by Jane Feather
In Paris Gabrielle must be kept well away from himself and Jake. He was certain that she would do nothing deliberately to put Jake in jeopardy, wherever her patriotic loyalties lay, but she was dangerous. Fouché’s men could well be watching her. She could let something slip—even the most skillful spies made errors sometimes.
The boat tacked across the mouth of the cove, and he glanced toward the fisherman at the helm. Dan’s face was set, beetling brows drawn together as he stared fixedly at the line of green ripples, looking for the break that would grant them safe entrance through the reef.
He swung the helm, glancing up at the sail, gently pulling on the mainsheet to catch the wind at just the right moment. The craft bucked as the wind filled the sail and danced over the line.
Nathaniel held his breath, waiting as always for the sickening crunch as the keel scraped over the wicked, jagged teeth of rock. But there was nothing. The boat flew gracefully across the one flat patch of water and into the calm safety of the cove.
“All’s well, sir,” Dan called out, his face breaking into a smile as the tension left him, and his crew laughed and cracked a ribald joke. Dan produced a bottle of brandy, offering it to Nathaniel with unaffected camaraderie.
Nathaniel took a swig and handed back the bottle, offering a jest of his own, flexing his shoulders. They were through once again. One could never be certain, and each time there was the same surge of relief. And this crossing even more so. He had his son—a hostage to fortune—this time.
Gabrielle came up on deck and stood, feet braced on the gently moving deck, the wind whipping back her dark red hair, her face lifted to the sun. In the midday sunlight the lines of fatigue were etched clearly on the white face, but the charcoal eyes were as vibrant as ever and that little crooked smile curved the wide generous mouth. The warm wanting that he was so accustomed to feeling whenever he was with her seeped through his own fatigue.
God damn the woman! Why? Of all the women in the world, why did Gabrielle de Beaucaire have to be treacherous?
16
“I don’t want this. It’s all crust.” Jake pushed a piece of bread to the farthest extremity of his plate, his lower lip trembling.
“It’ll give you strong teeth,” Gabrielle said with determined cheerfulness. “Shall I put some more apricot jam on it?”
“I don’t want it!” The child flung out a wild hand to ward her off. “I hate crusts.”
“It’s French bread, Jake,” Gabrielle said, still patient. “French bread has a lot of crust.”
“I don’t like French bread!” Jake picked up the despised bread and hurled it to the floor, tears spilling from his eyes. “I want an egg. I always have an egg for tea … with soldiers.”
“Soldiers?” Nathaniel exclaimed, pushing himself away from the door where he’d been leaning in ever-visible irritation.
“Strips of bread and butter,” Gabrielle told him. “To dip in the egg. Surely you had soldiers with boiled eggs as a boy.”
“I’m very sure I didn’t,” Nathaniel declared with disgusted vigor. “I’ve never heard such whimsy!” He came over to the table and hacked another chunk off the baguette. “I’ve had enough of this, Jake.” He plonked the chunk on the child’s plate. “Now eat that, at once.”
Jake sniffed, but seemed to sense that he’d pushed to the limits of his caretakers’ indulgence. “I want some jam.”
“Please,” his father demanded.
Jake snuffled again and produced the required courtesy in a barely audible whisper.
Gabrielle spread jam lavishly on the bread and glanced at Nathaniel’s grim features. She jerked her head toward the window at the back of the room, and he nodded and accompanied her away from the table and its disconsolate occupant.
“He’s dead tired, Nathaniel,” Gabrielle said quietly. “He can’t help being like this. Can’t we stay overnight here? We could leave at dawn.”
Nathaniel scowled, staring through the window down at the inn’s stableyard. Since landing at noon, they’d bought an ill-sprung gig and undernourished nag from a local farmer who’d been only too happy to exchange these pathetic commodities for an excessive sum of silver. Any questions he might have asked were stillborn when Gabrielle flashed her laissez passer with aristocratic hauteur. The gig had carried them uncomfortably for twenty miles with Jake whimpering in Gabrieile’s lap and Nathaniel cursing the scrawny nag along the mud-ridged lanes.
