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

by Joanna Maitland

  What purpose would it serve for Benn to rise from his sickbed to follow them? Nothing of note had happened since they left. Bonaparte was still here in Lyons, basking in the adulation of the crowds, and issuing imperial proclamations, right and left. No doubt he would leave for Paris soon, but Marguerite and Jacques were days ahead of him. They would be safe.

  Suzanne eased Benn up from the pillows to pass the bandage behind his back. The tips of her fingers slid across smooth skin and leashed muscle. Even with his head half-swathed in bandages, Benn was beautiful to look at, with his thick blond hair and his finely sculpted features, but his body was all male—lithe, powerful and hard.

  She shivered again.

  "Tickling an invalid is unfair, you know." He was grinning up at her. The fine skin at the corner of his unbandaged eye was crinkled with good humour. Was he deliberately teasing her? Could he feel her tension?

  She attempted to respond in kind. "An invalid must be kept in his place, sir. Which is under the thumb of his nurse."

  Oh dear. Had she gone too far? She quickly secured the bandage round his torso. The bleeding had stopped, thank goodness. "And now for your head," she said, briskly efficient. She unwound the bandage with care, but she need not have worried. His head was mending much more quickly than his shoulder. His head wound had bled a great deal, but the cut was not deep.

  "I imagine it should be possible to leave off this bandage now," she said. "Your scalp will heal more quickly if it is open to the air."

  "I should certainly prefer to have the use of both my eyes. With two eyes, I am better able to appreciate the view." He grinned at his own wit.

  Quite incorrigible. Suzanne ignored his grin and concentrated on his wound. "It was your own fault for trying to leave your bed." She was trying, not very successfully, to sound stern. "And head wounds are extremely difficult to bandage. If we hadn't taken it across your eye, it would have slipped off. All that hair of yours gets in the way, you know. Perhaps I should shave it off?"

  "Spare me, lady."

  Their normal, comfortable rapport was back. It was a huge relief. Suzanne smiled primly down at him. "Your trouble, Benn, is that you set far too much store by your looks. It would teach you a well-earned lesson if I did shave your head. Some of it will have to be cut," she added, more seriously. "I dare not wash out the matted blood, for your wound must be kept dry."

  "You will do only what is necessary, I know. Teasing aside, Suzanne, I do trust you. Without your care, I could well be dead." He raised his good hand as if to touch her again. It hung suspended for a moment. Then he let it fall back on to his chest. He smiled, but it looked forced. "Do as you will with me, ma'am. I am far too feeble to resist you."

  With an effort, Suzanne shook her head at him. They would be together for some weeks more, while he recovered. And resistance was a quality she had still to learn.

  Chapter Six

  The days and weeks of caring for Benn were taking their toll on Suzanne. Every visit to his chamber was more difficult that the last. Today, she had managed to retain her composure until she reached her own bedchamber, but it was a close-run thing. She locked her door and almost collapsed against it.

  What on earth was happening to her? Oh, she loved Herr Benn. She had known that from the first time she set eyes on him. But did love have to bring such weakness of mind and body?

  She had simply taken him coffee. It was part of their early morning ritual, but it had never been anything other than very proper. This morning, her fingers had brushed against his when she retrieved his cup. It had not been intentional on her side. And on his? He had deliberately held her hand once before, but she knew he regretted it, for the gesture had never been repeated. She had been so naïve at first, so sure that he returned her love. However, all these weeks of nursing him had proved her wrong. He was polite, friendly and extremely grateful to her, but he had done nothing more to suggest that he might one day come to love her.

  One day? What was she thinking of? Thanks to her care, he would soon be healed. Soon—much too soon—he would be gone, travelling alone through enemy France, ready to risk his life for his country and his cause. It was her cause, too, but she was increasingly torn between her devotion to King Louis and her longing to keep Benn by her side. If she had to choose, where would her loyalties lie?

  Suzanne clutched her hands together and began to walk back and forth across the threadbare rug, forcing her wobbly limbs to move. She was not a weakling. She was a grown woman. She was capable of taking charge of her family's entire weaving business. So why could she not take charge of her own emotions, her own heart?

