She struggled violently at first, but as he held her steadfast, she softened and began to respond with an intensity that matched his own. Her tongue entered his mouth and her hand slid down his body between them, seeking.
When she touched him, he groaned and hardened under her caress. This was how they were meant to be-loving each other, not fighting. He eased his grip and began running his hands down the swell of her hips.
She took advantage of his relaxation to jerk her knee up in a savage street fighter's trick. Sickeningly aware that her passion had been a ruse, he twisted away barely in time. Her blow landed on his thigh instead of smashing his genitals, but he saved himself at the cost of losing his hold on her.
As soon as Maggie freed herself from his embrace, she dashed across the room to the pier table and yanked a pistol from the drawer. Then she whirled to face Rafe. "Get out of here, and don't ever come near me again! If you make any move to hurt Robin, I will have you killed." Though her voice trembled, the gun she held with both hands was lethally steady.
Rafe stared unbelievingly at the pistol. "Maggie…"
"Stay where you are!" She cocked the hammer. "I warn you, if you injure Robin, you will die even if I am dead myself. I know how to arrange an assassination, and there will be nowhere on earth distant enough for you to hide. Now take your clumsy amateur spying and your jealousy and your absurd accusations and go back to England!"
She was bluffing, he was sure of it. The gun probably wasn't even loaded.
He took a step toward her, and she pulled the trigger.
The roar of the gun was numbing in the enclosed space. He felt the vibration of the ball as it struck near him, and debris struck his calf.
At first he thought Maggie's shot had gone wild. Then he blinked the stinging smoke from his eyes and saw that she had fired into the black king, which had been lying on the carpet near his foot. The ball had splintered the antique chess piece into a thousand fragments. An admirable bit of marksmanship; it was obvious that she could just as easily have put the bullet into his eye.
By the time he raised his gaze, she had expertly reloaded and trained her weapon on him again. "As you can see, I haven't forgotten my marksmanship," she said grimly. "If you try anything, the next ball will go into you."
He weighed the odds of trying to take the pistol away from her, but there was a wide expanse of salon between them, and murder in Maggie's eyes. He damned himself for the idiotic folly of attacking Anderson as he had. It would have been difficult to convince her of her lover's duplicity under the best of circumstances. By muddying the evidence with his jealousy, he had lost any chance of changing Maggie's mind.
Nonetheless, with as much calm and conviction as he could muster, he tried. "For your own sake, Maggie, don't trust Anderson. Though I may be a jealous fool,I told you the truth about him. Do you want Castlereagh, and perhaps others, to die because you're too stubborn to see Anderson for what he is? He's the only lead to the conspiracy that we have, and we should get Wellington to detain him for questioning."
"You haven't convinced me, your grace," she said, her smoky gray eyes as hostile as her words. "As I said, spies must talk to everyone, especially suspects like Lemercier and Roussaye. As for the money-you may be too rich to realize it, but most of the world must be practical about such sordid things. Selling the same information to more than one of Napoleon's enemies might be simply good business, not treason."
"But you're not sure, are you?" Rafe said softly, sensing the bravado that fueled Maggie's defense of Anderson.
At his words, she tensed, and he wondered how light the trigger was on her pistol. He felt a flicker of cool amusement at the thought that the noble Duke of Candover might be killed in a vulgar lover's quarrel- with the added irony that they were not even lovers.
Breasts rising and falling with agitation, she said, "You could produce iron-clad evidence and a dozen unimpeachable witnesses that Robin was a traitor and I might possibly-just possibly-believe you, but I would still not come to your bed. Will you leave on your own, or shall I ring for my servants to throw you out?"
Despairingly, Rafe saw that he had failed, and his failure had made everything worse. Though Maggie was wrongheaded in her loyalty to Anderson, it was still impossible to believe she would condone an assassination plot. Now that Rafe had challenged her, she would be even more hell-bent on exposing the conspiracy, if only to prove that he was wrong about Anderson. That might put her into grave danger, and he wouldn't be there to protect her.
