by Darcy Burke
It took her a very long time to fall asleep, and when she did, she dreamed of terrible food…and delicious kisses.
Chapter 8
To Thomas’s amazement, Etienne Rousseau accepted without hesitation his claim that he had encountered Sabine on her way out earlier in the morning and had given her the jewelry then. “I am needed back home in Tarare within the week, you see, and I could not wait for her to return from her errand to begin the trip. We will be lucky to make Cosne-d’Allier tonight as it is,” he said, naming a town approximately twenty miles to the southeast.
Rousseau heaved a sigh, shaking his head ruefully. “I completely understand. You were more than kind to make the trip at all. I do wish you had had one of the servants fetch me before you handed anything over to the girl, of course.” Rousseau’s tone held the barest hint of reproof. “I can only hope she stored them in a safe place before she left. She is not always the cleverest of the fair sex, as you have no doubt noticed for yourself.”
People in glass houses, Thomas thought, which helped him to strangle the impulse to plant a fist in Rousseau’s florid face. Instead, he thanked the detestable man for his hospitality, which had in fact been above reproach, up to and including the light breakfast of homemade breads and pastries Thomas had managed to enjoy before his host had arrived in the dining room to spoil his appetite.
Within a half hour of making his final farewells, Thomas was safely ensconced in his borrowed coach-and-four and on his way to rendezvous with Sabine at the coaching station in Igny.
George Brunell, one of the three actual British spies who’d been assigned to accompany Thomas on his mission, sat across from him, while the other, John Harcourt, occupied the seat to his left. The men had posed, respectively, as Thomas’s valet and footman, while the third—and most junior—Alexander Jenkins, who looked to Thomas to be barely out of his teens, had been relegated to the position of coachman.
Harcourt, garbed in gaudy blue-and-brown livery with white trim that looked ridiculous on his stocky, heavily muscled frame, cast Thomas an aggrieved glare. “Tell me you aren’t really planning to do this.” This, of course, was to make the trip to Le Havre with a single team of horses, namely Sabine Rousseau’s Percherons.
“You know very well that I am.”
“And you’re mad,” Brunell objected. In his forties, he was the most senior member of the group, which was why he’d gotten the role of valet despite the fact that he was tall and lean and would have looked a damn sight better than Harcourt in livery. “Even if you aren’t intercepted on the way, La Sereia will be in port four days from now. You can’t expect them to wait indefinitely. The authorities will become suspicious.”
“Which is why you and Harcourt will ride ahead from Duval’s tomorrow and advise the ship to leave and return again in a week,” Thomas said patiently. He hadn’t had time to give the men more than the barest outlines of his intentions, so he couldn’t blame them for their skepticism.
“Why bother?” Brunell shook his head. “Meeting her in Igny is a stroke of genius and gets us a much better head start than we’d have gotten leaving last night, but all we need to do now is scoop the lass up and be on our way. I know you’ve got gentlemanly pretensions and you probably think abduction is beneath you, but trust me, son, no good deed goes unpunished in this game.”
“And you think trussing her up like a Christmas goose for a breakneck, four-day journey is less likely to draw the attention of the authorities than a newlywed couple of modest means making a leisurely trek from her village to his?” Thomas asked. “I realize you haven’t spoken more than three words to her, but you will have to trust me when I tell you that she’s not going to mellow and cooperate with us after a few hours. She’s made of the same stuff her father is, and Mr. Pitt doesn’t back down from a fight.”
Brunell mumbled an obscenity, but raised his hands in an “it’s your funeral” gesture and said, “As long as you’re not expecting Harcourt and me to join you on your romantic jaunt, fine. Just make sure to provide us with a letter explaining you got caught because you were afraid of making her angry, and that’s why both of you were captured by Napoleon and now the premiere has to deal with the one problem he was trying to avoid. The last thing I want is to be blamed for your poor judgment.”
