by Darcy Burke
Monsieur Pearce smiled sympathetically. “I have never understood the phenomenon, either. All I can do is assure is that you will grow accustomed to it as the days wear on, and you will not feel quite so wretched at the end of each day as you do now.”
“I hope not.” She rubbed absently at her lower back. The flare of heat in his eyes at the motion was so brief, she almost missed it, but it brought a flush to her cheeks. Self-consciously, she moved her hand to knead the back of her neck. “How soon do you think dinner will be delivered?”
“Not soon enough,” he muttered, averting his gaze. He strode toward the fire grate and grabbed the poker, although the fire did not need stirring.
This was going to be a very long night.
Maybe, after they had done this a few times, they would be able to be alone in a room together without this…awkwardness. It was not as if they were not both well aware that, under other circumstances, they would likely be sharing this room—and the bed—in a decidedly different way than the situation demanded. It was not as if the strain of not doing what they both wanted was not apparent. But acknowledging it, giving voice to the longing that stretched between them, might be too much temptation to resist. So instead, it simmered underneath every action and interaction, threatening to boil over at the slightest provocation.
The knock on the door made her jump. At Pearce’s nod, she turned and opened it, tilting her face toward the floor so that the serving woman who had brought up the tray could not get a good look at her face.
“Here is your dinner, Madam. You want it on the table?”
“Yes, please,” Pearce answered. “We will put the dishes outside the door when we are finished so you need not come back for them.”
“As you wish, sir.” She shuffled from the door to the table and set down the tray, from which she removed two large bowls of what Sabine’s nose told her was beef stew and a basket likely filled with bread. There was also a bottle of wine, two glasses, utensils, and serviettes. When the woman finished placing items on her table, she dropped a curtsey in Monsieur Pearce’s direction. “Will there be aught else?”
He shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Once the serving woman departed, Sabine finally removed her bonnet with a sigh of relief, and the two of them sat down to eat. The food could not hold a tithe to Madame Charney’s cooking—oh, how Sabine was going to miss her!—but it was not terrible, either, and the wine was actually quite good. So good, in fact, that Sabine drank rather more than she should have and was a little tipsy by the end of the meal. Perhaps that was why the next words fell out of her mouth. “What would we be doing now if we were really married?”
Monsieur Pearce reached across the table and set his palm on her right shoulder. At first, she didn’t understand the meaning of the gesture, but then he pushed her gently back to the left, and she realized she had been listing out of the chair. Perhaps she was a little drunker than she thought.
His brown eyes sparkled in the low light, his expression wistful. He moved his hand to cup her cheek and brushed his thumb across her lips, sending tingles of anticipation along her nerve endings. This was what she had been desperately waiting for, longing for. “If we were married,” he said, his hand dropping from her cheek, “I would do the very same thing I am going to do now. You are foxed, Sabine Rousseau, and so tired you can barely keep from slipping out of your chair. Even if you were my wife, I would be making sure you got into bed and went to sleep. Whatever it is you think you want now, you might regret it in the morning, and I will not take advantage of you—or any woman—when you are vulnerable.”
“I am not—” she began. There he went again, assuming he knew what she wanted better than she did! But when she tried to stand up, thinking to close the space between them and insist that she knew very well what she was doing, her head spun, and she wobbled precariously.
Very well then; perhaps in this one instance, he was right. She would not regret touching him or letting him touch her, but she would regret not being fully present for the moment, for every sensation, every emotion.
She thudded back into the chair and winced because her bottom was still sore from the endless hours in the carriage. “Fine. You are right. I am not good for anything but sleeping right now.”
“I will go downstairs while you get ready for bed. That is, if you think you can manage on your own.”
The longer she examined her body’s signals, the more unsure she was that she could manage on her own, but she was also not going to put either herself or him through the agony of his helping her to undress and don her night rail. That would be like unveiling a banquet in front of a starving man and then denying him permission to eat. For both of them. “Yes, I can manage,” she said with more conviction than she felt.