Early evening had brought them into the village of Quineville and Le Lion d’Or, where Nathaniel intended they should dine and exchange the gig for a postchaise that would double the speed of their journey to Paris.
He turned from the window and directed his scowling gaze at the child drooping over his plate at the table. “He can sleep in the chaise, surely.”
“He needs a proper bed for a few hours,” Gabrielle said, softly insistent. “He’s still dreadfully weak after the crossing.”
“The longer we hang around on the roads, the greater the danger,” Nathaniel slammed one fist in the palm of his other hand and turned back to the window.
“I don’t want this milk,” Jake wailed. “It tastes horrid.”
“For Christ’s sake!” his father muttered.
“It’s French milk, love,” Gabrielle said, going over to the child, struggling to smile through her own weariness. “It will taste different. The cows eat different grass.”
“I hate French milk!” Jake burst into noisy sobs. “I want to go home. I want Nurse an’ Primmy.”
Gabrielle scooped him off the stool and held him, casting Nathaniel a speaking glance over the curly head.
Nathaniel ran his hands through his hair, disturbing the neat swatches of silver at his temples. “Very well. But we leave at dawn. I’ll go and bespeak a bedchamber for you and Jake.”
“No, you’d better let me do that. Since I’m here, you might as well spare yourself and take advantage of my native fluency.” Her eyebrows rose in a semblance of her old mocking challenge.
Nathaniel failed to respond to this attempt at raillery. “Go and do it, then.” He took Jake from her and waved her brusquely to the door.
Gabrielle shrugged and returned to somber reality. “See if you can persuade him to drink some milk. He needs something to line his stomach.” The door closed behind her.
“Don’t want any milk,” Jake whimpered. “It’s horrid milk.”
“It’s perfectly good milk, and you’re going to have to get used to it, my friend.” His father sat him down at the table and handed him the cup. “I want you to drink half of it.”
The child ignored the cup, and his mouth took a stubborn turn that Nathaniel had never seen before. He’d never met with any resistance from his son, only passive compliance, and he’d assumed that was the child’s nature. Now he wasn’t so sure. There was something about the boy’s expression that was uncomfortably reminiscent of himself on occasion.
He held Jake’s gaze steadily, exerting his will in silence. If he couldn’t win a battle of wills with an exhausted six-year-old, then the world was going to hell in a handcart. To his relief, Jake finally took the cup, and, his nose wrinkled, carried it to his lips. Between chokes and disgusted sips the level in the cup went down to half.
“That’s all arranged.” Gabrielle spoke as she entered the parlor, clear relief in her voice at the prospect of a few hours of civilized rest and refreshment. “Madame has given me a bedchamber across the passage. There’s a truckle bed for Jake, so I’ll put him to bed now. Then she’s going to bring me dinner.” She rubbed her hands with glee. “Saddle of hare with junipers, and a sea bream in parsley sauce. Oh, and a bottle of St. Estéphe.”
“You certainly seem to have seen to your own comforts,” Nathaniel observed with asperity.
This unmerited grumpiness merely kindled Gabrieile’s somewhat perverse sense of mischief. She’d invented a perfectly reasonable explanation for the innkeeper of why mistress and servant would be dining together in the parlor, but now she looked at hi
m in wide-eyed innocence.
“I assumed you would eat with the servants. They’re having tête de veau, I believe … or was it pig’s cheek? And Madame said there’s a spare pallet in the loft for you. I’m sure they don’t have bedbugs; the inn seems very clean and well managed.”
“You relieve me,” Nathaniel said. “Your consideration is overwhelming.”
Gabrielle hid her grin. “Oh, and also I sold the gig and nag for three livres and ten sous and hired a postchaise for the morning. There are plenty of changing posts between here and Paris, so we should make good time tomorrow.”
“Such efficiency, countess. I’m in your debt.” Nathaniel strode to the door.
“I’m only trying to help,” Gabrielle declared, her eyes now flashing with irritation. If Nathaniel wasn’t prepared to be joked out of his irritability, then she was fatigued enough to indulge her own.
