England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  She had killed nine men, perhaps even more, and had no need of a bodyguard. The woman had endured the loss of her beloved husband and had volunteered to travel to France in service to the crown. No, if any woman did not need his caring, his affection it was Nicole Beauvoire.

  All Daniel need do is harden himself against the lass. Aid her in the assassination and then be on his way home to London where, with his new self-insight, Daniel could find a woman with whom he could share his life.

  He would take his time in selecting a woman capable of returning his affection, a simple woman who wanted nothing more than to bare his many children and build their happy home.

  Daniel took the stairs to the apartment two at a time, invigorated by the idyllic imagine of his home in the highlands overrun by his bairns. Contentment washed over him and Daniel wanted nothing more than to soak in the soothing waters of a steaming hot bath.

  He opened the door and kicked off his impractical shoes before peeled off his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them on his bed. He wrestled with his cravat and his mind drifted down from the highlands of Scotland to the darkened homes on the Place Vendome.

  Nicole Beauvoire would be across the street by now and when Daniel had finished with his bath he planned to resume his impartial observations. He would note the activities taking place at Minister LeCoeur’s home with detachment, hoping only to aid the lady in her commission.

  After all, the lass was a widow and well acquainted with the ways of the world. If Nicole Beauvoire chose to compromise herself in order to gain the minister’s trust then that was her decision. She had probable done it before and would again, once he had left her, alone in Paris.

  Daniel hardened himself against his chivalrous tendencies and yanked his shirt over his head, mussing further his unruly hair. He combed it back with his fingers as he made his way to the washroom off the master suite, trying not to think about the assassination.

  The entire manner of this killing went against everything that he believed if not human nature. The woman should be protected, not need protecting from. Nicole Beauvoire needed a guardian, not a man who sat by while she willingly compromised herself to achieve her goal and the crown’s.

  There was an answer, of course, but he did not know—

  Daniel stilled the moment he heard a splash of water coming from the washroom. He crept forward, his bare feet stepping lightly on the cold wood of the threshold floor. He turned the brass knob and slowly opened the tall door then stopped, stunned by the sight of Nicole Beauvoire sitting in the decorative copper tub.

  Her hair hung free in chaotic black ropes, cascading down her nude body like twists of licorice. Her pink nipples were peaking above the water as she held out her left arm to scrub it with her right. Daniel stared, frozen by the sight of her milky skin until he heard a feminine gasp.

  He lifted his gaze to meet those violet eyes and for the first time in his life, Daniel was rendered speechless. His words were taken by neither embarrassment nor remorse, but by the power of a beautiful woman to pull the air from a man’s lungs. He knew then why men painted and wrote maudlin poetry in the vain hope of capturing this allusive allure that women wielded over men.

  “What are you doing?” She sat back with a splash and covered herself with her arms, but her delicate forearms scarcely covered the rosebuds of her nipples. The feminine curve of her waist, the outline of her hips was clearly visible from his elevated height.

  “I…” Daniel lowered his eyes, speaking to the talon feet of the tub as he said, “My apologies, I thought to have a bath as I believed you to be…” His eyes darted back and forth as his sought for the appropriate word on the oak floor. “Out.”

  “Well, I am not… ‘out’.” Irritation was infused by his carnal accusation. “As you can clearly see.”

  “Yes,” he had seen quite clearly. “Right, I’ll just go then.” Daniel spun on his bare heels and reached for the door but his hand stilled, warming the cold brass knob.

  Why he had paused Daniel could not say, but something in their exchange was not right. Had not been right since the moment he entered the washroom. He turned round and the lady gasped, covering herself as his eyes scanned the small room.

  Candles blazed in the far corner and thick velvet drapes were drawn across the window to keep out the cold or, Daniel glanced at the woman in the tub, to keep in the heat.

  He walked across the lush green carpet and lifted the white towel and neatly folded garments.

  Nothing.

