England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  “I can’t!” Nicole shouted, bolting up from the bed and looking down at his wounded eyes. “I can’t go back to England. I can’t marry you, Daniel. I can’t marry anyone.”

  His mouth hung open in devastated shock and she knew that he could not form the words, the question he so desperately needed answering.

  “The scars on my back,” Nicole began, shaking. “Were not inflicted by French soldiers, but by my British husband.”

  It took a moment for her confession to penetrate the viscount’s confused mind. His eyes hardened and Nicole took a step back, frightened by the change in his demeanor as Daniel rose to his feet, his jaw clenched more tightly than his enormous fists.

  “Who is he?” Daniel Damont demanded. “I’m gonna to kill the bloody bastard.”

  “You can’t!”

  “Just you watch me, lass.” The viscount said with chilling resolve.

  “No, you can’t, Daniel.” Nicole swallowed her shame. “Because I already killed him.”

  His blue eyes focused on her face and not the distant task he had given himself. “What?

  “Sit down,” Nicole begged, pushing against his hard chest and moving the stunned man as if he were a feather. The viscount collapsed on the wing backed chair and she sat facing him on the tiny footstool between his feet.

  “When I was eleven years old my mother died,” she began, and he nodded still confused. “My father married shortly thereafter and he passed away when I was but seventeen, leaving my stepmother as my guardian.” Nicole glanced up to see that he was following.

  “The lady counted the days until she could be rid of me and when her cousin of thirty-four years came to visit, she knew she had her chance.”

  Nicole bit her lower lip, finding it difficult to unearth the memories she had so thoroughly buried.

  “You see the gentleman was enamored of my charms.” Daniel glanced at her décolletage and Nicole knew that he took her meaning. “Not to mention my robust fortune. So, my stepmother arranged, for a very large fee, for her cousin to marry me the day I turned eighteen.”

  “Why did you agree to such a marriage?”

  “I had no choice in the matter.” Nicole snorted in disgust. “My stepmother literally dragged me kicking and screaming before the local vicar who was paid to turn a blind eye to my distress.”

  “I’m so sorry, lass.” Daniel grabbed her hands, caressing the backs of them gently with his thumbs and this time she did cry.

  “As to the scars, my husband enjoyed beating me before—“

  “Shhh,” he breathed, his long arms wrapping around her as the viscount pulled her to his chest. “It alright, lass, you don’t need to speak of it.”

  Nicole laid her head on his sturdy shoulder and let the strokes of his hand expel the relentless cold. And when she felt strong enough to endure his repulsion, Nicole sat back and looked him in the eye. She stared at the blue depth so that he would know, so that he would understand why she could not, and never would, be able to marry him.

  “My name is not Nicole Beauvoire, Daniel.” She let out her fear in one long breath. “My name is Nicole Stratton.” Nicole watched the name bouncing around in his memory and she was powerless to stop the inevitable realization. “Lady Nicole Stratton.”

  The viscount jerked his hands from hers and Nicole forced her chin to stop quivering.

  “I can’t marry you, Daniel.”

  “You were hanged two years ago!” he whispered to himself, his eyes looking at Nicole as if she were a perilous apparition.

  “Falcon needed a gently bred woman to infiltrate Parisian Society.” Her eyes dimmed with guilt. “He arrange for a substitute to be hanged in my place so that I might become that woman. A prostitute convicted of murder, sentenced to hang one month after my own execution. The woman had black hair and blue eye and need only be convincing on the short walked to the gallows.”

  “Why would she agree—“

  Nicole stood, covering her face with her right hand to push the memories away. “She had a child, a one year old child. Falcon agreed to see to the boy, to his education.”

  “The gifts? You send the lad gifts.”

  “His mother saved us both that day.”

  “Aye, she did,” Daniel said, grabbing her about the shoulders and turning her to look at him. “So, do not throw your life away in Paris. Marry me, Nicole! Come back to London and we’ll raise the lad together.”

  Sobbing, Nicole placed her hand over her mouth.