The pistol tracked him without wavering as he crossed the room to the door. Pausing with one hand on the knob, he looked back. Even the fact that she had a gun aimed at his heart did not alter his desire. "I'm not leaving Paris until this is over," he said quietly. "If you need help at any time, for any reason, you know where to find me."
Then he left, the paneled door swinging silently shut behind him.
Maggie set her gun on the pier table, then sank to the floor when her knees gave way beneath her. As the horrible scene replayed in her mind, she wrapped her arms around her midriff and fought her nausea.
She had often wondered what lay beneath Rafe's cool detachment. Now she knew, and wished that she didn't. While he had always made it clear that he desired her, she had not suspected that he felt such violent jealousy. Of course, he had behaved much the same way thirteen years earlier. At the time she had thought it was from love, but apparently the real source had been pride and possessiveness.
Could he have been lying about Robin? Though Rafe's information was disconcerting, it was hardly evidence of double-dealing. Admittedly Robin hadn't mentioned meeting with either Roussaye or Lemercier, but that meant nothing, for he seldom discussed his activities in detail. By the same token, she didn't inform him of all that she did.
It was much harder to shrug off Rafe's revelations about the money. While Maggie had not lived lavishly for most of these last years, Robin had given her thousands of pounds more than the amount Strathmore said she had been paid. Some had gone to her informants, some for living expenses, and the rest was invested in Zurich, where it drew enough interest to allow her to retire to England.
She had never questioned the amount of money that she received, assuming that it was the normal rate for spying. Could Robin really have been serving more than one master? He had always implied that all of the money was British.
She forced herself to consider the question of Robin's nationality. When they first met, he had said that he was English, but he had never spoken of his early life. Uneasily she realized that he could have grown up anywhere, for he had the same unerring talent for languages that she did. In fact, it was Robin who had taught her the tricks of listening that enabled her to perfect an accent.
Though much of his life was a mystery, Maggie had never once doubted that he was honest with her about things that mattered. Now she could no longer be sure. A bare fortnight earlier he had told her never to trust anyone, not even him. At the time she had dismissed his comment as teasing, but now it haunted her.
Shakily she pulled herself to her feet, then went to the cabinet for the decanter of brandy. After pouring a glass, she downed half of it at a gulp. It warmed her, but gave no clues about what to believe.
Rafe might be mad with frustrated lust or wounded pride, but she would wager that he believed what he had told her. Yet how could she mistrust Robin, her best friend, who had saved her life and sanity?
Blindly she finished the brandy, oblivious to the way it burned her throat. Strange how much Rafe could affect her, in spite of past crimes and betrayals. He could arouse depths of emotion in her quite different from the solid, warm friendship she shared with Robin.
What a pity that Rafe used that power only to hurt her.
The Englishman provided Le Serpent with the requested information about the British embassy, acquired at no small risk. Twice he had nearly been caught by other members of the staff, and he thought he had seen suspicion at his presence in places where he
didn't belong. Still, no one had asked awkward questions, and he had been paid a handsome price for his risks.
The light was a little brighter this time so that Le Serpent could review the sketched floor plans. After several minutes, he gave a grunt of triumph. "Perfect, absolutely perfect. Le bon Dieu must have designed it for my purposes."
Having no desire to know more of the plan, the Englishman straightened up to leave. "If you have no more need for me…"
Le Serpent straightened also, his eyes a hard gleam behind his mask. "I have not dismissed you, mon petit Anglais. My plan requires your willing participation. Do you see that closet there?" A blunt finger tapped the floor plans.
The Englishman glanced down. "Yes. What of it?"
"It is directly underneath Castlereagh's bedchamber. You told me that it is seldom used, and always kept locked. If it is packed with gunpowder and ignited, it will blow that end of the embassy to rubble."