“You needn’t worry on that score,” Thomas assured him. “The secretary made it perfectly clear that I’m in charge of this mission, and its success or failure rests entirely on me. And while I may not have your skills or your experience, I know what I’m doing when it comes to Miss Rousseau.”
Except when it came to keeping himself from wanting her. He had no idea how he was going to survive being alone with her for the next twelve days without bursting into a column of flame. And maintaining the pretense of being newlyweds would mean putting on small public demonstrations of affection—draping his arm around her waist, dropping a kiss on her cheek or forehead, giving her hand a gentle squeeze from time to time. Worse, after tonight, it would mean sharing a room with her each night until they reached Le Havre.
Sharing a bed. For ten nights.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat as the carriage swayed down the road to Igny. Or, more accurately, the road to temptation.
When Thomas stepped through the door of the coaching inn, the place was largely deserted. Travelers who had stayed overnight were on their way by now, and those who would be hoping to change horses after the first leg of a long trip wouldn’t arrive for another few hours. The patrons were thus limited to three elderly men—locals, he suspected—who sat around table near the large, open fireplace drinking what was probably their breakfast. The innkeeper, a burly man with a full head of bushy, graying hair, stood behind the bar, surveying his domain while sipping his own morning pint of ale. The other two occupants of the room were an amply proportioned woman wearing a brown dress and a white apron—likely the innkeeper’s wife—and Sabine, who was engaging the woman in an animated conversation.
The sight of her caused a hitch in his respiration. Even with her glorious hair completely covered by a wide-brimmed straw bonnet and her face turned away, he recognized her in a way that was so visceral, he briefly forgot where he was and why. His thoughts were reduced to single words accompanied by florid images.
Kiss. Hold. Keep.
Dear God, that embrace last night had been even more ill-advised than he’d imagined.
He managed to get a grip on himself just as Sabine seemed to sense his presence and turned to look at him. Her face broke into a radiant smile that made his heart leap all over again, and she tugged at the other woman’s sleeve. “Here he is, Madame Marchand. My fiancé, Monsieur Thomas Allard.”
Madame Marchand left off wiping down a table and gave Thomas a thorough visual appraisal. So thorough, in fact, that he felt vaguely like livestock. After a few seconds, she nodded sharply and observed in a broad country accent, “You did not overstate his looks, my dear, but are you sure his character’s as pretty as his face and form? I would not want to see you escape the soup pot only to fall into the fire.”
Sabine flashed another grin and rushed to his side, slipping her arm around his and resting her head against his biceps with an exaggerated sigh of happiness. “I am ever so certain of it. He is the kindest, most honorable man I’ve ever met. Other than my Papa, of course.”
Well, damn, that was a lot to live up to, Thomas thought dryly. She had clearly idolized Claude Rousseau. Lucky for Thomas, she was merely putting on a show for the innkeeper and his wife, who were doubtless expected to recount the story of their oh-so-romantic elopement to lend credence to the tale. But he found himself wishing she actually believed what she was saying. “I assure you, Madame,” he said, “that I have only the most honorable intentions toward Mademoiselle Rousseau. I would sooner cut my own throat than see her hurt.”
The woman finally snorted her approval, perhaps because she’d heard the sincerity in his voice. He certainly wasn’t lying. His inten
tions were purely honorable, though of course they did not include marriage as his words implied. But no matter what his body wanted, he was not going to debauch the premiere’s daughter. And if he did, he’d either have to make it right or be obliged to cut his own throat lest someone be dispatched to do it for him.
“You see?” Sabine said, reaching up to pat his cheek. “He’s going to take good care of me, I promise.”
Thomas wished she didn’t seem to be enjoying this show quite as much, but he couldn’t fault her acting skills. She was putting on a damn fine performance.
“So, it’s a coach and a coachman you’ll be hiring, then?” the innkeeper asked, demonstrating that he had been paying attention to the little drama unfolding in his public room.
