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

by Joanna Maitland

  Then he kissed her lips, slowly and sweetly, and began to move. She moaned into his mouth. It felt… She could not describe how it felt. The waves were coming again, washing over her and carrying her even higher than before, as she matched her rhythm to his and strained towards fulfilment. When the climax came, it robbed her of her senses. She saw the bright colours of the rainbow. And then darkness.

  When she opened her eyes, the light was almost gone. She must have fainted. No wonder, she thought, remembering the unbelievable pleasure Benn had given her.

  But where was he?

  She raised her head from the pillow. He was no longer in her bed. Nor was he anywhere in the room. She sat up with a jerk. It was only then that she saw what he had done. He had covered her naked body with her own bedgown. And then he had left her alone.

  What kind of man would do such a thing?

  She flung herself out of bed and crossed to the landing door. It was still locked, with the key on the inside. He must have left by the door to the silk store. She would go after him and—

  The connecting door was locked and the key was gone. On the floor, in a small neat pile, lay her gown and underthings, folded carefully over the mutilated halves of her corset.

  Ben could not stop his frenzied pacing. If he stopped moving, his anger and guilt would consume him. What had possessed him to do such a dastardly thing?

  He had taken Suzanne's innocence. It did not matter that she had encouraged him to seduce her. The responsibility was his alone. It was hardly surprising if, over the weeks when she had been nursing him, she had come to feel more for him than she ought, for she was a passionate woman. He should have seen the dangers and dealt with them. But he had failed to do so. In the end, the fault was his. He was experienced; she was not. She could not have known what would happen.

  He would have to leave soon. What would happen to her then? If anyone discovered what they had done, she would be disgraced, perhaps even cast out of her home. And what if there were to be a child?

  He raked his fingers through his hair. It pulled on the roughly healed scar of his head wound, but he ignored it. It would be a judgment on him if it began to bleed again. Suzanne's virgin blood was staining her sheets. What was a little of his own tainted blood by comparison?

  He would leave her all the money he had. Yes, that was the answer. It would at least ensure her comfort. She—

  No, it was impossible. She would probably throw his money back in his face. And with reason. She had given herself to him in all sweetness. If he offered money, he would be treating her like a whore. She did not deserve that. She deserved to be cherished, by a man who loved and honoured her, a man who would take her to wife. Could Ben find an honest tradesman who would marry her and give her back her standing in bourgeois society?

  He began to plan. He would need money to buy such a man—ready money now, and the promise of more to follow, once Ben was back in England. But how was Ben to seek out a bridegroom, here in a country that was probably on the brink of war? Ben could not pass for a Frenchman. He could not move around the taverns and coffee houses, bribing the local soaks with drink in hopes of gleaning the information he needed.

  Suzanne's husband could not be just anyone. He must be honest and trustworthy. He must be willing to honour Suzanne as his wife, even if she proved to be with child by another man.

  A chilling thought shivered through him. What if this Frenchman were cruel? What if he were to beat her?

  Ben saw a vision of Suzanne cowering in the dark in a corner of the silk store, her beautiful face bruised and her limbs trembling in anticipation of beatings still to come. He would not let it happen. He would kill the man first.

  Fool. There could be no such man. Suzanne must not be allowed to suffer for Ben's misdeed. A man who loved her would sacrifice everything to protect her.

  He stopped in his tracks as the truth of that thought hit him. Like a bolt of lightning, it made every object sharp and clear. It was all very simple. Suzanne had to have a husband who loved her. And Ben had to be that husband. In spite of all his toplofty lectures to himself, in spite of all Jack's warning about falling into parson's mousetrap with a woman who would never be received by Ben's grandfather, Ben had done precisely what he had told himself to avoid. He had fallen in love with his brave and beautiful bourgeoise.

  He loved her. And he gloried in it.

