by Jane Feather
Meg thought about changing her shirt and then decided it was a waste of clean linen. She could start the day fresh tomorrow. She followed Cosimo back into the inn and sat down in front of a steaming plate of various cuts of meat, most of which were unidentifiable. She was still hungry but she ate without relish, almost as if it was a duty, although the food was surprisingly good.
Finally she pushed aside her platter and stood up. “How far do we ride tomorrow?”
“No more than half a day,” he replied, not looking at her as he ladled red currants onto his plate and added a spoonful of creamy cheese. “The horses need to be cosseted. We won’t leave too early and we’ll rest every hour.”
“Good night then,” Meg said. “I won’t see you until the morning. I imagine Madame can find you somewhere to sleep.” She left him.
Cosimo tapped his fingernails on the edge of the table. This was getting him nowhere. And he was damned if he was going to sleep with the horses, which seemed his only alternative to the hayloft.
He uncorked a flagon that his hostess had provided and inhaled the powerful fumes of a potent fruit liqueur. It tasted of pears, he thought, letting it lie on his tongue. And it went down with a sensation that was both fiery and smooth. Not unlike Meg. The reflection brought an ironic half smile to his lips.
He had three of the tiny glasses before deciding that it was time to do what had to be done. If he lost, so be it. He reached up to turn out the lamp, then made his way by the thin ray of moonlight from a small window to the door. The building was dark and silent, but the courtyard was bathed in silver light.
He looked up at the round window of the barn, but there was no lamplight. He went to fetch his portmanteau from the stables where he’d left it with the horses, half filled the pail with water from the rain butt, stripped and roughly washed off the day’s dirt, put on clean linen, took a few things from his portmanteau, and then quietly climbed the ladder to the hayloft.
“Please go away,” Meg said from the straw mattress the very instant his head appeared above the ladder.
“You’ll have to forgive me, my dear, but there’s nowhere else to sleep,” he said calmly. “And I have no intention of bedding down with the horses. The packhorse farts pure sulphur.”
Meg turned on her side, pulling the cover up to her shoulder. “Please go away,” she repeated.
Cosimo ignored the request, instead expertly piling hay into a thick mattress beneath the window. He threw his boat cloak over the makeshift bed, rolled up his discarded clothes into a pillow, and lay down, pulling his riding cloak over him. He fell asleep instantly, his breathing deep and rhythmic, interrupted occasionally by a soft rumbling snore.
Meg had lain beside the privateer for long enough to know when his sleep was genuine, and she knew this was. She had been lying awake, taut as a violin string, waiting for the moment when she would know where he’d decided to sleep.
And now, despite her exhaustion, she could not go to sleep. Listening to him slide into the depths of deepest repose, she wanted to jump on him, pull his hair, his ears, anything to get him to wake up and experience her own miserable sleeplessness, a sleeplessness that he had caused. Instead she lay there, watching the thin ray of moonlight, throwing herself from side to side, until sleep finally overtook her racing thoughts.
She awoke only a few hours later, just as the first faint graying of the light was visible through the window. She still felt tired, but somehow calm. At some point during the miserable night she had accepted the inevitable, as she had known she would eventually.
Cosimo always awoke at dawn. It didn’t matter how late he had gone to bed, and she propped herself on an elbow, watching the pile of hay, waiting for the first stirring.
He awoke gracefully, as he did everything. A small movement of the shoulder, a stretch of his legs, an easy roll onto his back, both arms reaching up in a long stretch that rippled down his body. Then he sat up in one smooth movement and reached his arms languidly sideways and back.
He turned his head towards her. And she knew that he had been aware of her watching him from the first instant of his awakening. But then, he was an assassin. It astonished her that he even allowed himself to sleep. When he was awake, she knew from experience that he did not close his eyes, mental or physical, for an instant.
“You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?” she said. “Without me.”
“Yes, of course,” he replied.
“Of course,” she repeated, the cynicism only barely veiled. “How will you do it?”
Cosimo stood up in one fluid movement. He went to the window and looked out at the gathering light. “I’ll establish a pattern of movement, discover everything I can about the man’s plans, then pick an appropriate moment and strike.”
“Will you use a knife or a pistol?” The questions came so easily now.
“I would prefer a knife, it’s quieter and therefore safer,” he said in the same level tone. “But if I can’t get close enough, then I must use a pistol.”
“Will you be able to get close enough?” Meg leaned forward a little as she asked this question, the sheet falling away from her breasts, clearly visible beneath the fine cambric of her chemise.
Cosimo considered this, then he shook his head. “I doubt it.”
“But then you won’t get away.”
“You don’t need to worry about that, Meg. Your safety won’t be at risk. I’ll make all the arrangements so that if I can’t take you, then you will be able to make the rendezvous with the Mary Rose. They have my orders to take you back to England. They will obey those orders, whether I am there to enforce them or not.” He spoke with calm certitude and Meg knew that he was right.
“I’m not concerned about my safety,” she said flatly.