With a nod, he stood. As he turned to walk toward the door, she caught sight of the unmistakable bulge in the front of his well-fitted breeches, and all the yearning she had managed to tamp down swelled up inside her like a storm cloud, ready to burst into a torrent. But before anything could come of her loss of control, he was out the door and closing it gently behind him.
She squeezed her thighs together in an effort to lock down the ache that gathered between them and swore under her breath in an entirely filthy and unladylike manner.
This was only the first night. The fall was inevitable. Resistance was futile.
Chapter 13
By the time Thomas returned to the room, Sabine was asleep on the far side of the bed, entirely obscured beneath a thick layer of blankets. Thanks to a decidedly unhealthy dose of brandy and his own exhaustion—he had, after all, been traveling almost nonstop for the better part of two weeks—he was able to climb atop the bedclothes, fully clothed, and fall asleep almost immediately.
He also rose before she did the following morning, which saved him the indignity of explaining that his erection upon waking was a function of basic biology and had nothing—or at least very little—to do with the fact that he had snuggled up against her for warmth during the night. Having slept atop the covers, he was able to roll off the bed without disturbing her and managed to accomplish his morning toilet in the weak light that seeped in through the crack in the heavy curtains. Once he had finished washing, shaving, and dressing, he sat on the edge of the bed and shook her shoulder gently to rouse her.
She came to consciousness slowly, her bright blue eyes dulled with sleep and, he suspected, the after-effects of too much alcohol the night before. Before going to bed, she had plaited her hair somewhat haphazardly, and the braid hung over her shoulder, resting over one breast like a brightly colored signaling beacon. Thomas’s fingers itched.
“Mm, what time is it?” she asked, her voice thick.
“Between six-thirty and seven, I would guess. But we should be on the road as soon as possible. I would like to make La Chapelle d’Angillon tonight, and that is nearly as far from here as Duval’s was from Igny.”
Levering herself into a sitting position, she grimaced and gave him an embarrassed smile. “I drank too much wine last night.”
“Perhaps a touch,” he agreed. He should have been relieved, truthfully, that she had over-imbibed. If she had been sober when she’d asked him what they would be doing if they were married, God knew he might not have been able to stop himself from showing her. And yet, he was more than a little disappointed that he hadn’t been forced to try.
Or to fail.
“Ugh,” she said, licking her lips and making a face. “I will not make that mistake again. I feel dreadful.”
Which meant he’d get a chance to try or fail tonight.
“But you had a good, long sleep as a result,” he assured her, “and you will probably feel better after you eat. I will go downstairs and order breakfast. How long will you need to get ready?”
“A half an hour.”
“Very well. I will be back with food then, but make sure you have your hair covered, just in case I am not alone.”
She pressed h
er fingers to her temples and nodded.
He fled as quickly as he could to prevent himself from taking over the effort of easing her pain from her and thereby falling into something he couldn’t climb back out of. Something deep and tender and far more dangerous than mere physical attraction.
“So, how is your English?” Thomas asked once they were underway. After everything that had transpired yesterday, he knew they needed something to keep them occupied over the course of the many hours they would be spending together, or the tension would become too thick for even a knife to cut.
Sabine scrunched her nose at the question. “Why do you ask? You said everyone speaks French.”
“All the members of the well-educated, upper-class do. But most of the working class—including most servants—do not, and you will need to be able to communicate with them, too. So,” he asked again, this time in English, “how is your English?”
“Not very well,” she admitted in the same language, her cheeks coloring with embarrassment. “I have a few words, phrases. No more.”
Thomas switched back to French. “I suspected as much. English is very much a backwater language, after all. Why would you have learned it when you already speak the most common language in the world?”
“I can speak Italian and German fluently, too, and my Latin and Greek are serviceable.”
“Of course. You are well-educated. No one but Englishmen and possibly Americans think English is a necessary part of a good education. But if you are going to live in England, you will need at least a basic knowledge of common words and phrases, and we have a lot of time to pass between here and Le Havre, so we could get started on that now. If you would like,” he added, recalling her distaste for being ordered around.
