His Silken Seduction: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 4)

by Joanna Maitland

  "Put the water down by the bed," Marguerite said coolly. "Then help me to lift him. Once we have dressed his hurts, we must not move him again."

  Suzanne watched, helpless and shivering with shock, as her sister and Guillaume lifted Herr Benn on to the bed.

  Marguerite tended the head wound first. She bathed it gently and bound it up with a linen pad. The bandage covered his left eye, though it had taken no hurt. "He will have to manage with one eye for a while," she said lightly. "Head wounds are very difficult to bandage." She smiled over her shoulder at Suzanne.

  Suzanne could not smile back. Nor could she move. She stayed where she was on the floor, praying.

  Marguerite shrugged and instructed Guillaume to help her remove Herr Benn's blood-soaked bandages. Working swiftly and carefully, she cleaned the shoulder wound and applied a new, larger pad to absorb the fresh bleeding. "Now we must make him comfortable and keep him warm," she said, tying the last bandage. She rinsed her hands and rose to her feet. "Suzanne, I shall need that blanket you have there."

  It was only then that Suzanne realised there was a blanket round her shoulders. Who had put it there? And when? Marguerite presumably, when Suzanne had started to shiver.

  "Suzanne. Herr Benn is becoming chilled."

  He was not chilled. He was ashen. Surely he must be dead? Suzanne's eyes filled with tears. "He is dead!" she cried in anguish.

  Marguerite took Suzanne's arm and forced her to her feet. "He is not dead," she said in a rallying voice. "See for yourself." She checked his pulse again and said, "His heart is beating strongly. He will recover soon enough."

  It was too much. Suzanne threw herself on her knees by the bed, seized Herr Benn's hand in hers and kissed the warm, living flesh. Yes, he was alive. Her tears were flowing strongly now, but they were tears of relief. Her love was alive. He would recover. And it would be her task to nurse him back to health.

  She took a deep breath and scrubbed away her tears with the back of her hand. There was work to do.

  "How came he to be out of bed?" Marguerite asked quietly.

  Guilt seized Suzanne. "It was my fault," she admitted, digging out a handkerchief to blow her nose. "I was telling him about that ridiculous scene with the Comte d'Artois. Oh, don't frown at me, Marguerite. I know now that I did wrong. But I never thought I was doing any harm. Herr Benn is a German, after all. What does he care whether France is ruled by a king or an emperor? But he did seem to care. He insisted on knowing if Bonaparte had arrived. He became agitated. I could not keep him in bed. He tried to walk but he was not strong enough for more than a few steps. He fell and hit his head on the corner of that chest. It was all my fault. I…I am sorry."

  Marguerite patted her shoulder. "It was an unfortunate accident. I doubt there was anything you could have done to prevent it. And now you must rest. You have had a severe shock."

  No. She had to stay here, to tend to her invalid. She protested strongly.

  Marguerite was insistent. She forced Suzanne to return to her own room and lie down on her bed. "Guillaume and I will look after Herr Benn. I promise." She smiled as she tucked a blanket tenderly round Suzanne. A moment later, the bedchamber door clicked shut behind her.

  Suzanne gazed up into nothingness. She was shivering again. How could she be so cold at this time of year?

  She tried to bring some order to her thoughts. Eventually she succeeded, after a struggle. She accepted that she was in no fit state to nurse Herr Benn at the moment. She knew Marguerite could be trusted to do whatever was required. For now. But later—tomorrow, perhaps even tonight—Suzanne would return to her invalid's bedside. He needed loving hands to tend to his hurts. They would be Suzanne's hands.

  With her mind now at rest, she snuggled into the warm blankets. She would allow herself to sleep. Just for an hour.

  Chapter Four

  "Weren't you supposed to leave for Paris yesterday?" Ben asked anxiously, the moment Jack appeared in his room.

  "Er…yes, but I was…er…unavoidably delayed."

  There was something smoky going on here. Jack was looking guilty and avoiding Ben's eye. "Delayed?" Ben repeated. "What do you mean? How delayed?"

  Jack coloured. Then the words came out in a rush. "If you must know, I spent most of yesterday tied to a chair in the attic."

  "What?"