“Then what are you concerned about?” He sensed the line they were both walking. Meg was feeling her way to something and he had to be very careful not to disturb the path.
Meg stared beyond him towards the sliver of pink sky visible in the window. She spoke softly but the vehemence was not blunted. “I loathe what you have done to me. But I love you. I would not watch your death.”
The declaration winded him. But it was not so much what she said that took his breath away as the unleashing of his own feelings at that one word, a word he had never used . . . never before felt the need to use. Love had no place in his mission. Could not have a place. Such enterprises could not be trammeled by emotion. But Meg had opened a door somewhere inside him that would not now close.
He didn’t move, sensing that any physical approach would cross a most delicate line. “Love is not something that should influence such a decision, Meg,” he said. “If you would partner me in this, you must lose the ability to feel any emotion.”
“As you have done,” she stated with an ironic twist of her lips. “Yes, Cosimo, I understand that. If I am to seduce a man to his death, then I cannot feel anything. You had better tell me how this is to be managed.” Briskly she cast aside the covers and stood up. “You didn’t give me any details of your plans yesterday, but I’m assuming they’re honed to the finest detail.”
“They are,” he agreed. Hating her tone and yet knowing that it was the only one that would carry them through this alive and successful. He’d imposed it, he could only encourage it.
He regarded her in silence for a moment, and she stood still, waiting, her arms crossed almost defensively over her breasts. “You must understand,” he said slowly, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his britches, “that you will not be personally involved at the end. You will see nothing, it will be as if you had no part at all in the business.”
Her lip curled again. “Do you think I have to see the consequences in order to accept my part in them?”
He took his hands from his pockets, holding them palms out in surrender. “Some people might find it so. But I should have realized not you. All right, then let’s get down to the details.”
He tapped the forefinger of one han
d into the palm of his other, his countenance almost expressionless, his eyes on Meg but not really seeing her. She guessed he was looking inward, seeing his plan laid out in his mind’s eye.
“You will set up your household as a rich widow, with a reputation that is a little on the shady side. We’ll maintain the fiction of the widowed Madame Giverny with her French-Scottish heritage, although to make it a little more interesting I think your late husband was a Swiss count with strong French connections. No one will be quite certain where your wealth came from, but there’ll be a little gossip, a hint of scandal, around you. Not enough to make you persona non grata, just enough to attract the attention of the men around Napoleon, which will in the end lead you directly to the man himself.”
“Where will you be?”
“Directing from the sidelines,” he said dryly. “As your majordomo, I shall go into Toulon ahead of you and hire the house, the staff, and of course set the rumors running ahead of your arrival.”
“Where am I to wait while you’re doing that?”
“There’s a small fishing community just outside Toulon. For a couple of days you’ll become Anatole again and stay there, out of the way until it’s time for you to make your grand entrance.” He saw her face and said swiftly, “It will only be two or three days before I come to fetch you.”
“And am I to allow this seduction to come to its logical conclusion?” she asked without expression.
“Absolutely not,” he said with a vehemence that shocked him and sent Meg’s eyebrows into her scalp. He moderated his tone, explaining, “The game is what will draw him in. The longer you hold out, the deeper he’ll sink. In the end he’ll agree to any conditions you lay down, at which point you’ll propose an assignation, a discreet meeting in an out-of-the-way spot to which he must agree to come alone.”
Meg inclined her head in faint acknowledgment. “The honey trap,” she remarked. “The oldest trick in the book.”
“And also, with the right quarry, almost always successful,” Cosimo responded. “Napoleon is very susceptible to women, and he’s inordinately vain and arrogant. It would not occur to him that you might not be attracted to him, to his power; it would not occur to him to suspect a trap, just as he will not think twice about going unescorted to an assignation. He considers himself invincible.”
Meg nodded. “With good reason.”
“Yes,” Cosimo agreed aridly.
“But why are you certain he will find me attractive enough to seduce?”
Cosimo pulled at his chin. He would much rather not answer her, but the time for deception was past. He said, “Because on one occasion he was greatly attracted to Ana, and you resemble her, as I think I’ve mentioned before.”
“And Ana, of course, was to play the part for which all along I’ve been the understudy,” she stated, nodding again. “What a fool I’ve been.”
“Meg, I don’t know how to make this better,” he said helplessly.
“You can’t,” she retorted with more than a touch of scorn. “Of course you can’t. No one could. But I’ve said I’ll do it. I don’t want to discuss it anymore.” She stood up abruptly. “Are we leaving now?”
“It would make sense to ride before the sun’s heat sets in,” he said, his voice once more cool and even. “I’ll settle up with Madame and see to the horses.” He strode back into the inn.
Grimly Meg collected her belongings. Why had she made that declaration? She had flung her heart at him, and he had not responded with so much as the flicker of an eyelid. But then, had she expected him to? Realistically . . . when she’d only realized it herself such a short time ago? No, acknowledged it, she amended. She had known in her heart how she felt for much longer. But it didn’t matter anymore, nothing mattered anymore.