“Just a coach,” Thomas corrected. “A post-chaise, I should think. And we won’t be hiring it. I’ll buy it outright.”
“Buy it, eh?” The innkeeper stroked his beard thoughtfully. “That will leave me short until I can replace it. I can’t give it to you for less than it will cost me to buy a replacement.”
Thomas shrugged. “I’d prefer that to having to hire it and a coachman for ten days or more, along with hiring horses to bring it back. This makes considerably more sense.”
“But no coachman?” Sabine put in. “Who will drive? You?”
He shook his head. “My footman can drive. He won’t like it, but he’s more than capable. Sending the coachman back after we reach Tarare will be more trouble than it’s worth.”
“I see your reasoning,” the innkeeper said with a nod. “Let me show you what I have on hand, and we can discuss pricing.”
Chapter 9
The roiling in Sabine’s stomach had nothing to do with the swaying motion of the post-chaise and everything to do with the certainty that there was no turning back now. She stared out the window at the passing countryside and prayed she had made the right decision. She was now farther from home that she had ever been in her life, although nothing in the landscape seemed as yet foreign or unfamiliar. It was all still the rolling fields and trees she’d grown up with.
And she was never coming back.
They rode in silence for what seemed like ages but was likely no more than twenty minutes. At last, Mr. Pearce said, “It’s going to be a long day. We need to reach Vornay tonight, and it’s nearly thirty miles.”
She turned to look at him and had to catch her breath as her physical awareness of him sparked back to life, curling upward like a flame inside her. It wasn’t fair that the mere sight of him could make her forget everything except how much she wanted to throw out all the rules and have him. How much she was sure he wanted the same thing—if only he weren’t such a good and decent man.
Who knew that goodness and decency could be such a bother?
“What is in Vornay?” she asked, forcing herself to concentrate on the conversation. It wasn’t a place she had ever heard of, but then, she probably hadn’t heard of most places in France other than the large cities like Paris, Lyon, Bourges, and Marseilles.
“The man from whom I hired that elaborate turnout I arrived in. You didn’t think I’d come in it all the way from England, did you?”
“I suppose I didn’t think about how you’d come from England at all. Which must make me seem terribly incurious and self-absorbed.”
His smile was genuine. “Not at all. Why should you think about such things? I’ve turned your entire life upside down. I hardly expect you to ruminate over the logistics of how I managed it.”
That made her laugh. “Still, it seems rather silly to me now that you mention it. So, who is this man in Vornay? Is he British, too?”
Pearce shook his head. “No. He’s from Saint Dominique. Haiti, it’s called now. Have you heard of it?”
“Oh, yes. The slaves there revolted in 1791 and finally gained independence last year. Are you saying this man was a slave owner?” She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Although she knew slavery was legal in many parts of the world, including some French territories, she was not sure she could be polite to someone who thought owning human beings was acceptable.
“A slave owner?” Pearce snorted. “Far from it. Osiris Duval was a slave. His master, Louis Duval, brought Osiris and his two sisters to France shortly after the revolution broke out. Louis never married, had no legal heirs, and claimed to think of Osiris and his sisters as his children.”
Sabine couldn’t suppress a frown of disgust. “Parents don’t own their children like livestock. Not if they truly love them.”
Pearce’s lips quirked in a lopsided grin. “I think Osiris is going to like you. He told me much the same thing. On the other hand, since Louis freed the three of them in his will and bequeathed all his unentailed properties to Osiris, making him an extremely wealthy man, perhaps old Louis was not entirely stuff and nonsense.”
“Perhaps, but that doesn’t help explain why Monsieur Duval would lend you the coach-and-four, or why you would trust him to not to betray us.”
