England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  Heads turned with curious interest and Nicole took a deep breath as she descended the marble stairs to the ballroom below. She smiled politely at the gentlemen, who behind the shield of their required masks, stared at her décolletage in open appreciation before lifting their eyes to meet her disinterested gaze.

  A brave young buck approached, wearing a black domino and mask and she was too busy trying to divine his identity to note the blonde Zeus approaching from her right. The gentleman opened his mouth to speak but his eyes darted to his left and he promptly shut it, bowing to the fair man now standing at her side.

  Nicole turned her head to the right and smiled at the tall gentleman donning a white, silk robe and a golden mask fashioned in the shape of a lightning bolt.

  He smiled, small wrinkles appearing at the corner of his brown eyes when he said, “Good evening, Mademoiselle, and welcome to my home.”

  “Marquis La Roche,” Nicole curtsied, making sure to leave her head up so that the marquis would be able to view her breasts which were threatening to burst from her intricately embroidered gown. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Did I?” The marquis quirked a fair brow.

  “Did you what?”

  “Did I invite you?

  Nicole laughed at the bluntness of his question. “Well, I must confess that I am newly arrived in Paris, but when I received this invitation…” She withdrew an invitation from a pocket hidden in the folds of her gown. “I assumed that you wanted me here.”

  The marquis could not help but glanced her over, saying, “I very much want you here, Mademoiselle, as I feel resourcefulness should be rewarded.”

  Nicole grinned, knowing that she had been caught and appreciative that the man had not thrown her out on her ear. “How very progressive of you, Marquis La Roche.”

  Her host bent his head in acceptance of the compliment. “If there is anything you require, Mademoiselle, please do not hesitate to seek me out.”

  “You are quite generous.”

  The marquis laughed, saying, “Generosity has nothing to do with it, my dear. Enjoy your evening.” He kissed her gloved had but before he could release her a small murmur drew their attention to the head of the staircase.

  Nicole’s mouth fell open and her eyebrows rose. She stared, along with everyone else in the room, at the unmasked figure of Daniel Damont dressed as a Roman general. The Scot wore a golden breast plate stamped with the Eagled Crest of the Holy Roman Empire and while that was wildly impressive it was the shocking amount of flesh not covered by the costume that held the guests to the floor.

  Strips of leather cut to points hung around his narrow hips and upper arms, leaving every woman in the ballroom with a clear view of the man’s beautifully muscled arms and thighs.

  And view him they did.

  No woman could help but gawk at the man as he was a roman sculpture come to life. But this sculpture was very real and just to emphasis his mortality, the stunning man surveyed the ballroom and then grinned as if he approved of what he was undoubtedly about to conquer.

  He sauntered down the staircase. The brown, leather stripes flaring and drawing all feminine eyes to his flexing thighs.

  “I am quite certain, I did not invite him,” the marquis muttered, bringing Nicole’s mind up to pace with her racing heart. “Excuse me.”

  Marquis La Roche made for the base of the stairs and Nicole grabbed the arm of the young buck that had approached her moments a go.

  “I do so enjoy a waltz,” she said not giving the boy time to think as she led him through the crush and away from Daniel Damont.

  She needed time, needed a moment to wrap her mind around Monsieur Damont’s reasons for following her to the masquerade. He was compromising her mission by distracting her at the very moment when she needed all of her faculties to seduce Minister LeCoeur.

  He did not know he was distracting her, of course, but how could he not. She glanced over her partner’s shoulder as they spun the length of the room. The man’s handsome face was clearly visible over the heads of the other guests and he was looking for something.

  Her!

  And then Nicole smiled to herself, remembering that she had gone to the modiste to receive assistance in dressing. He had not seen her gown. She sighed with relief and ducked behind her partner, knowing that Daniel Damont would have no way of identifying her. Nicole was wearing a mask and although he could see her black hair there were many women present with ebony coiffures.

  If she hurried, she would be able to contact Minister LeCoeur and leave the ball before…

  “Good Evening.” Nicole’s heart stopped and apprehension bleed into in her chest. “Might I have the pleasure of cutting in on this set?”