She went outside to where Cosimo stood with the horses. “They look refreshed,” she observed, sliding her valise into one of the packhorse’s panniers.
“They’ll manage a couple of hours,” Cosimo said. “We’ll get down to the coast in easy stages and then rest for the remainder of the day.” He cast her a sharply assessing look. “You don’t look as if you can manage much more than that yourself today.”
“I didn’t sleep well,” she said pointedly, taking the mare’s reins.
“No,” he agreed. “But from now on we need to take better care of you.”
Meg raised her head smartly. “There’s no we.”
His mouth thinned and when he spoke his voice was hard. “Meg, from this moment until this is over, there is only we. We are partners. We work in concert. Your concerns are mine and vice versa. Do you understand that? Because if you don’t, then it stops here.”
She met his gaze with a hardness of her own. She understood what he was saying. Their lives depended on this partnership. Wasn’t that why she’d agreed to join him? She would not abandon him if it meant his death. “Of course I understand.”
“Then let me help you mount.” He gave her a leg up into the saddle and she could feel now that he had withdrawn from her. His manner was cool, his voice level, and Meg welcomed the distance between them. Once she had agreed to this business arrangement there had never been any doubt but that Cosimo was the controller. He would make the plans, she would execute them. As he had said so insistently, there was no room for emotion in the business at hand.
Cosimo mounted his horse and took the reins of the packhorse. He glanced once at Meg, a look so brief she could not have read it if she’d tried. And at this point she wouldn’t have believed what lay behind it anyway. She could not have guessed at the need he felt to hold her, to kiss the worry from her brow, the coldness from her eyes, the strain from her mouth. She could not know how he ached to comfort her and give her strength, how hard it was for him to accept that she would take nothing from him.
However, he had no choice but to respect the barrier she had thrown up between them and keep his distance. All he could do was to make as certain as he possibly could that Meg came through the next two weeks unscathed. That was all the time they had for her to deliver Napoleon to the fatal rendezvous, and he could not afford to miscalculate a single step in the dance. Meg, unlike Ana, was inexperienced and would need close direction. Some of it she would have to improvise on her own but he wanted to be certain to keep her need for independent action to a minimum.
The following day they reached a tiny fishing village. Cosimo led the way to a cottage set a little back from the beach. He dismounted and rapped on the door. The young woman who opened it was strong-faced, her gaze straightforward, her brown hair braided into a long thick plait down her back. She wore a skirt, kilted up peasant-fashion to her calves, and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing shapely, tanned arms whose muscular ripple indicated a familiarity with hard work.
Her face lit up when she saw Cosimo and she flung her arms around him, an excited stream of greeting issuing from her lips. She was a most attractive woman, Meg noted, remaining astride her mare during this meeting. It seemed that Cosimo certainly found her so, judging by the way he was returning the embrace. At last they broke apart and he turned to Meg.
“Meg, this is Lucille. She will look after you until I return.”
“How kind,” Meg murmured, dismounting. She bore the young woman no ill will; whatever relationship she might have had, or indeed still did have, with Cosimo was no concern of hers. She followed them both into the cottage.
Cosimo left soon after. He took Meg’s hands in a firm, warm clasp. “I’ll be back in three days at the most. Don’t leave the cottage, just concentrate on resting, and try to clear your mind of everything but what we have to do. Can you do that?”
“I can only try,” she said, letting her hands lie limply in his, so that he quickly released them.
“Meg, I—”
She interrupted him. “There’s nothing to be said, Cosimo. Just go. I want to get this over and done.”
He turned from her then and swung back onto his horse, taking the leading reins of t
he mare and the packhorse. He rode off without a backward glance and Meg turned back to the cottage.
He returned three days later, driving an elegant barouche drawn by a pair of matched bays.
Meg stared at him in disbelief. He was dressed in a coachman’s livery, sporting a bicorne hat on a steel-gray close-cropped head that made him look every inch the dignified upper servant. He jumped down and caught her look of stifled laughter. A slow grin spread across his face.
“What d’you think, madame? Do I look the part of majordomo?”
Meg tried to maintain her frigid formality but it was no good. She had told herself in the last couple of days that the hollow feeling she had, the sense of emptiness, was nothing to do with missing the man who’d been her constant companion for more than a month, but seeing him now made nonsense of such self-deception. She had missed him more than she would ever have believed possible in the circumstances, and now that familiar grin and the light in the sea-washed blue eyes were too much to resist. “Yes,” she said. “You do.”
“Good. Now we have to transform you, Anatole dear, into a rich, widowed countess.” He leaned into the barouche and lifted out a portmanteau. “A coiffeur will take care of your hair this evening, but you must make a most elegant entrance into Toulon.”
He carried the portmanteau into the cottage. “Where’s Lucille?”
“She went fishing with the men,” Meg said, following him. She liked her hostess, who had asked no questions, cheerfully attended to the chores around the cottage, and provided a completely undemanding companionship when they were together. Meg had found her restful and Cosimo’s name had never come up between them, not because of any awkwardness but rather as if in this short interlude he was irrelevant to them both.