  Because it is given. It is no longer yours to control.

  She gulped, shook her head against that traitorous thought, and dug her fingernails into her palms, in hopes that pain might force her back to reality.

  It did not. The pain was real enough, but the siren voice in the back of her mind refused to be silenced.

  You have very little time left to discover the truth of what he feels for you. Once he leaves Lyons, leaves you, he will not return, unless you prove to him that he has no choice. Now is not the time for missish airs and ladylike flirtations. You can no longer claim the title of "lady", in any case. If you want him to love you, as you love him, you have only days to make it so.

  Suzanne could have sworn that her inner voice laughed. It was a low, sensuous sound. And it was followed by soft, seductive words, stealing into her mind and settling like a contented cat.

  If you would win all, Suzanne, you must dare to risk all.

  She stopped dead and clapped her hands to her ears, trying to shut out the sound. It was useless. The words, the thought, the subtle laughter, all were imprisoned inside her and echoing around the walls of her mind. Such a thought, once confronted, could not be banished, no matter how wicked it might be. Was she really, truly, thinking of giving herself to a man she barely knew? Was she ready to forfeit her honour, solely in order to tempt an English spy to love her?

  She sank down on to her bed and covered her eyes. She was mad. She must be. It was wrong, wicked, foolish. She sighed deeply. It was all of those things, and yet she still wanted him. For she loved him, beyond reason, even if he could not love her in return.

  Heaven help her. She was lost.

  Ben frowned, considering. This morning, something was very wrong with Suzanne. She was far from her usual positive self. What could be worrying her? There was a multitude of possibilities. It might be the weaving business, which she had been left to run all on her own since her sister's departure; it might be the antics of the so-called Emperor Napoleon on his triumphal progress towards Paris; or it might be something else altogether. What worried Ben was the fact that Suzanne was refusing to share her concerns with him. When she returned, he would ask her outright.

  Ben shifted on his pillows and winced when pain lanced through his shoulder. His confounded wound was taking far too long to heal. He should have been back on his feet by now and on his way home to England.

  That thought gave him pause. There had been no news from Jack and Marguerite. Bonaparte himself must surely be in Paris by now. That could mean real danger for Jack. Oh, if only this cursed wound would heal. If only—

  The door opened. Ben looked up eagerly, smiling automatically at the prospect of seeing Suzanne again, even though it was less than half an hour since she had left him. Her presence had come to mean more to him that he dared to admit, even to himself.

  But this time it was not Suzanne. It was Guillaume, the old manservant. He was carrying a jug of steaming water and, as usual, his face was inscrutable.

  He began to lay out Ben's shaving tackle. "Shall I do it for you, sir?"

  Ben shook his head. "Thank you, Guillaume, but as I am left-handed, I am able to manage it pretty well myself now. Perhaps you would hold the mirror?"

  Guillaume nodded.

  Ben began to lather his face. He found he was perversely glad that Suzanne was not here, offering such intimate
services. No doubt the household assumed the worst about their mistress spending time alone with Ben. There was always gossip, even in a tiny household such as this one.

  Ben was doing Suzanne an injustice, he decided firmly. She might be only a bourgeoise but she would not allow her servants to comment on her conduct. Only her mother had the right to do that, but Madame Grolier seemed to live in a fantasy world of her own making. She probably did not even know Ben was in the house.

  "A little higher," Ben said, picking up his razor.

  The servant would not volunteer any information, but now that he was captive, holding the mirror, he might be pressed a little about Suzanne's troubles.

  Ben completed a few strokes and made a great play of cleaning the soap from his razor, leaving himself free to speak. "Have you any more news of Bonaparte?" That was a relatively safe question in this royalist household.

  "Not yet, sir. He left Lyons the day after you moved in here. There have been rumours aplenty, but we've heard nothing definite."