  The boy she danced with was clearly taken aback. He stared at Daniel Damont as the man stood in the middle of the ballroom floor waiting for the upstart to relinquish his partner as if it were inevitable.

  “Keep dancing,” she whispered to the buck.

  They turned away from Monsieur Damont, but her eyes met the Scot’s before she spun to the far side of the wooden floor. He watched, a Roman warrior waiting for the perfect moment to attack. He crossed sculpted arms over his chest and smiled, oblivious to the disapproving stares of the couples forced to dodge him as they waltzed.

  They continued to dance, but as the waltz swept them toward Monsieur Damont, her partner tensed, spinning them a shade too early in hopes of avoiding the unavoidable.

  Daniel Damont anticipated them, stepping to his right and blocking their progress. He stared down and informed her partner, “I’m stepping in.”

  To his credit her partner paused, thinking to defend her. The buck’s eyes slid to hers and his mouth opened, but she cut him off, saying, “Don’t bother, you won’t win and I shall be perfectly alright. He’s not dangerous.” Nicole meet Daniel Damont eye. “Just insufferable.”

  Monsieur Damont chuckled and then bowed as the boy skulked, embarrassed, to the edge of the ballroom’s oak floor.

  “My dance I believe,” just as the opening chords of a second, much slower, waltz began.

  Nicole went into his arms, her lips pinched as she glanced at the aghast guests.

  “You have drawn the attention of everyone in attendance.”

  Monsieur Damont’s large hand slid further around her waist and he smiled suggestively, saying, “You had done that already.”

  His gaze slipped to her low cut gown and Nicole felt the ache of disillusionment blossom in her chest, tightening the back of her throat. Men had always been obscenely drawn by her abundant breasts and why she expected Daniel Damont to be any different she could not fathom.

  “You look stunning, Mademoiselle Beauvoire.”

  Nicole snorted in disgust and stopped dead on the dance floor, causing the unsuspecting couple behind them to crash into Monsieur Damont massive back. She yanked her hand from his and storm off toward the balcony on a cloud of indignant black silk.

  She needed to be alone, needed to remember that she was alone, needed to remember the reason she had come to this sad state in the middle of a Parisian ballroom.

  “What did ya do that for?”

  Nicole turned, her eyes darting about the balcony to verify that they were alone.

  “How dare you follow me,” she hissed. “Have you any idea of the position you have just placed me.”

  Monsieur Damont’s masculine lips pulled into a seductive grin and he walked toward her, placing one hand on the balustrade and the other on her right cheek.

  “I can only image the position I’ve put you in.”

  Nicole swallowed, asking, “Who are you supposed to resemble?” as she turned from his scorching touch.

  “Marc Antony. Who better to compete with Caesar?” Daniel Damont tossed his auburn head toward the ballroom. “Do you see him?” he whispered down at her. “The minister is wearing a red robe.”

  Nicole slid her eyes to the right and saw Joseph LeCoeur standing at the edge of the ballroom nearest the o
pen glass doors.

  “He has been watching you the entire time that I’ve been here.”

  “You’ve only been here twenty minutes,” she said with utmost sarcasm.

  “Ah,” he took a step closer. “But I, like Caesar, know which women are worth seducing.”

  Before she had a moment to react, Daniel Damont had grasped the back of her neck and bent his head, seizing her in a carnal kiss meant to conquer and claim.

  Stunned by the Scots very public display, Nicole jerked her head back and voiced her incredulity in the form of an offended exhalation.

  “Are you mad?”

  Monsieur Damont smiled, unrepentant and sure of his sensual appeal. But what was even more irritating than the man’s arrogance was the fact that his confidence was warranted as evidenced by her less than stable knees.

  “Competition should hasten the minister’s pursuit of you.” Monsieur Damont was correct. Damn the man. “Now, all you need do is slap—“

  The Scot’s head snapped to the right with the force of her enthusiastic blow to his left cheek. His jaw clenched and she could see the anger burning in his bright eyes as he struggled to regain his amiable façade.