  If she would have him, he would marry her tomorrow. His starchy old grandfather would have to learn to accept her, or lose his grandson altogether. As for the rest of the ton, Ben would put a bullet in any man who dared to insult Lord Dexter's wife.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was well after supper time when Ben made his way through the silk store to Suzanne's bedchamber. He had taken great care to put everything to rights. The bolts of silk and velvet had been rewound and restored to the shelves. He could not be absolutely sure that they were all in their assigned places, but he had done his best. This was Suzanne's domain. If anything was amiss, she would put it to rights before anyone else was allowed to set foot inside.

  But first he had to restore the keys he had stolen when he left her to wake alone. He had used her own keys to lock her precious silk store against her. He must go to her and beg her pardon. Until that confession was made, he could never offer her his love or his name.

  At least this time he was decently clad, in shirt and breeches. Someone—Suzanne?—had washed the blood out of his shirt and carefully mended the torn cloth.

  He took one last look round the silk store and put his hand to the door leading to her bedchamber. Earlier, he had locked the connecting door and left the key in the lock on his side. Even if she had a spare, she would not have been able to use it. The door from the silk store to the landing was fastened in the same way. As was the outer door to his own bedchamber. His little fortress was impregnable, until he chose to open the gate.

  He tapped gently on the communicating door. There was no answer and no sound from Suzanne's chamber. He breathed a sigh of relief. She was probably still downstairs, seeing to her interminable chores. He would open the door and leave her keys on the dressing table where she was bound to notice them. His confession could wait until later, after she had found them.

  He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  She was there.

  She was sitting demurely on the end of the bed, fully dressed in a gown made high to the neck, and carefully weaving new laces through the eyelets of her damaged corset.

  That damned corset. He felt himself flushing scarlet at the sight of it. It was a symbol of everything he had done, everything that could not be undone. He deserved every single oath he had heaped on himself, and more besides. He was guilty of the worst possible offence—dishonouring the woman he loved. His heart sank to his boots. How could he face her? What could he say?

  He saw in an instant that he could not turn back. She was here, and he had to make his confession. He owed it to her. "Suzanne," he said softly. When she did not look up, he said her name again. "Suzanne, I have come to return the keys I took, and to ask your pardon."

  She turned to look up at him then. She looked very pale, and quite implacable. "My pardon? For what, may I ask?"

  "For everything. I wish to make amends, if you will permit. I took advantage—"

  "You took advantage of my good nature to play a silly practical joke in my silk store. I hope you have restored it to order, sir?"

  This was going to be even more difficult than Ben had feared. "Suzanne, I need to tell you—"

  She silenced him with a proud glare, worthy of a duchess. "I am Miss Grolier to you, sir."

  Difficulties, Ben decided on the spot, were invented in order to be overcome. "Miss Grolier, I have put the store to rights as best I can. Will it please you to come and inspect it?" He stood back, holding the door for her.

  She sighed. "Very well." She put the corset aside and rose. "We need to resolve matters quickly, I'm sure you will agree. Now that you are recover
ed, you will wish to be planning your return to England. At the first opportunity." She stalked into the store and began to rearrange the fabrics, tutting crossly as she worked.

  Ben stood back, trying not to laugh. She was like a bad-tempered hen, fluffing out its feathers over its brood, turning round and round, but never quite satisfied that everything was exactly as it was meant to be.

  She came to the end of the last shelf of fabrics, close by the main door. As she reached out to unlock it, Ben caught her wrist and spun her round to face him. "Your precious silks are safe, my love. But can you forgive me for everything else?"

  "There is nothing else," she retorted. "Why would I need—?" She broke off and stared at him, her eyes wide. Her body began to sag against the door. Ben had to catch her with his good arm to stop her from falling. "What did you call me?" she asked in a small, shaky voice.

  "I called you 'my love' which is, to my mind, a great deal preferable to 'Miss Grolier'. You do agree, I hope?" He gave her no chance to answer. He pulled her hard against his body and began to kiss her as if both their lives depended on it. By the time he was satisfied with her response, they were both gasping for breath and Suzanne's carefully pinned hair had tumbled down on to her shoulders. He lifted one of her curls and began to wind it round his finger. "I take it that is a 'yes', love?"

