England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  But he had paid, knowing that a new wardrobe would be required if he were to follow Mademoiselle Beauvoire into the upper echelons of Parisian society. She, of course, had already made the transformation.

  He could scarcely believe her metamorphosis when she stepped from her carriage not half an hour ago. Her ebony coiffure and lilac silk gown were designed to impress and the immodest neckline meant to draw attention to the web of diamond shimmering above her breasts.

  Or the reverse.

  The missive he had discovered in her bedchamber revealed very illusive game that would only be baited by the most tantalizing of morsels. And after seeing her as she was, as she should be adorned, Daniel had no doubt that Joseph LeCoeur would be hooked.

  ***

  Nicole paced impatiently as the young clerk sat in the carved wooden chair of the gaudy desk extracting the documents that would require her signature.

  “May I inquire as to how long you intend—“

  A knock at the entrance to her newly acquired apartment disrupted their conversation, drawing both their curiosity and their attention. With a quill in one hand and a fistful of papers in the other, the clerk began to rise.

  “I’ll see to the door.” Nicole said with impatience, wanting nothing more than to be rid of the tedious man as soon as was possible.

  She strolled through the apartment and opened the door, ready to dismiss the intruder. But when she looked up to see Daniel Damont staring at her with a knowing grin, her mouth fell open from searing shock.

  She reached for her pistol but before she could withdraw the weapon from the pocket of her gown, he seized her in a kiss that took her breath away.

  He pressed her against the entryway wall, his tongue slipping into the heat of her mouth and extracting a soft sigh which gave him grounds to band his left arm more tightly around her waist. His right hand burned its way down her spine before grasping her backside and fitting her firmly against his powerful body.

  And, God, how well she fit.

  She could feel the hard muscles of his thighs shifting as he bent her backward, kissing her more deeply, more thoroughly; the moist heat of his mouth an alluring balm to her lips. His capable hands continued their carnal exploration and then, with jarring ease, he lifted her upright.

  His reluctance to break their embrace was palpable as he stared down into her eyes, whispering, “Hello, Scorpion.”

  Fear and shame shot through her and she was incapable of speech, incapable of turning away from his incisive gaze.

  “Mademoiselle Beauvoire,” the clerk’s voice echoed nervously. “Is this man… known to you?”

  Nicole blushed, her eyes turning to ice when she realized he had kissed her merely for the benefit of the clerk who stood gaping at them from down the expansive hall.

  Her anger located her tongue, sharpening it. “As a matter of fact—“

  “Careful.” Damont whispered, raising her own pistol between them, his back to the clerk.

  Nicole sucked in a breath, unable to believe that his kiss had so disarmed her that he had literally rifled through her pockets and disarmed her.

  Incensed, she looked up to meet his eye and was humiliated further when he arrogantly said, in English no less, “I believe that is the second time I’ve made you gasp. Now tell your amorous companion that you are indeed well…” He winked. “Acquainted with me and then get rid of the lad.”

  “Why are you here, Monsieur Damont?” she spat, infusing all of her frustration into the performance.

  “To see you, mon cherie? Why else would I have come all this way.” She could hear the amusement in his perfectly accented French and she wanted nothing more than to slap him.

  So, she did. Hard.

  Before turning to the astounded clerk and demanding, “Where do I sign?”

  Nicole snatched the quill from the clerk’s hand and he hesitantly pointed to the bottom of several papers. She was busy signing the legal documents when she saw the clerk shrink in his chair. Not that she needed to witness the cowardly display to know the Daniel Damont was towering over her, watching every dot, every loop that she made.

  “Are you purchasing this apartment, darling?” he inquired, rubbing his crimson cheek. “It appears a trifle small for you, don’t you think?”

  Tired of playing games, Nicole turned to the clerk with a dismissive smile. “Is that all?”

  “Oui. Merci, Mademoiselle Beauvoire,” the clerk said, stuffing the remaining papers into a leather satchel and leaving the apartment as quickly as was possible.

  “Why are you here, Monsieur Damont?”

  The man’s lips parted and Nicole could not help but remember how they tasted. So, she was distracted when he breathed, “You’re Scorpion.”

  She lifted her gaze to meet his eye and was surprised to see uncertainty contorting his handsome features. And then the truth hit her with absolute certainty.

  He was not sure.

  She remained silent, gathering information as she let him talk.

  “Why did you not meet me at Les Helios?”

  Nicole scoffed, saying “Well,” as she tilted her head to one side. “After discovering that you had killed Scorpion’s contact, meeting you seemed ill advised.”

  “Andre Tuchelles is dead?”

  He was staring at her with such astonishment that she blinked, saying with a tad less conviction of his guilt, ”You know very well that Monsieur Tuchelles is dead.”

  “You think I killed him?” he all but yelled.

  “How else would you have extorted that missive?”

  Bewildered, he opened his mouth to defend her charge and then his sky blue eyes cleared.

  “Andre Tuchelles struck me as the sort of man that would die rather than write a communiqué that would surely endanger Scorpion’s life.”

  The Scot was right. Damn him.