  “You needn’t have struck me quite so hard, lass,” he growled, his compressed lips scarcely moving.

  Guilt flooded her. Nicole stared at his perfect profile, knowing that it was her inability to control her desire for Daniel Damont that had caused her fit of frustration.

  “Is Antony disturbing you, Mademoiselle?”

  Nicole drained the remorse from her features, forcing her face to harden with contempt before turning toward the minister and saying with utmost disappointment, “No, I’m afraid that is the difficulty. Antony disturbs me not at all.”

  Minister LeCoeur chuckled and Daniel Damont threw him the most menacing of glares before turning his cold eyes on her.

  “May tonight’s ball provide you precisely what you deserve,” he growled in aristocratic French.

  The Scot spun on his Roman sandals and marched inside, the crowd parting as if he were indeed Marc Antony and they, his compliant troops.

  Nicole smiled, knowing that her target was watching carefully when she added to Daniel Damont’s impressive back, “Thank you for your concern, Monsieur, as the evening is proving rather disappointing.”

  “Is it?” She heard to her right.

  Nicole turned her head and smiled playfully at Joseph LeCoeur as he walked toward her with two champagne glasses in hand.

  “Is it, what?” she asked, making him work for the pleasure of her company.

  The minister stopped, handing her a glass, his dark eyes memorizing every feature of her face. “Disappointing?”

  She turned toward the ballroom and sipped the lively liquid, scanning the twirling couples as if accessing the evening’s prospects and then her eyes went back to his.

  “It was,” she said.

  “And now?”

  They stared at one another and Nicole raised a brow, circling him as she took in every detail of his solid form until she stood before him once again, pronouncing, “Yes, still disappointing.”

  At this decree, he laughed aloud, drawing several speculative glares from eligible young ladies.

  “What is your name, Mademoiselle?”

  Stepping back, Nicole held out both her arms theatrically. “I am Eris.”

  “Ah, Goddess of discord.” He nodded, raising an amused brow. “It suits you.”

  She curtsied. “Yes, I thought it rather did.”

  The minister stepped closer, echoing his interest. “Why not Aphrodite?”

  “Oh, Aphrodite. It’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think, declaring one’s self Goddess of Desire.” Nicole inhaled, drawing attention to her breasts. “And besides, there are a least five Aphrodite’s present… but only one Eris. “

  “Yes, you are causing quite the stir and I am quite sure that many men will leave the ball very discontent.”

  “As will you,” she informed him.

  “You think so?” Joseph LeCoeur smiled, excepting the challenge. “I’ve been told by a very reliable lady that there are no less than five Goddesses of Desire present at the ball this evening. How about that one?” he, asked pointing to a blond Aphrodite spinning on the dance floor.

  “Oh, no!” Nicole shook her head, appalled. “Far too domesticated for the likes of Julius Caesar. The poor girl looks as though she would lie on her back with her eyes closed throughout the entire interlude.”

  “And what of Eris?” the minister whispered, wondering aloud if she would watch as he made love to her.

  “Absolutely not!” Nicole titled her head to one side just in time to see his disappointment before adding, “I never lie on my back.”

  He laughed, but it was more a lustful rush of air. Joseph LeCoeur turned to look at her, his gaze immediately dropping to her lips as they pulled into a seductive smile.

  “Now if you will excuse me, I have an apple to drop. ‘For the fairest’ of the ball.” She repeated the myth.

  “I suggest you keep it for yourself, Madmosielle...?”

  “Eris, Goddess of Discord.” She reminded him. “And how you do flatter me, Julius.”

  Nicole turned away but she felt his fingers curl around her upper arm, halting her progress. She glanced down at his presumption and her left brow rose before meeting his eye.

  The minister released her arm, a flash of respect pulling at the corners of his mouth. “LeCoeur. Minister of Police, Joseph LeCoeur.”

  He waited for his title to sink in, waited for her to see what a powerful protector he could be.