  “I can’t marry you, Daniel,” The light drained from his eyes and Nicole realized that she had never experienced such pain. Even at the hands of her sadistic husband. “If I return to England, I return to Newgate to be hanged.”

  They stared at one another, helpless and then Nicole walked toward the bed and continued her packing.

  “Do you love me, Nicole?”

  She closed her eyes, torn apart by the ache in his stilted voice. Nicole turned so that he could see the sincerity in her eyes, her heart.

  “Daniel, I have loved you from the moment I realized that you had stolen my pistol.”

  He grinned, miserable. “’twas my kiss, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she nodded tears spilling on her cheeks. “Your kiss and your kindness.” Nicole tried to smile. “You’ll make some lucky lass a wonderful husband, Daniel McCurren.”

  Neither of them could stand the pain, but it was he who closed the distance between them to ease it. He bent his head and seized her in a desperate kiss while she pushed impatiently at his jacket.

  The exquisite garment was flung to the floor, the sleeves turned inside out. His fingers fought the tiny buttons at the back of her gown until, frustrated, his yanked, sending the buttons cascading about the room like heavy drops of rain. They let go of one another, only to return the instant a new item of clothing went flying.

  His shirt was tossed onto the carpet and Nicole pulled her mind away from his mouth so that she could have a good, long look at his exquisite body. Nicole tugged her gown down and he watched, his breathing heavy as she reached round to untie her corset.

  Her chemise went with it and she danced on her skirts to disentangle her feet. Free, Nicole looked up and launched herself naked into his arms muscular arms, oversetting them both. They were kissing before they hit the mattress of her four poster bed. She closed her eyes, the heat of his chest on her breasts was unbearable.

  “Make love to me, Nicole,” the viscount whispered in her ear.

  “You’re the only man I have ever made love to, Daniel.” He looked down at her, the enormity of her words hitting them hard.

  They became silent, words too inadequate a form of expression. Daniel’s hands spoke for him, marking her as forever his and they both gasped when he introduced one long, finger into her wet heat. His mouth clamped over her nipple and he suckled in rhythm with his gentle thrusts.

  Every stroke seemed to linger longer than the last, seemed to torture her more. But it was his weight, the strength of his hand grasping her inner thigh, his sheer masculinity that had her hips rising with approval.

  Nicole bit him on the shoulder, needing to taste him and he countered by kissing her neck. She was close to finding her pleasure and Daniel knew it. Nicole could sense his excitement; feel his exhilaration as he pressed against her.

  And then with one tender stroke, she shattered, crying out in delight. The viscount groaned, suckling her breast and then lifting himself to yank off his buckskins. He threw the duvet off the bed and crawled over her, pinning her wrists to the mattress.

  He was feral, driven solely by the primal need to mate. She spread her thighs, offering herself to him and waiting to be filled by his power. But she was left wanting. Confused, Nicole opened her eyes only to see him staring at her wrists.

  “I’m sorry.” Daniel looked horrified and she’d no idea why. “I dinna think.”

  Nicole looked deeply into his eye and then, with a sharp intake of breath, she knew the source of his distress.

/>   “Oh, Daniel, you could never hurt me as my husband did.” She shook her head, reflecting her certainty.

  “’Tis why you don’t like to be handled.” Daniel rolled over, propping himself against two pillows. “And I was tossin’ you about like a rag doll,” he said, torturing himself with guilt.

  Nicole went to him, overwhelmed by the sheer decency of the man.

  “I only like being handled when I wish to be handled.” The viscount looked up hopeful. “And a woman rather enjoys a man who is capable of tossing her about.”

  “If she wishes to be tossed,” he grinned.

  “If she wishes to be tossed.” Nicole swung her knee over his muscled thighs and settled in his lap. His eyes closed at the feel of her soft backside caressing his hard sex. “Look at me, Daniel.”

  The viscount met her eye and she felt his hands on her hips, guiding her as she took him in.

  “Oh, lass,” Daniel said, holding her eyes as he filled her. “I want ya so much.”