"You're mad!" the Englishman gasped, understanding why Le Serpent had wanted to know who was attending the different meetings. If the right day was chosen, Wellington and all the chief Allied ministers could be destroyed along with Castlereagh.
"Not in the least," the hooded man said calmly. "My plan is audacious, but wholly workable. The most difficult part will be getting the gunpowder into the embassy, but since you are on the staff, that presents no insurmountable problems."
"How do you intend to set the explosion?" the Englishman asked, horribly sure that he knew the answer.
"A candle will do the trick nicely. A slow-burning, hard wax candle will take hours to melt down. You will have plenty of time to get safely out of the way, and no one will suspect you."
"I want no part of this madness! If the Allied leaders are killed, there will be a manhunt such as France has never seen."
"Oh, there will be an uproar, but the Allies will be like beheaded chickens with their leaders gone. By the time the dust settles"-Le Serpent paused dramatically before finishing-"there will be a new order in France."
"What do I care about France? I'll not put my neck in the noose for it!"
The Englishman tried to move away, but Le Serpent reached out and seized his wrist with an iron grip. In a voice from a nightmare, he hissed, "I will tell you once more, mon ami, you have no choice. To defy me means death. On the other hand, your cooperation is vital for this particular project, and I reward my underlings very generously."
He let those words sink in, then continued softly, "Notice I make no attempt to buy your loyalty, because I know you have none. Greed is the best lever with creatures such as you, so I make you a promise: help me to success, and you will be rich and powerful beyond your wildest dreams."
The Englishman was unsure whether it was better to work with Le Serpent, expose the bastard, or fly from France. He was uneasily aware that he would have to choose sides within the next few days, and if he chose wrong he was dead.
Of course, he would die anyway if he betrayed Le, Serpent, or if the British discovered his treachery. Cooperation was his best, and most profitable course. Harshly he said, "Once more I find the brilliance of your logic convincing."
"Very good." Le Serpent released his grip. "I like a man who learns quickly. Now sit, I have more questions for you. There are several British agents sniffing at my heels, and it will be necessary to remove them from my path. Tell me everything you know about the people in question."
Two of the names Le Serpent gave were expected, but one was a surprise. A most pleasant surprise, and quite logical when he thought about it.
The Englishman suppressed a smirk of satisfaction; he could think of no one he would rather see removed.
Chapter 14
The staff had long since retired and Maggie had been sitting in her kitchen for hours, with only a candle and the kitchen cat for company. Robin had said he would stop by if he had something new to report, but he would not come this late.
She was desperate to talk to him, to hear his explanation of the points Candover had raised. There was surely a reasonable explanation____________________
And if he lied to her, she would know it.
She could not sleep with so much unresolved-with treacherous doubts about Robin, with the echoes of the horrible fight with Rafe. Impulsively she decided that if Robin wasn't coming to her, she would go to him. He had rooms near the Place du Carrousel, adjacent to the Louvre and the Tuileries. If he wasn't there, she would wait until he returned. It would not be the first time she had walked the streets of Paris after dark.
Upstairs she swiftly changed to men's clothes, glad that the September night was cool enough to justify the dark, form-concealing cloak. As always when she traveled alone, she carried her pistol and a knife. While she preferred to avoid trouble, Robin had seen to it that she knew how to fight.
Robin. Always Robin. She needed most desperately to believe in him.
If she didn't have him, who did she have?
* * *
"It's always been you, Rafe," Margot said softly, her eyes misty with desire. "For all these years, I've waited for you to find me. Why didn't you come sooner?"
She kissed him, unbuttoning his shirt to press her heated lips to the hollow at the base of his throat. His clothing seemed to melt away, allowing her wheat gold hair to flow tantalizingly over his skin. Her clever hands slid down his torso, teasing, arousing him to madness…
Heart pounding and body throbbing, Rafe awoke to unpleasant reality. He had not slept long; just enough for his fevered dreams to tie him in knots. He had returned to his hotel after his fight with Maggie, written a report for Lucien, and gone to bed. Yet even in sleep, she haunted him.