  He tilted his head and peered at the base of the metal tub, nothing seemed amiss so his eyes traveled once again to the lady in it. Daniel stared at Nicole Beauvoire, at her hair. Something was not right about the woman herself.

  “What are you doing?” She asked as he continued to stare and ponder. “Leave this instant!”

  His eyes squinted as his concentration sharpened.

  “What do have behind your back?”

  Nicole froze in the hot waters of her bath.

  “Nothing,” she laughed forcefully.

  “Aye, you’ve something behind ya.” Daniel Damont nodded convinced. “A woman would lean forward to cover herself. Unless,” his turquoise eyes met hers. “She was hiding something behind her. Then… Then a woman would lean back and cover herself as best she could. As you’ve just done. Twice.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Monsieur Damont. Remove yourself!” Nicole felt fear twisting her muscles but as the man planted his feet, she realized that she had no place to run.

  “I will,” he crossed his arms over his naked chest to punctuate his resolve. “As soon as you show me what you’re hindin’.”

  “I’ve nothing behind my back.”

  She held his eyes as he stood at the foot of the tub then, slowly, reluctantly she leaned forward. Her breasts brushed the top of her thighs and she wrapped her arms behind them, forming a sphere of protection.

  A smirk lifted the right side of Daniel Damont mouth and then he made his way behind her. Nicole rested her forehead on her knees and closed her eyes, shivering in the warm water as she waited an eternity for him to view her imperfection.

  Water dripped from the dangling strings of hair and she could feel herself holding her breath, ready to take the impact of his revulsion. Daniel Damont had wanted her last night, but after he saw her back no amount of washing would make her appealing.

  “Oh, lass.” Nicole heard above her. “What have they done to you?” A tear escaped her and she hugged herself tighter, her scars answering for her.

  And then she felt the feather light caress of his fingertips as they sought their way around her waist, his other hand darting beneath her knees. He lifted her from the safety of the tub gently, softly as if her wounds had never healed.

  Nicole leaned against the taut muscle of his bare chest soaking him. Monsieur Damont didn’t seem to notice as he walked toward her bedchamber door. She reached up with her left hand and covered herself with the towel he had so thoughtfully placed across his shoulder. She covered her face, not wanting to be seen, and not wanting to see the pity in his beautiful eyes.

  Unobserved, her tears came steadily and Nicole nuzzled deeper into the crook of his neck. She hated that the raised flesh of her scars rested against his forearm as he carried her. She thought to lift herself, but then he was setting her on the duvet of the master suite bed.

  Daniel Damont said nothing as he worked the velvet duvet beneath her as if she weighed nothing more than a sick child. He bent over, his right hand grasping the heavy fabric as he pulled it toward her head. But rather than release the duvet Daniel lifted his left leg and crawled in next to her, tucking the layers of blankets behind him to keep them both warm.

  He pulled her back against his chest as if to absorb the wounds, her wet head resting on his bulky arm. Nicole felt his muscle flex, and his left elbow bent and his hand came across to rest on her right shoulder. His right hand smoothed the hair from her face before circling her waist, the towel still bunched betwe
en them.

  She lay surrounded, shielded by his strength before his baritone voice rumbled in her ear. “How long did they hold you captive?”

  They?

  “Over a year,” Nicole said to her pillow.

  The arm around her waist tightened, almost painfully so. “And this is why you became an assassin?”

  “Yes,” that was why she murdered Frenchmen, because she had murdered, because she had finally defended herself and killed her capture.

  “To kill the French who did this to you.” Daniel Damont said it to himself. Her brows furrowed as she sought the words to tell him the truth. “I’m so sorry lass,” he whispered, and all wretched thoughts were overcome with kindness, kindness and her own tears.

  He eased his hold on her waist and she felt his right hand spay across her back.

  “How could any man harm… I’m so sorry.” He rubbed the pain of the scars away in small soothing circles. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered again then kissed her where her shoulder and neck came together so that they might be completed by his lips.