  Andre had to have known that he was a dead man either way. He never would have sent an assassin to her doorstep. Never. He had sent the missive referring to Scorpion as ‘he’ merely giving Nicole time to decide if she wished to return to England.

  It would seem that the Scot was telling the truth and someone else had killed Andre Tuchelles after he left. A man she had every intention of meeting.

  But he did not need to know why she was going to stay in Paris. Nor did he need to know why she could never return to England.

  “You are, Scorpion, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, suddenly cold.

  “You’re a woman?”

  “Yes, thank you for pointing that out to me. I can see why Falcon hired you.”

  “My apologies, I’ve just never met a woman capable of—“

  “Of killing a man?” she scoffed, wishing she were not capable of such a thing. “Do you have siblings?”

  “What?” He blinked. “Yes, six.” He was still staring at her and Nicole felt the sting of it.

  “Six?” She chocked and then Nicole recalled the point she was trying to make. “And if a man tried to harm the youngest, what would your mother do?”

  “She would rip the man apart.”

  Nicole lifted her chin and smirked, “Then considering me the mother of England.” She hid her sorrow and forced herself to meet his beautiful eyes. “If that helps eases your conscience.”

  “I was not my intention to offend.” His eyes remained on hers. “I can see why you have been so… successful. No one would suspect—“

  “A woman?”

  “Aye.”

  Nicole turned away from the pity pulling at his striking features and knew that London would be no different. She had seen the same expression for an entire year as she was paraded from Newgate to the Old Bailey.

  She could not do it again.

  “I’m not leaving Paris.” The man was so stunned he could not even speak, so she continued to confuse him, saying, “You hand me a missive from Andre Tuchelles, informing me that the French have infiltrated our ranks, further ordering me to disregard his previous commis
sion of assassination?”

  The Scot nodded, slowly.

  “So, pray tell, which missive should I disregard? The one written by Andre Tuchelles, who I have known for two, very long, years; or the one delivered by Daniel Damont, who I have never laid eyes on before the night Andre is murdered and who may very well be a French agent himself?”

  The man rocked back on his heels and she could see his mind spinning.

  “I see your difficulty, truly, but this assassination is a trap orchestrated by the French to capture Scor… you.”

  “Most likely, but better to err on the side of caution.” She rose, smoothing out her expensive gown. “Don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t,” he exhaled, interpreting her intention to leave the apartment correctly. “You’ll be killed if you go through with this assassination.”

  “And so will LeCoeur.”

  She took one step toward the door and he blocked her path with one long stride.

  Daniel’s heart was pounding in his chest and he’d no notion what to do. His benevolent distraction of patriotism had just turned into a nightmare. He licked his lips, trying to think of a way to convince the lass that he was telling the truth.

  “How could I be a French agent if I brought you a missive barring Monsieur Tuchelles’ seal?”

  She shrugged, the motion echoed by her plentiful breasts as they bounced in the bodice of her gown. “Which you could have forced Andre to write before you killed him.”

  Daniel speared his fingers through his thick hair and said, “Damn” with all the frustration he was feeling. “Is there nothing I can say to convince you that I was sent by the Foreign Office?”

  The girl said nothing but he could see a powerful mind at work behind those bewitching eyes.

  “No,” she finally said. “I am afraid we are at yet another impasse. You are either telling the truth and Andre Tuchelles sent you, a British agent, or you are lying and are a representative of France sent to capture Scorpion. I have no way of knowing.”

  Daniel smiled fully as he found an answer that he was sure would convince her. “If I am an agent of France then why have I not arrested you?”

  She did not even hesitate before saying, “Because you hope I will lead you to Scorpion and other British agents working in Paris.”

  Daniel held out his arms, defeated. “You’re Scorpion!”

  “But you don’t believe that I am Scorpion.”

  A shadow of doubt passed over his face as he looked down at the petite woman and she saw it.

  “There you are.” She said in triumph. “Good evening, Monsieur Damont.”

  But before she could make it out the door, Daniel had grasped her upper arm. “Prior to giving me the missive which warned you of the danger you were in, Andre Tuchelles made me swear that I would do anything in my power to get Scorpion out of France. I gave my word of honor.”

  Daniel glanced at the woman that was hell bent on remaining in Paris and decided that he had until the assassin of Joseph LeCoeur to persuade her.

  A flash of heat bloomed in his chest as he remembered the way she had responded to his touch, the way she had thawed in his arms. She might be Falcon’s most valuable assassin, but she was also a woman.

  And for as long as Daniel could remember women had been throwing themselves in his path. He was powerfully built and well-formed of face, a gift given him by his parents. He took no pride in that fact, but neither did he shy away from the truth of it.

  The only time he had refrained from using his sexual appeal, it had cost him. Daniel had wanted… needed Sarah Duhearst to fall in love with the man and not his exterior. But he had waited too long to introduce her to his more sensual self and the Duke of Glenbroke had awakened that part of her.

  Daniel shook off his regret and turned his attention to the woman he had sworn to protect. She was not immune to him and he intended to use his appeal to lure her back to England.

  But she need not know that. All Mademoiselle Beauvoire need know is that she would not be rid of him.