  “Shh.” Nicole knew he was not speaking of their lovemaking, but the alternative was too painful to contemplate, to painful to hear. She had him here and now and Nicole intended to make the most of today.

  For tomorrow she had a duty to perform and a debt to repay, but at present all Nicole could think of was how to protect this noble man and how to keep him safe, not only from the French, but from himself.

  Chapter Thirty

  The sunlight penetrated Daniel’s eyelids and he registered somewhere in the back of his mind that it was morning. However, it was not the sun but the banging at the front door of the apartment that roused him to some semblance of wakefulness.

  He pulled on his buckskin and a linen shirt with great reluctance, wondering where Nicole had wander off to. They had much to do this morning and Daniel smiled to himself as he walked to the door.

  Last night, the lass had confessed her love of him and it was a great load off his mind. He was not sure that his heart could have taken the blow if Nicole had rejected him, but thankfully she had not.

  The lass was in love with him. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way that she had made love to him. They had been of one mind and one soul, just as he had always imagined love to be, to feel and Daniel could not help but grin with contentment.

  Oh, it had been a shock to learn who she was, who she had been, the infamous Lady Stratton. Yet, after seeing the scars on her back Daniel, nor any sane man, could blame the lass for defending herself.

  His stomach clenched when he thought of the pain she had endured at the hands of her blackguard of a husband, but it was tempered by a strange pride. Nicole Beauvoire was more than capable of defending herself and she had no need of him to do it for her.

  Perhaps that was what was so damned appealing? The lass had chosen him. Nicole was in no need of his money or his protection, but she was in want of him.

  The pounding at the door persisted, cutting short his gratification and Daniel sighed with annoyance, calling, “Just a moment,” as he shrugged into his jacket and slipped on his hideous shoes.

  It had taken hours to convince Nicole to return to London with him, but in the end he had managed to persuade her. Daniel was sure that he would have no difficulty in gaining his father influence to plead her case for a pardon. The lady had served the crown faithfully and successfully for two long years and Daniel had no doubt that her loyalty would be rewarded.

  Grasping the brass knob of the entryway door, his mind was filled with the preparations that would need to be made for their return to England. They would need to secure a ship to Honfleur, where Nicole’s British contact would be able to book passage to London. Then they would formulate their stratagem for presenting her case to the authorities.

  Daniel opened the front door and the moment the catch gave, he was rushed by four men before he had a chance to react to the ambush. His mind came instantly awakened with the fear of Nicole’s capture and he struck one of the assailants in the jaw, knocking the man to the wooden floor.

  He spun round to face the French soldiers, but before he could pull back to unleash a second blow, his right arm was seized by two other men. They used their combined weight to drive him to the carpet, knocking the breath from his chest and before he could regain it, he was being gagged, his arms and legs skillfully bound.

  The four men stared down at him and to Daniel’s great surprise, he saw that they were not French soldiers but sailors.

  All four were breathing heavily from their scuffle, when the youngest complained rubbing his cheek, “The lady said that he was big, but I think the bastard broke my jaw.”

  The lady?

  Daniel ignored the emotional kick to his gut and began thrashing the moment he realized Nicole’s intentions. He had to stop her from performing this assassination. He had to convince her that she would survive if she returned to London, that he would protect her.

  The sailors wrestled him to his feet and desperate he butted one in the head, causing the man to stagger backward, his left eyebrow dripping with blood. Too late, Daniel glimpsed the downward thrust of cosh as it came crashing down on the back of his head.

  And then he saw nothing, slumping forward as the four men dragged him from the stylish apartment on the fashionable Place Vendome.

  ***

  Nicole stared at the afternoon sun, knowing that the deed was done. Daniel was gone, safely tucked away in a carriage heading to Honfleur.

  It was for the best, she knew, that he return to London, and she reminding herself that she was an assassin with no use for the sentiments of love or regret.