  His hand dipped down to her waist and slowly traveled up her bare hip. Nicole could feel his callous fingertips curling as he gently cupped her backside, more insistent in their explorations as his hand lingered then reluctantly dragged his fingers up the softness of her skin.

  “You’re so beautiful lass.” Monsieur Damont reached in front of her and tugged at the towel, causing her to roll on her back as he intended her to do.

  She stared up at Daniel Damont as he braced himself on his left elbow. The heat of his muscular chest warmed her right breast and Nicole heard the towel drop to the floor. She closed her eyes waiting for the panic to seize her, but his fingers were caressing the left side of her face and she felt secure.

  “You’re so beautiful,” she opened her eyes. “How could any man flaw such beauty?”

  But she was flawed, not by the marks on her back but by the manner in which they had gnawed away at her soul, shredding it until Nicole was capable of killing a man, of killing nine men. But as she stared at the masculine symmetry of his features, the clear, warm blue of his eyes, she did not feel defective.

  He let his chest settle against her breasts, the warmth of him eliciting from her a soft moan. His eyes closed momentarily then opened more determined, more focused.

  “I want ta make love to ya, lass,” Daniel Damont breathed, his sexual desire thickening his Scots brogue. “But I will not,” He met her eyes, imploring her to understand. “I cannot touch ya further if you will not have me.”

  Monsieur Damont’s jaw set and he waited for Nicole to answer, but she could not speak. No man had ever asked for permission to bed her and she was not sure how to respond to his request.

  The silence grew and the anticipation drained from his stunning eyes, filling with disappointment as he pushed himself away, severing their bodily bond. Nicole felt the loss and her hands darted out to counter his retreat, settling on the tense muscles of his broad back.

  “Make love to me, Monsieur Damont.”

  His brows furrowed, confusion plainly written on his features. “Daniel,” he said with force. “My name is Daniel.”

  The stunning man dipped his head, his succulent lips skillfully parting hers. His tongue swept into her mouth leisurely, savoring the taste, the heat, the pliant texture of her lips as she savored his. Each stroke of his tongue was built upon the last until finally their explorations were complete.

  He dragged his mind from her mouth and ministered to her neck, pressing his lips just above her collar bone. Nicole turned her head to give him more room to roam as she breathed in the man who was making love to her. Daniel Damont smelled of distant soap and leather, overcome by the power and potency of a man in his sexual prime.

  She was awash with his scent, claimed by it and Nicole felt herself responding, felt her nipples hardening and her back arching as she offered herself to him. He took her lure, his head lifting to view one breast and then the other, unable to decide where his loyalties lie.

  The searing heat of his mouth descended on her right nipple as his hand covered her left. The virile man voiced his pleasure in the back of his throat as he laved and suckled, his long fingers kneading her sensitive breast. Daniel Damont nipped at the hardened peak of her nipple and Nicole gasped at the pleasure he elicited.

  His right hand rolled her nipple between his fingers as his tongue and teeth continued to incite her lust. She was aching and could feel herself opening to him, preparing for him. His left hand skimmed her hip, using it as a map to find the globes of her backside.

  He gave a primal grunt of approval and then relinquished her breast, his large hands holding her hips down as he tasted his way down her belly. His mouth descended further but when Nicole realized his intention she protested.

  “Stop!”

  He lifted his head, his chest heaving, his masculine mouth falling open.

  “Why?” Daniel Damont met her wide eyes and he gave a disbelieving chuckle. “Did your husband never…?”

  Nicole shook her head and he grinned, his eyes lighting with anticipation. “I’ll be your first then.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered embarrassed.

  The man smiled again, but this time it held none of the triumphant glint of before, only the kindness of compassion. “Trust me lass.” Daniel Damont crawled over her and kissed her on the lips, rubbing his thumb across her left cheek as he stared into her eyes. “Trust me.”

  He waited and Nicole nodded her assent. Monsieur Damont smiled, kissing her again then allowing his head to drop to her breasts. His fingers roamed over her, working to rekindle the heat between them and then his hands were on her hips. He lowered his head between her thighs and she closed her eyes, trusting him.