“Why are you angry? I don’t like it when you’re angry.” This extraordinary statement from Jake silenced them both.
They looked at the child, who was regarding them both with lackluster eyes.
“We’re not angry, love,” Gabrielle said cheerfully. “Papa’s just jealous of my saddle of hare.” She smiled at Nathaniel, inviting him to join in with a response that would reassure the child.
But Nathaniel was not to be soothed. “And you have a most misplaced sense of humor, ma’am.” He banged out of the parlor, leaving Gabrielle to deal with Jake.
She stared crossly at the closed door and then shrugged. The strain was telling on both of them; it was probably better if they did keep out of each other’s way for a while. She turned her attention to Jake and his need for a wash and bed.
Nathaniel’s irritation made his role of reclusive servant even more convincing. When their polite inquiries received only monosyllabic responses, the inn servants left him alone to his dinner. Judging from the empty tray brought down from Gabrielle’s chamber, she had thoroughly relished her own repast, he noticed. Not that his own tastes were so overly refined that he couldn’t enjoy the hearty peasant fare in the kitchen. He’d eaten a lot worse in his time, and the rough red wine was tolerable.
The pallet in the dormitory loft, however, was a different matter. Nathaniel had not the slightest intention of spending the night suffocated by the garlic snores of unwashed peasants. Clean straw in the hayloft was infinitely preferable.
Gabrielle, from the parlor window, saw him cross the yard from the kitchen door, the swinging agility of his stride unmistakable in the golden glow. Then the door closed and the yard was in moonlight. At the stable he paused, a lantern dangling from his hand. He looked up at the inn toward Gabrieile’s window, where she stood in the shadow. Then he went into the stable. The door closed and as she watched, a soft light appeared in the small round window of the hayloft.
She had little difficulty understanding his refusal to share the servants’ sleeping quarters. Had he been expecting her to be watching … hoping she was, even? It didn’t take much imagination to interpret that backward look as an invitation. It had been days and days since they’d lost themselves in the glorious maze of passion.
She turned back to the room, nibbling her fingernail as a current of excitement ran through her, chasing away the fatigue of the long and arduous journey. She could go to him when the inn went to bed. Who would ever know? Jake was so deeply asleep, it would take the last trump to wake him.
She filled the bowl with water from the ewer, stripped off her clothes, and sponged herself from head to toe, shivering in the chill but relishing the sensation of washing away the salt and sweat and wretchedness of the previous night’s miserable crossing and the day’s jolting carriage ride along muddy lanes.
She’d have liked to wash her hair, but that was impractical with present facilities, so she made do with brushing it until some of the burnished luster had returned, then slipped into a nightgown, thrust her feet into a pair of velvet slippers, and threw a hooded cloak over her shoulders, drawing the hood over her hair.
The inn was dark and silent as she left the bedchamber, quietly turning the key on the sleeping child and dropping the key into her pocket. She’d opened the window a crack, and if Jake awoke and cried out for her, the sound would carry across the yard to the hayloft, where Nathaniel would, as always, have his own window open.
A lamp burned dimly on the stairs, and the steep oak steps creaked as she flew down them. Was Nathaniel waiting for her? Her own excitement was such that it was impossible to believe her lover wasn’t sharing it a few feet away, across the stableyard.
Nathaniel, however, was sleeping the sleep of the just amid the sweet-smelling hay. Not for one minute had it crossed his mind to expect a visitor hell-bent on indulging an addiction. He was tired himself after the rigors and alarms and excursions of the past twenty-four hours and, since the opportunity for a night’s sleep had been forced upon him, he had every intention of taking full advantage of it.
Lust was the last thing on his mind and far from his dreams as he slept lightly under the shaft of moonlight shining through the small round window.
But he heard the faint sounds from the stable below. They were not the ordinary shufflings and shiftings and whickerings of a dozen beasts. He didn’t take the time to decide how he knew they were not. Without conscious decision he was out of his straw nest and crouching by the top of the ladder that rose from the stables through a hole in the floor. He had a knife in his hand. Not the pocket knife he’d used to cut veal and ham pie, but a wicked stiletto with a blade so thin and sharp, it would slide between a man’s ribs and pierce the heart in one smooth insertion.