  “And at the moment, the only way I see of protecting you is to aid you in your commission.” He lied. “I’m moving in with you.”

  The woman wrenched her arm free and stared at him as if he were mad. “You most certainly are not.”

  “And just how do you intend to stop me?” he asked seductively as he stared at her lips.

  He had her flustered. He could see it in her increased breathing.

  “I could kill you.”

  Daniel chuckled, truly amused. “But you ‘have no way of knowing if I was sent by Andre Tuchelles and killing a British agent would not be very patriotic.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear, making sure to send the heat of his breath down her neck. “Let me help you.”

  She shuddered and he knew it was not from the cold. Then she resisted him.

  “I work alone,” she snapped, yanking the door of the apartment open and stepping into the dim hall.

  Daniel followed and wrapped his fingers around her upper arm, saying, “Not anymore.”

  Chapter Nine

  Nicole tried to wrench her arm free but his hold was like a warm vice tightening to steel when she struggled against him.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, her breathe becoming short.

  The enormous man said nothing.

  She glanced up to look at his face, his eyes, knowing she was totally under his control. His set features gave no indication of his intention and as they descended the first flight of stairs, she could feel her anxiety rising.

  “Let go of me.” She stopped, yanking her body to one side. But he was so large, so muscular her slight weight scarcely moved him.

  He continued to ignore her, propelling her down the stairs and moving her where he wanted her to go, forcing her to do as he willed.

  Memories engulfed her and as they reached the landing between the first and second floors, her fear won.

  “Let me go!” Nicole said, hitting his arm with every ounce of strength she had, but the man did not budge an inch.

  A wave of panic crashed over her and she kicked and clawed her way to the surface, striking out at anything in her path. She kept flailing until her fists stopped making contact with the solid wall of his body.

  Her sight slowly returned and before she realized that he had released her, Nicole found herself pressed into the corner of the stairwell. Her arms were outstretched, bracing her body against the wall as she struggled to breathe. Disoriented, she remembered the Scot and glanced at him beneath dark lashes.

  He stood with both hands raised as if calming a horse that had just bolted, but it was the look in his turquoise eyes that made her stomach seize with humiliation. His eyes were fixed on her as if she were a madwoman, and his auburn brows were drawn together so tightly that his handsome features were marred by lines of miscomprehension.

  “I don’t like to be handled,” Nicole said, offering a weak explanation for her unwarranted behavior.

  The Scot took a moment to respond as he continued to stare, his mouth hanging open.

  “I can see that,” he replied, his left hand remaining raised as his right swept toward the staircase. “After you, Mademoiselle.”

  Glancing down, Nicole gathered as much dignity as she could muster and then licked her dry lips, saying, “Merci.” before gliding down the stairs as if nothing anomalous had occurred.

  She stepped beneath the open arcade of Place Vendome and stopped, breathing deeply as she stared at the setting sun disappearing below the brick buildings.

  “I’m going to call for a carriage,” Damont said slowly, gauging her reaction to ensure that she had no objection to carriage rides.

  “Oui, merci beaucoup.” Nicole nodded, mortified as she tucked an errant piece of black hair behind her right ear.

  The Scot returned moments later, offering her his arm. She took his peace offering, but could sense the tension in the muscles beneath his exquisite cobalt jacket.

  He handed her
up into the conveyance, making sure to give her a wide birth then followed cautiously after her. Monsieur Damont took a moment settled in the seat opposite her and the carriage suddenly became very small.

  Uncomfortable, Nicole stared at his broad chest, wondering when he had purchased the quintessential French attire. The high lapel and fitted waistcoat were exquisite and while she knew that Daniel Damont flattered even the shoddiest of garments, these clothes he wore with ease.

  The man leaned back, placing his right ankle atop his left knee his arms outstretched as he rested them atop the golden squabs. He was totally unconcerned, as she found the lower classes to be, with soiling the expensive garments. He inhabited his clothing and indeed the carriage as if he had been thusly clad and conveyed his entire life.

  She glanced at his profile as he stared out the window, strong handsome features, striking coloring and the unmistakable air of aristocracy which swirled thickly about him. He was of the haute ton, she was certain, and would unquestionably be popular with the gentlemen, but even more popular with the ladies of polite society. All of which begged the question. Why was he here?

  Ennui?

  He looked the sort of man that needed excitement, needed adventure. No doubt, conquering women and wagering on horses would become tiresome for a man of his age and obvious intelligence.

  How old was he? Thirty? No, not quite so old.

  He was a man in his physical and mental prime and Nicole found herself drawn to him. Not so much his physical beauty, although God knew he had that in spades, but his confidence, his acceptance of who and what he was.

  “How did you find me?” Nicole asked in English, more to distract herself from his overpowering presence.

  Her efforts failed when he smiled, pleased with himself, as he spoke in a deliciously thick brogue, saying, “I followed yer target,” as he tossed a rolled parchment in her lap.

  Damn!

  Nicole stared down, not having to read the parchment to know what it said, but she could not believe that he had found it, could not believe that she had been so careless as to have left it. Yet, his giving her the communiqué was further proof that Daniel Damont had indeed been sent by the English to extract her from Paris.