  The heat of his mouth pressed against her moist petals, stealing her breath. He ran his tongue ever so lightly over her until the tip of his tongue danced over the protruding crux of her sensuality.

  Her hips came off the bed but he held her down, probing deeper, laving longer. Monsieur Damont groaned and the masculine reverberation added to the desire mounting to new and undiscovered heights. Nicole was sure she would burst and she wanted him, needed him to contain her.

  “Please, Daniel.” She did not know how to tell him, but he knew.

  He stripped of his pantaloons and she had but a moment to glimpse the beautiful man that would have her. Sharp lines and masculine angles softened by the heavy padding of lean muscles. All of which complemented his thick and unrepentant sex that thrust forward seeking a home of its own.

  Nicole’s body ached to accommodate him as he lay on top of her, his flat stomach and muscled chest amazingly gentle as he pressed her into the comfortable bed. He kissed her again and then she felt him easing into her. She sucked the air from his mouth and he push forward, stroking deeper, stretching her further than she could have thought possible.

  “My God,” Daniel Damont said above her, his jaw resting at her temple. She felt the small of his back arch as he withdrew and then she was being pressed into the mattress as he surged into her once more.

  It was sensual torture and every time he left her she held her breath until his return. Nicole reached for his powerful backside, entreating him to increase his tantalizing pace, his force.

  He did and she moaned, closing her eyes to concentrate on the place where they joined. Time was lost as he stroked deeper, faster. His right hand reached back, capturing her behind the left knee.

  “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he grated.

  Nicole locked herself around his trim waist and they both gasped at his penetrating depth, the pleasure of the increased closeness and then she was being consumed.

  “Daniel,” she said, panicked.

  “I know, lass. We’ll go together.” He stroked faster and then he wasn’t breathing and with a blinding flash behind her eyes, neither was she.

  She was falling into the bed and he was plunging after her, reaching to stay with her. His
arms circled around her, pulling her to him and then she was safe, tucked away in the warmth of her bed as she fell back to the present.

  Her eyelids fluttered open and Nicole listened to his rhythmic pants, felt them in the gentle rising and falling of his stomach. She glanced from his corded neck to the heavy muscles of his chest, amazed that his chest was wider than her shoulders. Daniel Damont was powerfully built, beautiful formed and she could not help but think that this was what God had intended between man and wife.

  What she had missed, what she would never know.

  Tears welled in her eyes and Nicole let her hands fall away from him. Daniel Damont no doubt elicited such passion from every woman he took to his bed. Silly notions of a loving husband, a home full of children born of that love. Ridiculous thoughts that would die the moment she was executed. Her body was rocked by the idea and she shook with it.

  Her a mother? A wife? It was ridiculous.

  “Well, that was—“

  Daniel lifted himself, startled by the racking of her fragile frame. He stared into her violet eyes and verified that the lass was indeed crying.

  But he could scarcely blame her, he too was having a difficulty comprehending what had just happened. Daniel had poured himself into their lovemaking, driven by desire to ease her many wounds, hoping, as he stared at her tears, that he had not just added to them.

  “I dinna hurt ya?”

  The woman shook her head and then snorted.

  His head jerked back and Daniel stared at her face as she swiped her eyes, realizing that she was laughing. His face contorted with confusion as Nicole Beauvoire met his eye and she laughed harder still.

  Daniel felt the sting of… embarrassment, perhaps, and then rose from where he had lain cradled between the warmth of her soft thighs. Daniel sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward to retrieve his breeches. He felt the slight dip of the mattress as the woman sat up and propped herself against the multitude pillows as she struggled to control her laughter.

  “It’s not you, Monsieur Damont.”

  Daniel closed his eyes, sure that if ever there where words to shrivel a man’s pride, it was those. He thrust his right foot into his prissy pantaloons and then rose, hauling them over his bare backside.