  Ben muttered something incomprehensible and continued to ply the sharp blade. Suzanne had made him extremely comfortable here in Marguerite's bedchamber and had ensured he wanted for nothing. Except, obviously, to hold her in his arms, which was becoming almost an obsession with every minute he spent in her company.

  "I'd say Bonaparte must have reached Paris by now." Guillaume paused and grimaced. "Unless he met with some opposition on the way which, I have to tell you, sir, I very much doubt. A turncoat army. Every last man of them."

  Ben wiped the razor once more. "Miss Suzanne must be worrying about her sister. Having no news is bound to be unsettling. But pray assure Miss Suzanne, and Madame Grolier, too, that Jacques is a most resourceful man. He will never allow any harm to come to Miss Marguerite."

  Guillaume frowned over the top of the mirror but said nothing.

  Ben carefully scraped the last bristles from his chin. Soon Guillaume was making ready to leave. "Guillaume, be so good as to ask Miss Suzanne to step up to see me when she has a moment to spare."

  Guillaume turned back from the door and glared at Ben. He clearly thought such a request was inappropriate. Ben's conscience agreed, but that would not stop him. "Tell her, if you will," he added quietly, "that I have remembered some information she will wish to be aware of."

  Guillaume looked surprised but, after a moment, he nodded and left.

  Ben lay back on his pillows and stroked his newly-shaven jaw with his free hand. He hadn't made a very good job of it, but at least he looked less of a fright than he had when his head had been swathed in bandages and his hair had been matted with blood.

  He closed his eyes and tried not to think about Suzanne. He failed. His body was definitely recovering now, for the very thought of her delectable person was having a marked effect. He swore. It did not help.

  The door opened before he was fully back in control of his body. It was Suzanne. He quickly raised his knees and rearranged the bedclothes. Then he swallowed hard and forced himself to concentrate on his need for information.

  "Guillaume thinks that Bonaparte must be in Paris by now. He clearly holds out no hope that King Louis's army will have remained loyal."

  She was standing by the open door. Her eyes were cast down. She neither moved nor spoke.

  "I know that you are troubled," Ben said quickly, filling the awkward silence. "You are bound to be worrying about your sister, but I can assure you that Jacques will defend her. With his life, if needs be." He paused before continuing in a gentler voice, "Has something given you cause for concern?"

  Suzanne started back, shocked. "What did Guillaume say about me? He had no right." Spots of high colour flared on her cheeks. She looked as though she were about to rush out of the room, probably to berate Guillaume.

  Ben stretched out his left hand to stay her and draw her nearer. "Pray do not blame Guillaume, Suzanne. He did not say anything about you or your sister. Come, sit down. Tell me. I may be useless as far as physical defences are concerned—" he nodded down at his bandages "—but there is nothing wrong with my brain. If there is a problem, and if there is anything that can be done from here in Lyons, we will find a way to do it, I promise you."

  Chapter Seven

  Suzanne took a deep breath and stepped fully into the room, pushing the door behind her. How could she resist that outstretched hand? She longed to take it, to clasp it to her heart, but she did not dare. She might love Benn—and her heart would surely break when he left her—but she would not indulge in a missish gesture that Benn would scorn. Or, worse, that he would pity.

  At least he had not blamed her troubled mood on that tiny, betraying touch of their hands over the coffee cup. Let him continue to think she was worrying about her sister.

  She raised her chin and looked him in the eye. "Guillaume said you had some information for me?" she began. Then, letting her suspicions show, she added sternly, "And how, pray, have you acquired it when you are confined to bed?"

  Benn dropped his gaze for a second. Suzanne fancied that his colour had heightened a fraction, too.

  "I have to admit, Suzanne, that I, er, misled you a little. I have no new information. As you rightly say, how could I have, lying here?" He shrugged. A mistake. A shadow of pain crossed his face.

  Fear clamped like a vice round Suzanne's heart. She had taken an involuntary step towards him before she managed to stop. She clasped her hands firmly together. She would not allow herself to touch him, even if he was in pain.