  “Goodnight, Joseph LeCoeur,” Nicole purred unimpressed before leaving him alone in a sea full of people.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Daniel sat, waiting in Nicole Beauvoire’s darkened apartment while he contemplated the wisdom of attending the masquerade ball. He had aggressively and publicly courted the woman in order to hasten Minister LeCoeur’s pursuit. But had he been thinking clearly, had he not been so damn compelled to protect her, he would have realized the limitations he had now placed upon them both.

  He had cast them in far too confining roles; her, the wanton vixen and he, the unwanted suitor. Gone in one impulsive act of protectiveness was his ability to escort the lady about Paris, gone was his ability to offer her a ride home from events in his conveyance.

  Daniel sipped his brandy and repositioned the breast plate of his elaborate costume away from the edge of the settee. He had given his word to the manager of the theatre that he would return the uniform unscathed. In the end, however, it had been the money and not his word that had persuaded the man to temporarily part with the outrageous garment.

  It had taken Daniel half the evening to find a costume that not only fit him, but that was suitable for a masquerade ball. He had hoped for something a bit more dignified than walking into a crowded ballroom in scarcely more than his drawers.

  He cringed as the faces of the women in attendance flashed through his brandy soaked head. They wore masks, but if anything that made their gawking all the worse. As if he could not see their eyes as big as saucers behind a speck of flimsy silk. He could feel the wave of censure as it crashed over him, but there was nothing to be done but lift his head and wade into the water.

  Because of her.

  Nicole Beauvoire was down there in that ocean of rakes and libertines and all he could think was to get her out of the water as quickly as possible, to help her make contact with Minister LeCoeur and then drag her out the damn door. But then he mucked things up and had been forced to leave her, with him. With a clever man whom she knew to be a murderer and a powerful member of the governing body of France.

  Yet, she remained in harm's way, was there still, dancing toe to toe with the lethal LeCoeur armed, because of his stupidity, with nothing more than her an exquisitely conceived ball gown.

  A gown designed to fit her as tightly as her sensual gloves, accentuated by a mask that dared a man to glimpse
her face. A mask that hinted at the lovely skin that lay beneath the black silk gown, flesh that would taste…

  Bloody hell!

  Daniel shot out of his chair, the leather strips of his tunic slapping together then swinging downward to create a solid, yet fluid, skirt of protection. He took a step toward the decanter and the garment flew out of the way of his thigh. It reminded him of a kilt and Daniel enjoyed the freedom of movement as well as any small reminder of home.

  He was tired of the French and this bloody game of cloaks and daggers. If the woman has killed nine men then the lass was perfectly capable of seeing after herself. His misguided, and unwanted for that matter, chivalry was not needed. He could do more good for the war effort at home.

  He would just have to avoid the Duke and Duchess of Glenbroke until he had time to heal from his pain… and his guilt.

  ***

  “Oh,” Nicole was startled to see Daniel Damont sitting in a saloon chair nearest the window, his bare legs and an outstretched arm were illuminated to a pale violet by the moonlight streaming through the half drawn curtain. “You’re awake.”

  “Aye,” he grunted, a flash of light glinted near his chest and she heard him swallow the contents of the tumbler. “I’m awake.”

  His thigh muscles flexed and his knee bent, causing his right shin to disappear into the shadows clinging to the base of the wing back chair, shadows that still hid his handsome face from view.

  He said nothing and Nicole felt the need to fill the awkward emptiness.

  “I wanted to apologize and to thank you for your help this evening. You were correct in your assessment of Minister LeCoeur’s character. The minister did indeed respond to your…”

  His leather chair squeaked and light from a match flooded the room, saving her from trying to explain the effects of his kiss. Nicole blinked several times, having just become accustom to the dark, before he finally came into view as he touched the match to candlewick.

  “Mind my breast plate.” Monsieur Damont pointed to the settee were the golden metal pieces lay cradled between two cushions. “I’ve to take the damn thing back tomorrow mornin’.” The man leaned forward and lifted himself from the chair, which, with his excessive height, seemed to take an eternity.