Wearily he decided that he might as well make the final descent into absurdity. After changing to his plainest clothing, he returned to the Boulevard des Capucines, where one of his men was watching Maggie's house from a room rented on the other side of the back alley.
Rafe had instituted the watch several nights earlier. Apart from visits by Anderson on two different occasions, the watcher had seen nothing of interest, and probably tonight would be no different. Nonetheless, because Rafe could not stay away, he dismissed his man and took the post himself.
He should have turned around and headed back to London as soon as he had learned that Lucien's damned spy was Margot Ashton. Certainly his sojourn in Paris had been of no help to his country, and it had wreaked havoc on his orderly life.
With bitter resentment, he acknowledged that the simple schoolboy love he had felt for Margot had been replaced by the dark strains of obsession. She was the only living creature who could destroy his prized de tachment, and he hated her for it, even as he compulsively imagined what it would be like to make love to her. He already knew the taste of her mouth, and his imagination supplied vivid images of how she would look, of how it would feel to be inside her, of how she would respond…
Once more he jerked his thoughts from their unhealthy circle. The force of his desire was so intense that for the first time in his life, he wondered whether he would be capable of rape if the opportunity presented itself.
Wondered, then shied away from the question because he feared the answer.
Maggie had accused him of wanting her because she was unavailable, and he knew that there was some justice to that. After all, she was only a woman, and all females were made much the same. He also knew from experience that the most beautiful women were seldom the best mistresses; females who were less blessed by nature usually tried harder. If he could just once make love to Maggie, it would free him of his obsession, which was rooted in his youthful memories.
But there was no chance of that happening. She would put a bullet in him if he came within fifty feet of her.
It was fortunate that Anderson hadn't called on Maggie tonight. Rafe would have been tempted to kill him out of hand, and the blond man was much more useful alive. Tomorrow Rafe would notify Wellington of his suspicions and urge that Anderson be questioned, but tonight he kept his morbid watch.
The town house was dark except for a light in the kitchen. He wondered if Maggie was sleeping, or whether she was as restless as he. The accusations against Anderson had upset her, and perhaps she was suffering doubts. Savagely, he hoped so.
It was very late when he saw a dark figure slip from the house, moving with catlike stealth and grace. He knew instantly that it was Maggie. Curious about her mission, he left his post and swiftly went outside.
No sooner had he reached the alley when he saw another figure exit the building to his left and go after Maggie.
Bloody hell, who else was watching her? Had his own men missed the competition, or was this a new development? He was abruptly glad for the impulse that had made him take tonight's watch. If she were to run into danger, at least he would be there. He trusted his own ability to protect her more than that of his hirelings.
Maggie led them a merry chase. Rafe admired die speed she made while managing to be almost invisible. Avoiding the well-lit boulevards, she was one more shadow in die narrow back streets. Occasionally she glanced back, but she had no reason to suppose anyone was behind her, and the same darkness that shielded her passage concealed the followers.
Mindful of the farcical aspects of several people trailing each other, Rafe checked his own back to be sure that no one was behind him, but he seemed to be the last of the parade.
When they neared the Place du Carrousel, he realized with dismay that she must be heading for Anderson's nearby lodgings. A planned assignation, or was she going to challenge the man with what Rafe had told her? It was something else that he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Ahead of him, he saw Maggie pause at the end of the street where it led into the plaza. Looking beyond her, Rafe saw the great victory arch that Napoleon had built in the middle of the plaza and crowned with the four bronze horses taken from St. Mark's in Venice. Torches burned around the monument, and their flickering light illuminated workmen standing on top of die arch. As the clink of chisels and hammers echoed around the plaza, he saw a supervisor in the uniform of a British officer. Apparently Wellington had decided to spare French feelings by removing these most visible examples of loot by night. Rafe hoped that old Louis would sleep through it. The work was taking place literally under the king's windows in the Tuileries.
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