  Jack laughed self-consciously. "It's a long story. And I'm ashamed to have to admit that I was outwitted by a woman. By Marguerite, in fact. From something she overheard, she…er…she thought I was leaving in order to betray you to Bonaparte, so she…er…drugged my coffee and locked me up. She was going to keep me there until you were well enough to leave Lyons, I think. You're a lucky man, you know, Ben. She was trying to save your neck."

  Ben's jaw dropped. "But she's a Bonapartist. You said so. Why on earth would she do such a thing?"

  Jack shook his head. "No, I was wrong about the Groliers. Dead wrong. This is a royalist household. Marguerite and I have discovered we're on the same side. And she's going to help us." He was jubilant now. And too loud in Ben's ear.

  Ben groaned. All this was more than his poor head could take in. "I've got the devil of a headache, Jacques. Do we really have to keep speaking French? It would be so much easier on my addled wits if—"

  "You must stick to French," Jack insisted. "Your…er…native tongue might be easier on your cracked pate, but it could be dangerous." He dropped his voice to a low murmur, so soft that Ben could barely make out the words. "It's safest if they keep believing you're German and I'm French. And walls have ears, you know."

  Suzanne was not the enemy. It was wonderful to have it confirmed, though Ben had always felt it must be so. She was an ally, and a friend. But it was clear from Jack's warning that she still did not know Ben was English. And Jack was surely right. It was safest to keep it that way. Safest for Suzanne. He mumbled agreement.

  "What happened to your head? They told me it was an accident. Is that true?"

  "My own stupid clumsiness again. You didn't come to say farewell yesterday as you'd promised, and then Suzanne told me that Bonaparte had arrived in Lyons, so I assumed something must have happened to you. Must say I'm not totally sure what I intended to do once I got out of this room, but…" Ben tried to shrug, but it hurt too much. He gave up the attempt.

  "Thank you for your concern. Still, I am here now. And I will complete the mission alone, as we agreed. But I have yet to find a way."

  Ben's body was not working well, but at least his brain seemed to be functioning again. He laughed softly at the audacity of his idea. "Why not enlist with Bonaparte? You could pass for one of his supporters. You always were a plausible rogue. The army is bound to accompany their precious emperor to Paris, so you would have plenty of chances to gather information. And once you'd reached Paris, you could melt away. It's a good plan, don't you think?"

  "Another one of your hare-brained schemes. Still, it might work if—"

  Before Jack could finish, the door was flung open and Marguerite marched into the room. Hands on hips, she glowered at them. "It is a ridiculous plan. Have you no idea how the army operates? Soldiers who 'melt away', as you call it, are shot for desertion."

  Ben was so shocked he could not say a word. But Jack seemed to take it all in his stride. He rose lazily to his feet and bowed to her. He was actually laughing.

  Embarrassed, Ben gulped and tried to speak.

  Jack silenced him with a raised hand. "It seems I was right to say that walls have ears, Benn," he said, though his eyes were riveted on Marguerite's face.

  "No, sir," she retorted. "Not walls. Doors."

  Jack laughed as if he were enjoying himself. But Marguerite was beginning to look very anxious. She set about trying to persuade Jack that it would be suicide for him to travel alone to Paris. Jack, in typical fashion, airily dismissed all her arguments. "I must do my duty," he finished flatly. When she bristled, he added, "But I will take no unnecessary risks, I promise you."

  She was clearly no
t mollified. "If you are determined to go to Paris, Jacques, I shall go with you," she said.

  "No. You cannot. You—"

  She silenced him with a finger across his lips.

  Ah. So that was how the land lay. Ben was tempted to berate his friend—wasn't it Jack who had sternly warned Ben against falling in love with a bourgeoise? But then he saw how the pair were gazing at each other, and thought better of it.

  "We shall travel together, as silk merchants whose only interest is in selling our wares," Marguerite announced calmly. "We shall be carrying the Duchess of Courland's silk. We merchants make no distinction between royalists and Bonapartists, provided their coin is good. There will be no difficulty, I assure you. I have done this before."

  "Too dangerous," Jack snapped. "Out of the question. I forbid it."