  "I…well, I cannot exactly object to your using such a term of endearment, I suppose. I—"

  "You misunderstand me. And wilfully, I do believe." He laughed down into her eyes. "What I need from you, Miss Grolier, my sweet love, is your agreement to marry me. As soon as it can be arranged."

  "Marry you?" Her voice cracked. "How can I marry you? I don't even know your name."

  His name, it appeared, really was Ben. He had told her that, but nothing else. They argued, but Ben was adamant. It was too dangerous for her to learn more, he said, while the house was being watched. He might be arrested at any time. Ignorance would help to keep her safe, he maintained stoutly. Besides, what she did not know, she could not betray.

  His attitude irked her. Marriage, she responded crisply, was out of the question. She was not about to abandon her home and her family for a nameless English spy, no matter how much he pleaded. Spies, she maintained, were men of the lowest class, even if some of them could almost pass for gentlemen.

  That comment made Ben laugh a great deal, but he refused to explain why. Instead, he took her in his arms and kissed her until her head was spinning and her bones were beginning to melt. Then he led her back into her bedchamber, sat her down on her bed and left.

  She was stunned. What was he thinking? Why had he left her so abruptly?

  She listened with the greatest care. There was no scrape of a key turning in the lock. Even without trying the connecting door, she understood that the way to his bed was open to her, if she chose to take it.

  He loved her. He wanted to marry her. And he wanted her in his bed. But he was leaving the choices to her. If she went to him, if she lay in his arms, she would never be able to resist him. She loved him. But how could she marry a nameless English spy? How could she abandon all that she was, here in Lyons? She had duties, responsibilities… And her family was in danger, as long as Bonaparte was in France.

  Oh, it was impossible. She could not decide. She hesitated, standing by the door. What if—?

  The noise was loud enough to penetrate the outside walls plus two communicating doors. What on earth could be happening? Suzanne flung open her door to the silk store at the same time as Ben opened his own.

  "Quick. Come and look." He pulled her across to the window, though she noted he did not to allow himself to be seen. There was a great deal of commotion below. All the neighbours seemed to be out in the street. The watcher was back, but now he seemed to be barking orders to a party of soldiers, some carrying flambeaux. They had dragged another silk merchant from his house, three doors away. Some of the onlookers were yelling abuse; some were silent and wary. The merchant's wife stood in the street, wringing her hands and begging for mercy for her man. Her screams and pleas made no difference. In a matter of minutes, he was manacled and led away. The watcher, looking very pleased with himself, followed in the wake of the soldiers.

  The locals gazed after them, some still crowing triumphantly, some muttering to each other in low voices and occasionally shaking their heads. A couple of the women led the weeping wife back into her house. The noise subsided. The crowd dispersed. The ugly little tableau was over.

  Suzanne felt her shoulders relax a fraction. "Do we dare to hope that our house is no longer in danger?" she asked.

  A strong arm stole round her waist. "I think, my love, that we may indeed dare to hope. For many things."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Guillaume was so delighted with the latest developments that he was unusually talkative the following morning when he came upstairs with Ben's hot water. "That old fool further down the street was bound to be arrested. He was much too free with his opinions. Especially after a glass or two. Half of Lyons knew where his sympathies lay."

  "Really? When we first saw that spy out there, you all thought he was watching this house. All of a sudden, you're remarkably well informed."

  The old man grinned. "The way to be well informed, sir, is to frequent certain taverns in this town. Normally I have too many chores to see to in this house, but the mistress said it was vital to the cause. She even gave me silver so that I could buy a drink here and there, where it might help to loosen tongues. It worked, too, though it took hours that I could not really spare. I've had to work twice as hard since, to make up for it."