“No, I suppose it does not, but the fact that he was once a slave in a French colony is part of the explanation. You see, he is not at all pleased that your self-proclaimed emperor reinstated slavery in French colonies, especially considering all the lip service Bonaparte gives to ‘the rights of man.’ Since then, Duval has been working against Bonaparte in any way he can, and that includes providing support to the British whenever it is both possible and profitable. His help does not come cheaply, but that is partly why we can trust him. The man is funneling huge sums of money to assist Haiti in rebuilding as well as to support various abolitionist causes both in Europe and the Americas, and while he’s not on entirely friendly terms with the British government since there are still a number of slaveholding British colonies, every pound we send his way is a pound he can spend in the effort to end slavery. He is not going to shoot the golden goose.
“And it does not hurt that I am a member of the Abolitionist Society back home and that my brother has been working with William Wilberforce’s committee on legislation to abolish the slave trade. I believe we can trust him not to betray us, given all that.”
“Does he know who I am? Or, more accurately, who my father is?”
Pearce nodded. “We all felt we would have a better chance of gaining Duval’s support if he knew why you need to flee the country. A number of his close friends and colleagues have run afoul of Fouchet over the years, so he knows precisely what you would face if your uncle turned you in.”
Sabine was not sure how she felt that a complete stranger had known the truth about her parentage before she had. It seemed invasive and…intimate, but then, everyone had known before she did, had they not? She wished again that she knew how Uncle Etienne had learned who her father was. Knowing wouldn’t change anything, of course, but the possibility that one of her parents had been careless enough to leave behind evidence for her uncle to find while keeping the secret from her was strangely unnerving.
Still, she could not fault the logic behind Duval knowing the truth and not having to keep her identity a secret would make things easier, at least while they stayed with him. “Will there be any others like Monsieur Duval to help us after we leave Vornay?”
“There is a safe house outside of Paris, but aside from that, we will have to stay at public inns. As a man and woman traveling alone together, it will be easiest for us to avoid drawing attention if we pretend to be newlyweds. We could try brother and sister, but I am not sure anyone who looked at the two of us would readily believe we are that closely related by blood. But if you would prefer to try that, certain things might be…” he cleared his throat, “…easier.”
“I am not sure I understand why—” Oh. A husband and wife would be expected to share a room. A brother and sister would not.
Oh, yes, she could see why pretending to be husband and wife would be difficult. It was already difficult enough to sit beside him in this cramped carriage and not give into the urge to scoot just a little closer to him, to brush her arm a
gainst his, to rest a hand ever so gently on his beautifully muscled thigh.
She jerked her gaze away from said thigh. Saints preserve her, she was incorrigible. Just put a handsome man who was not a completely self-serving, slavering idiot into her path, and she turned into an utter wanton. “Do you think pretending to be brother and sister might work?” She didn’t want the answer to be yes.
He shrugged. “Innkeepers do not ask a lot of questions of their patrons, and I doubt they would be overtly suspicious of such a claim. But I do think they might remember us more clearly if we took two rooms than if we took one. And I do not think being memorable is in our best interest.”
“Then I suppose we had better be newlyweds,” she said, and hoped he did not see how giddy with pleasure the idea of pretending to be his wife made her.
Sabine did not realize she had dozed off until the carriage came to a stop, jostling her awake. Mr. Pearce had not exaggerated when he had said it would be long day. Twilight had fallen while she’d slept, which meant they must have reached their destination.
She looked out the window and took in a sharp breath. Pearce had told her that the man they would be staying with was rich, but she hadn’t truly grasped how rich until this moment.
The carriage was parked in front of a three-and-a-half-story chateau so massive, it could easily have held four houses the size of the one she had grown up in. Light spilled from the many tall, narrow windows that faced the drive, bathing the pale exterior of the building in a soft orange glow. The wide front staircase narrowed as it swept its way up to the front doors, which were placed in the center of a square mass protruding from two rectangular wings that stretched out on either side. Although the façade was free of elaborate ornamentation, the sheer size of the building and the obvious care with which it had been both constructed and maintained was awe-inspired.