  Swallowing her misery, Nicole thought of the assassination that would conclude Scorpion’s grisly career. Tonight she would avenge Andre Tuchelles’ murder and earn the years of life the lady of Newgate had given her.

  She envisioned what she would say, how the assassination, under such scrupulous security, would be managed. Nicole went through her script again and again, thoroughly, painstakingly up until the very moment that she rolled up to the impressive Tuileries Palace.

  Nicole shivered as she stepped from her carriage, amazed that the weather could turn so quickly. She glanced up at the dark clouds, her breath short puffs of smoke. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she made her way through the maze of landaus on her way to the front entrance where she was quickly ushered inside.

  Mademoiselle Beauvoire handed the butler her invitation and was shown to an enormous saloon where she was offered coffee and cakes while her luggage was taken to her assigned bedchamber.

  “Coffee only, Merci,” Nicole said to the footman, glancing about the room and praying that she did not encounter Joseph LeCoeur before she was prepared.

  “Mademoiselle Beauvoire. Was it not?” A masculine voice said from behind her.

  “Oui,” Nicole still, smiling as she turned to find a strikingly handsome blond staring down at her, his hands clasped behind his back. “And whom do I have the pleasure of acquainting myself?”

  “Ah.” The gentleman stepped forward, sweeping away the exquisitely tailored tails of his fawn jacket so that he might position himself on the settee adjacent to her delicate brocade chair. “But we are acquainted Mademoiselle Beauvoire and you wound me deeply to have forgotten the occasion.”

  The gentleman grinned rakishly as he reached out to capture her hand so that he might kiss it. Nicole waited until the man had lifted his head so that she might look him in the eye.

  “Marquis La Roche!” Nicole purred. “How charming to see you again, but you must forgive me as I have never seen you in anything but a dressing gown.”

  Several mouths feel open and the marquis roared with laughter and her implied intimacy.

  “Oui. However, I believe my custom of Zeus would more aptly be described as a toga,” the marquis said loud enough for others in the saloon to hear.

  “Oh, Oui,” Nicole said as if she had just remembered. “You made a rather charming God.”

  “And you made quite the tempting Goddess?
” Marquis La Roche whispered, a rake once again. “And if I recall,” he leaned forward. “You were rather an accomplished artist.”

  “Pardon?” Nicole widened her eyes innocently. “Did I paint something for you?”

  “Oui.” The marquis held her eyes. “Your invitation.”

  Nicole raised a brow and grinned. “You can hardly blame me, Marquis La Roche. I had heard from so many young ladies what delightful company you are.”

  “It is so nice to be appreciated.”

  “Mmm.” Nicole sipped her coffee.

  “And are you here on your own, Mademoiselle Beauvoire, or have you managed to acquire a genuine invitation?”

  “What difference could it make now that I am here? Or perhaps you were more interested in the former?”

  The marquis smiled, glad for her understanding. “Are you here on your own, Mademoiselle Beauvoire?” His russet eyes shone with interest as the rake awaited her answer.

  “Alas, no,” Nicole shook her head, her black curls bobbing. “I am merely accompanying a guest of Empress Bonaparte’s.”

  “A gentleman guest, I presume?” the marquis nodded, confirming his own question.”

  Nicole lifted her shoulders and asked a question of her own. “Is there any other sort of guest?”

  “Oui,” his heated gaze travel from her head to toe and back again. “There are most definitely other sorts of guests, much more charming and entertaining sorts of guests.”

  Nicole glanced at the other ladies buzzing about the room and the marquis. “And so very many choices.”

  His eyes darted to the other women and then back to hers. “Who is this fortunate gentleman you accompany?”

  Nicole saw no reason to lie as she would be on the minister’s arm very soon. “Minister LeCoeur.”

  “Ahh,” Marquis La Roche lifted his head and sat back in his chair as if everything had been made clear to him. What had been made clear, she had not an inkling. “This explains everything.”

  “What explains everything?” Nicole’s violet eye were staring expectantly and the marquis enjoyed toying with her a moment longer.

  “I was questioned by the minister’s men and now I comprehend why?”