  "Suzanne, we need to talk. Please listen to me. I am...I am concerned for you. You cannot continue to bear your burdens alone. Now that your sister has gone to Paris, you have no one to confide in. I know you would not stoop to share your concerns with mere servants."

  Suzanne drew herself up a little more and looked down her nose at him. She doubted that Benn had ever faced the sort of hardships that the Grolier family had endured. Benn might be too haughty to trust "mere servants" but Suzanne and her sister were not. Guillaume had been a rock for their family when more exalted people had deserted them. The Groliers had remained true to their King, at the cost of their family's fortune and status. Benn, as an Englishman, could never understand what the French had suffered through the Reign of Terror and the years of Bonaparte's despotism.

  Benn stretched out his hand once more. Then he smiled up at her in a way that touched her heart. She fought down a sudden urge to throw herself on his chest and pour out all her troubles. Such a beguiling smile. Was he really offering to share her burdens?

  "You smile, sir. I fancy you do not understand the threats we face. This is France, not England. Traitors, and the innocent as well, are sent to the guillotine in this country. We have had years to learn that trust is not a matter of rank or status. I have trusted my servants with my life. And with your life, too."

  This time, his blush was unmistakeable. It made him look very young and vulnerable. The white bandages contrasted starkly with his high colour. "I beg your pardon, Miss Suzanne," he said formally, bowing his head a little. "I meant no insult, I promise you. But I see that my words were worse than thoughtless." He gazed up at her, his blue eyes wide and apologetic. "Can you forgive me, my dear?"

  Suzanne's heart lurched. How was she to resist when he used such words?

  She tried to clear her throat. "Let us forget it," she said a little gruffly, fixing her gaze on the wall above his head. Benn was, without doubt, the handsomest man she had ever seen. His spare masculine beauty made her pulses race and her thoughts tumble whenever she looked at him. How was she supposed to keep her wits about her when she was near him? No woman could do it.

  Wrong. Marguerite did it.

  That rebellious little voice was back inside Suzanne's head, reminding her of her strong-minded sister, who was now far away and might be in great danger. Suzanne swallowed the fear that clutched at her throat.

  With an obvious effort, Benn forced himself up from his pillows and thrust himself forward to grab Suzanne's hand. He fe
ll back again at once, his weight pulling her with him.

  "Ouf." She landed on the edge of the bed in an undignified heap. She opened her mouth to rail at him.

  He was too quick for her. He gave her fingers a tiny squeeze, which silenced her completely. She felt as if a torrent of steaming water was enveloping her body, pouring from the fingers that held her own. Her heart lurched.

  Oh, Benn. Why do you do this? Why do you inflict this torture on me? She wished she had the courage to speak her thoughts aloud. It was impossible. She clamped her lips tightly together to prevent any rebellious sounds from escaping.

  "You are angry with me," he said softly. "And I admit I have given you cause. But my motives are of the best. I beg you to believe that." He squeezed her hand again. When she did not object—for she still could not speak—Benn's smile returned, then widened. "You may think me only a dunderheaded Englishman who understands nothing of French hardships. And you would be right, at least in part. But what I do understand, Suzanne, is you. You have nursed me for long enough now that I know your ways, your gentleness, your healing touch. I see the kindness in your face when you come to tend me. I see other emotions, too."

  Suzanne closed her eyes against his words.

  "This morning," he continued, almost without a pause, "I could see how troubled you were. You almost fled from this room. What happened to our companionable conversations after morning coffee?" He grinned teasingly at her. "Why, you did not even remember to take away the empty cups. Guillaume had to do it later. As if he did not already have enough chores," he added, in a voice of mock reproof. "Shame on you, Miss."

  She raised her head, slowly, to look at him. Ben saw that her eyes were huge and sheened with tears. That hurt. He felt as if he had been struck a blow. And with justice. This remarkable girl was bearing the burdens of her whole family. No wonder she could not respond to his silly teasing. He should be taking her in his arms, stroking her hair and soothing her with sympathetic words. She needed comfort and gentle caresses. But he did not even have two good arms to offer her. He—