a sum?"

  "Invest it wisely." She suppressed another yawn, burrowing deeper into her pillow. "I told you I don't intend to be a spy forever. Someday I mean to leave my past behind me and buy a cottage in some quiet little village."

  When Sinclair smiled, she peered up at him beneath eyelids becoming increasingly heavier with the need for sleep.

  "Why are you smirking at me like that?" she demanded.

  "Because I can't imagine you sitting about stitching samplers and having the vicar and local tabbies in for tea."

  "You don't think I could act the role of a respectable lady?"

  "Oh, I think you could act the part all right, but whether you would be happy doing so is another matter," Sinclair did not believe that Belle would be content in her little village. Any more than if she had managed to remain married to the dull, but virtuous lean-Claude. But Sinclair knew he would only anger her by raising such speculations.

  "Such a tame life would not suit me," was all he said.

  "Then you must spend your share of the money some other way." Despite her efforts to stay awake, her lashes drifted downward. "Though you may be right about one aspect of it," she mumbled. "The pretense, hiding my past, would grow tiresome after a while."

  She forced her eyes open long enough to give him a drowsy smile. "You know that is the one thing I truly adore about you, Sinclair."

  "What's that, Angel?" he asked.

  "That there is never any pretense between us. No deception. Yours is probably the first honest relationship I have ever had."

  Sinclair's answering smile froze. He was glad when she closed her eyes again so that she would not see how she had disconcerted him.

  That is your cue, Carrington, a voice inside him nagged. Time to tell her the truth about who you are, what you are really doing in Paris. But how could he, after what she had just said, especially after what had taken place between them? He could just hear himself trying to explain. "I work for the British army, Belle. I was sent here to spy upon you and your companions, to discover which of you is a traitor."

 
Might she not misconstrue the compassion that had led him to encourage her to talk out her sorrows last night, even misunderstand his motives for making love to her?

  And yet, he had to tell her the truth, let her know what danger she risked by going ahead with a plot that might at any moment be betrayed. How would she react? Would she help him uncover the counterspy?

  Sinclair studied Belle's serene profile, the golden lashes fanning her cheeks. He had learned enough of Belle to know that her loyalties were to people above nations. If Lazare were the one, Sinclair did not doubt that she would aid him gladly. But Englishwoman or no, if the traitor should prove to be Baptiste or even if Jean-Claude were somehow involved, then Sinclair did not know how far he could trust to Belle's support.

  He ground his fingers against his weary eyes. Everything had seemed simplified when he had discovered Belle could not be the counterspy. But he now saw clearly that matters were more complicated than ever. He still could not risk telling Belle the truth.

  In any case, the present opportunity for confession had passed. While he had debated the matter, Belle had fallen soundly asleep. Slipping quietly from the bed, he donned his breeches. By the time he retrieved his shirt, he had reached a decision. He would not tell her, not until he had proof certain the traitor was Lazare. In the meantime, he must keep a vigilant watch over Belle and make sure she remained safe.

  He tiptoed over to the bed and adjusted the coverlets more snugly about her. But as he bent to kiss her smooth untroubled brow, he could not rid himself of the nagging sensation that by keeping silent he was making a grave mistake.

  A mistake he might heartily come to regret one day.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When Belle awoke hours later, she bore vague memories of Sinclair tucking her in, the feel of his warm lips grazing her forehead. The recollection was marred by the impression of a tension in the hands that had so tenderly pulled the coverlet up to her chin, a glimpse of an anxious frown.