  Ben was not really listening to the man. His thoughts were full of Suzanne. Only Suzanne. She said we would not be disturbed. He marvelled at her resourcefulness. A vital spying mission for Guillaume and a quiet house for Suzanne's tryst. Extremely neat. His love was worthy of a place in the Aikenhead Honours. She would make a splendid spy.

  Ben decided to voice the question that had started preying on his mind. "Miss Suzanne normally brings up our morning coffee long before this. I hope last night's disturbance has not upset her?"

  Guillaume shook his head. "She's sitting in her office, as right as ninepence. I have no doubt she'll be here as soon as she's read her letter."

  "What letter?" Ben thundered.

  Guillaume did not know the identity of the sender. All he could say was that the handwriting was not Marguerite's.

  Ben hastily wiped off the last of the shaving soap. The letter might bring vital intelligence. He must risk going downstairs, even though he might be seen.

  As he reached the hallway, Suzanne came flying out into the hall. "Oh, Ben, I have such wonderful news. Marguerite and Jacques are married." She waved her letter. "I don't understand it all, but that part is beyond doubt. Jacques has taken Marguerite to his family in England."

  Ben twitched the letter out of her fingers and began to read. It was from the curé in Normandy, who wrote in a cryptic style much like Marguerite's. Her elder sister had married her betrothed, the letter said. Did that mean Jack? Ben supposed it must do. There was a paragraph of pious advice to Suzanne about never allowing her heart to rule her head. That was wise, but a little late now.

  The final paragraph was very puzzling. Ben pulled Suzanne into her office and closed the door firmly. Then he scanned that paragraph again. "What on earth does it mean? How can your mama's assessment of Marguerite's betrothed have been exactly right? And why should that make him a most suitable husband?"

  "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand that, either. Perhaps I should ask Mama? She will have to be told about Marguerite's marriage, in any case. She will be cross, I dare say, that Jacques did not ask her permission."

  "From Normandy?"

  "It is the way things have always been done in our family. Mama thinks she is still entitled to the privileges of rank, even though we—" She stopped short and let out a long, shuddering breath. Her eyes grew round. "I remember now. What Mama said. About Jack. B
ut surely not—? And yet, it must have been that. It was the only time she saw them together."

  Ben threw the letter onto the desk and took her by the shoulders, as if he were about to shake her. "Suzanne, what on earth are you talking about? You make no sense at all."

  She smiled beatifically. "Tell me, Ben," she began innocently, "was Mama right when she said that your Jack is the son of a duke?"

  "Oh, lor—"

  "Well, is he?"

  "Er…yes. But a younger son only." He grinned down at her. "He's number three, actually. There is no chance that your sister will end up a duchess, I'm afraid."

  Suzanne made a fist and punched his arm. His good arm, Ben noticed. Even angry, she was not risking damage to his wounded shoulder.

  "That was not what I was asking, and you know it perfectly well. This Jack of yours. Exactly who is he?"

  "The younger son of a duke," he said unhelpfully.

  She growled, deep in her throat. She sounded like an angry kitten and he longed to stroke her into a purr. He even started to run his fingers down her arm, but she shook him off. "You are avoiding the question, Ben. Are you refusing to tell me the identity of the man who has married my own sister?"

  "Yes. It is safer so."

  "Why, you—" She made to strike him again. Much harder this time.

  "No, love," he said gently, catching her wrist and pulling her hard against his body. He wrapped his arms round her protectively. "Believe me, it is safer so. For, eventually, I will have to leave you here, without a protector, apart from Guillaume. If you do not know Jack's real identity, you can lay your hand on the bible and swear that you never learned his name. It is not much, but it may help to keep you safe. It is all I can do."

  "But you will take me with you, will you not? Jack took Marguerite."

  "Marguerite will be safe in England by now. So there is no danger in her learning who Jack is. But here… Suzanne, my dearest heart, I will take you with me if you truly wish it, but have you considered…? Jack's orders were for me to make my way out through Spain, to take ship from there. It will be a hard journey, through the mountains. I would not subject you to that. I—"