  Ben decided it was time for him to intervene, for Jack seemed to be forgetting that their mission came first. "I think you should listen to her, Jacques," he began in the most reasonable voice he could muster. "Oh, don't turn your temper on me. I'm an invalid. And immune. If Miss Marguerite is prepared to help us, for the cause that we all believe in, we must consider, coolly and rationally, whether her plan is more likely to succeed than yours." He grinned at Jack's impotent fury. "I tell you candidly, my friend, that I think she is right. You should travel to Paris together."

  Suzanne was once again in Herr Benn's bedchamber when her sister came looking for her to have a private word. Marguerite insisted they went downstairs to sit by the fire. Intrigued, Suzanne agreed, though she was loath to leave her invalid.

  "I am leaving tomorrow for Paris," Marguerite explained. "We shall take a trunk of samples and the Duchess of Courland's silk."

  "We…?" Suzanne asked, puzzled. "You travel with Guillaume?"

  "I am travelling with Jacques. I… Oh, Suzanne, he is not a Bonapartist after all. He is a royalist. And a spy for the English."

  Suzanne gasped. Was it possible? But if Marguerite was sure, it must be so.

  "While I am gone, you must take charge of the household. And of Herr Benn…"

  Suzanne smiled and nodded. She was more than happy to do both.

  "…who is also a spy," Marguerite went on evenly. "And an Englishman, besides."

  Suzanne was so shocked she could not say a word. Not a German? English? An English spy?

  "I'm afraid I deceived you," Marguerite said, colouring a little. "I discovered that Herr Benn was English on the journey from Marseilles—when he was delirious, he spoke English, though no one else heard him and he probably doesn't even remember doing it. I told no one, not even you, because I thought it was the best way to protect him. I…I thought Jacques was a Bonapartist who would betray him. I am so glad I was wrong."

  Suzanne let out a long breath and struggled to get her thoughts in order. Yes, it did make a kind of sense. And it meant that taking care of Benn—hiding him—was even more important than she had imagined. She would do it. And take pride in it.

  Marguerite, having finished her confession, had quickly changed to a safer subject, the handling of the weaving business and the many things that Suzanne would have to do. "There are unlikely to be many customers while the times are so uncertain," she finished.

  Suzanne drew herself up. "I have taken charge before. I can do so again."

  "But that was for a few days only," Marguerite objected. "This time I might be gone for…" She broke off, swallowing. Then she gave a little nod. "I am sure you will cope extremely well."

  "Thank you," Suzanne said. She knew that it was true. Loving Herr Benn had changed her, made her more capable, more confident. She smiled at Marguerite.

  "I suggest you move Herr Benn into my chamber once I am gone," Marguerite said. "It is much bigger than that cramped box room and will make it easier for Guillaume to see to his needs. You know that you must stop nursing him, do you not? It is most improper for an unmarried girl to do so, especially without a chaperon."

  "No!" Suzanne protested hotly. "He needs gentle care. I am the only one able to dress his wounds properly while he is so weak." She raised her chin. "I love him, Marguerite, and I am sure he loves me in return. I know I am in no danger from him. He would never harm me. We love each other. And that is all that matters."

  Marguerite—who was usually so ready with arguments on every topic—blushed rosily and, to Suzanne's surprise, began to talk of the practical arrangements for her departure on the morrow.

  Chapter Five

  Ben closed his unbandaged eye and relaxed into the feather pillows to enjoy the sensation of Suzanne's hands on his body. As always, she was precise and careful in removing the dressings from his wounds. With his eyes shut, the touch of her fingers on his naked torso was utterly delightful, as if she had laid one of her sumptuous silken velvets on his chest and swept it slowly across his skin. He floated, half awake, half dreaming.

  "Mmm." The sigh of pleasure escaped before he was aware of it. His body might be weak as water, but every square inch of it trembled at the mere prospect of Suzanne's touch. He sank deeper into the pillows. His bones were melting.

  "Ouch." The dressing had caught. A stab of pain shattered the fragile fantasy that had been cradling him.

  "Oh, forgive me, Herr Benn," Suzanne gasped. Her fingers stilled for a moment, but it was too late. His shoulder wound had begun to bleed again. She caught up a fresh dressing and tried to wipe away the blood, working carefully and gently, as she always did.