A dead body would be hard to explain, so fortunately for Gabrielle he was prepared to look before he acted. The hooded head of a cloaked figure emerged at the top of the ladder.
Nathaniel recognized the set of the head a second before the unmistakable scent of her assailed his nostrils. He held his breath on a wild surge of fury that for a moment knew no bounds as he thought of where they were—in the heart of Normandy with his life, his son’s life, and the lives of seven agents in France dependent on his safety or, failing that, his ability to keep his tongue still in the ultimate extremity.
What the hell did she think she was doing? She was a spy. She lived on the edge of danger. She knew about unnecessary risks. But he also knew that she took them. He’d told Simon that she was undisciplined and that if she’d proved genuine, then he’d keep his own rein on her.
If she’d been one of his own agents, he knew exactly what he would would have done. And since she was playing the part, then he’d play his. The rage was replaced with a cold clarity of purpose, more ruthless and infinitely more dangerous than the hot flood of anger.
Gabrielle eased herself into the loft on her knees and looked around. And then a hand was clamped over her mouth with suffocating pressure and she was wrestled to the floor, the hand still across her mouth, her face buried in tickling straw. She struggled violently, twisting her body, trying to get leverage with one hip to throw him off, but he threw a leg across her thighs. Her feet drummed on the floor. It didn’t seem to matter that she knew it was Nathaniel, that she believed he wouldn’t hurt her. She continued to fight in a red mist of atavistic panic at the petrifying knowledge of her own weakness against the strength of this opponent.
She tried to cry out, to tell Nathaniel it was only her … Gabrielle … only Gabrielle. How could he not recognize her?
She felt him grab a handful of her hair at the back of her head, and her face was pulled roughly upward. She opened her mouth on a sobbing breath, and something was thrust between her teeth, a wad of material that filled her mouth and choked off all sound. Then her head fell forward onto the straw again. His knee on her backside held her pressed to the floor as her hands were jerked behind her, her wrists bound with swift efficiency.
It was all over in a matter of seconds, and she lay bound and gagged on the floor of the hayloft, stunned at the ease with which he’d handled her body,
as easily in this assault as he handled her in love.
As instinctive terror receded, she was conscious only of amazement at the strength in Nathaniel’s slender frame, the deft competency of his movements, the ruthlessness of it all. Because he did know who she was. He had to have known from the minute he laid hands on her.
And Gabrielle knew what was happening. He believed she’d forgotten the deadly serious nature of their shared enterprise, and the spymaster was punishing an errant recruit in a way that couldn’t fail to impress upon her the seriousness of her offense. She lay still and compliant, waiting for it to be over.
She had made an unforgivable error. She’d forgotten for a moment in the uprush of desire the true nature of their business there. She’d unforgivably slipped out of role. She’d forgotten Guillaume and Talleyrand and Fouché and thought of herself only as a private citizen with an eager lover.
Nathaniel removed his knee and stood up. “How dare you!” he said with soft ferocity. “How dare you risk the safety of my son … your own safety … mine … that of my own people?”
Gabrielle, helpless on the floor, winced beneath the ferocious tongue-lashing. She had no defense and resigned herself to justice.
Nathaniel flayed her until he had nothing left to say and then he fell silent, staring down at the prone figure.
“Stand up!” he commanded harshly.
And just how was she supposed to do that with her hands tied uselessly behind her back and her nose pressed into the prickly straw? But compliance struck Gabrielle as the only possible course of action. She rolled onto her side, bent her underneath leg, and levered herself to a half-sitting position with her elbow and knee.
Her eyes spoke rueful appeal as she looked up at him. His expression was less than encouraging, his mouth thinned, the brown eyes hard stones.
“Get up,” he demanded as harshly as before, and he stood with his hands on his hips, unmoving as she scrambled to her feet with as much grace and dignity as she could muster.