  With her sister gone, she was now in sole charge of the weaving house, but she was still finding time to nurse him, just as before. And even though she had learned that he was an English spy, she had never asked to know his real name. She seemed content to keep using his nom de guerre. On reflection, it was probably for the best. If she were to discover that he was actually an English aristocrat, their comfortable understanding might cease. That would hurt unbearably.

  Without thinking, Ben slid his good hand over hers and held it. She started, but she did not try to pull away. He absorbed the heat of her body through his fingers, as if he were basking in her sun. It was perfect. He had wanted to do this for so long.

  Was that a tiny shiver?

  She had frozen in her place. She was refusing to look at him.

  In the blink of an eye, Ben's sun-filled warmth evaporated. His fingers felt as if they had been doused with icy water, as if his flesh were shrinking away from hers, even though neither of them had moved.

  He bit down on a curse. What on earth was he about? He was behaving towards this amazingly courageous girl as if she were some kind of loose woman. She was his nurse and his rescuer. She deserved better than to be turned into an object of his lust.

  He lifted his hand away. "Your pardon, Suzanne," he began in a low voice. "I did not intend to alarm you."

  Her glance flickered to his face and away again. Her cheek was flushed. The delicate rose pink became her much too well, reminding him yet again of why his body's desires were threatening to overcome his sense of honour.

  It must not happen. They had become close by force of circumstances as she dressed and redressed his wounds. No matter what he felt for Suzanne—and he was ashamed to admit it was lust—he must not allow her to feel anything for him.

  She was a gentle, shy and hardworking girl, with little experience of men. She might too easily come to feel more for Ben than she should. And then what would happen? As soon as he was well enough, he would have to abandon her to continue with his mission. It was his duty to do so. He must make sure she was able to forget him. That was his duty, too.

  It was different back home in England. The girls he met there were of his own class. If they chose to flirt, or to swoon over his cursed good looks and the viscount's title he would one day inherit, that was their choice. They knew the rules of the game.

  But Suzanne did not know those rules. She was no aristocrat, merely a French silk-weaver's daughter. The game she played was a game of life and death, for she was a supporter of King Louis in a country t
hat was wildly cheering the return of its beloved Emperor Napoleon from exile. Worse, she was hiding and nursing an English spy. She must not be allowed to develop tender feelings for such a dangerous guest.

  Soon they would part for good, and Ben must leave her with a whole heart. His honour demanded nothing less.

  Suzanne's hand felt as if it were burning. It was the first time Benn had willingly touched her. And it was something as simple as laying his fingers over hers. Was it a lover's caress? Suzanne could not be sure, but she felt as if her whole being was aglow. All at once, her throat was so tight and dry that she wondered if she would ever be able to speak again. The man she loved was caressing her fingers. The glory of it shivered through her.

  And in that same moment he broke the contact with a murmured apology. As if it had been a mistake. No.

  The word screamed in her head, but she was unable to make a sound. She could not move, either. She risked a glance at his face. Before, his expression had been open and even gentle, but now there was a shadow of concern. He was troubled. And something more. He wore a puzzled frown, as if he had been presented with a conundrum he could not solve.

  Was that how he viewed her? As a puzzle?

  He swallowed a sound that could have been a groan. He was in pain. His shoulder was bleeding. Suzanne pushed her doubts to the back of her mind. What mattered now was her role as Benn's nurse.

  Deftly, she eased the rest of the dressing from his shoulder wound. The fresh bleeding had loosened it. She bit her lip as she worked, for it had been her fault. She had been so full of the joy of his touch that she had not paid enough attention to the mundane business of removing his bandages. And so she had hurt him and possibly set back his recovery.

  A little voice whispered that she should be glad, for as soon as he was recovered, he would leave. He was a spy, after all, with a mission to fulfil. In her heart, she knew she was betraying her family's royalist cause by wishing to keep him hidden here and under her own care. For a moment, she felt truly guilty, but then her logical mind began to fight back. There was no real urgency. Benn's French companion had already left for Paris with Marguerite. The intelligence they carried would presumably be sent to England with all speed, via their embassy in the capital.