“Yes,” she said in English. “That idea likes me.”
He couldn’t stop his lips from twitching just a little at the grammatical error, which was a perfectly sensible one for a native French speaker to make. “I like that idea,” he corrected. “Or that idea pleases me.” He switched back to French. “The English ‘please’ is closer to plaire than ‘like.’ ‘Like’ is closer to aimer or savourir.”
Her expression cleared. “That idea pleases me, mais I like that idea.”
“Just so. Either is fine, but the second is more…informal.”
She nodded, and he could see her mind working through additional concepts and trying to translate them to English. “I like the color…” she began, then pointed at his coat, “…blue. Yes?”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“I like…” she cast about for something else to like, and her gaze fell on the bonnet lying on the seat beside her, “…no, I like not bonnets.”
“Do not like.”
She gave him a profoundly annoyed look. “That makes no sense at all,”
she objected in French. “That is an entirely unnecessary extra word.”
He snorted. “You are right. English is inconsistent and perplexing. But do not worry too much. If you tell people you ‘like not bonnets,’ they will understand your meaning.”
“But they will probably laugh and make fun of me.”
“Not to your face. You are the premiere’s daughter, after all. And you can snicker about their terrible French accents and occasional grammatical errors behind their backs. I know I do. The British elite may speak French, but they don’t speak it like natives.”
“You do,” she pointed out.
“Because I learned French from the cradle and from a native Lyonnaise. Few English people have ever spoken to someone who is a native French speaker, much less learned the language from someone who is.”
“If you say so. But I do not see how I am going to learn English in ten days. Especially since it is so inconsistent.”
“You will not learn English, but I am sure you can learn enough to get by with servants and most other non-French speakers you encounter. We just need to begin with common questions, requests, and phrases. For you, that starts with things related to horses, since you will have to hire a new stable master and stable hands once you’re settled in England. So, let’s start with that.”
“That sounds…good.” Then she added in English, “I like you.”
“You mean you like it,” he corrected.
“No,” she said emphatically, “I like you.”
Sacre bleu, he liked her, too.
That deep, tender feeling opened up a little wider in front of him, inviting him to fall right in. And he wasn’t even sure any longer that he wanted to escape if he did.
The weather turned foul shortly after they stopped for lunch, and by late afternoon, it was raining in sheets, and the road became so muddy as to be nearly impassable. Needless to say, they did not reach La Chapelle, but were forced to overnight in a village nearly ten miles short of their original destination. Thomas tried not to fret overmuch at the delay, but if the storm continued into tomorrow at the same intensity, they would miss their planned arrival at the safe house outside Paris by more than a day.
Due to the harsh conditions, Sabine insisted on seeing to the horses herself, an oddity Thomas explained to the innkeeper by saying that the pair had been her dowry, and she was therefore more concerned for their well-being than most women would be. The innkeeper, a short man with a round, ruddy face and a barrel chest, had taken one look at the Percherons and agreed that the pair were certainly an asset well worth protecting.
While Sabine was out in the stables, Thomas invited Joubert for a drink in the public house, which the young man accepted after changing out of his sodden clothes. Thomas hoped the convivial imbibing of spirits might lessen his sense that Joubert was going to be the mission’s downfall, but if anything, the conversation increased his sense of impending doom.
Joubert was halfway into his second brandy when he announced, with the utter conviction of youth, “She does not belong in England. My uncle could keep her safe here in France.”
“For the love of Christ, keep your voice down,” Thomas whispered. “We are in a public house. And do you think your uncle would have supported this effort if he felt he could offer a better alternative?”
“Perhaps not,” he admitted with obvious reluctance. “But it is miserable sitting up there all day alone, driving. I knew it would be unpleasant, but I thought I would at least have the opportunity to talk to her at the end of the day. Instead, you keep her locked up in your room and do God knows what with her.”
Thomas ground his teeth. He’d known the boy had developed a tendré for Sabine from that first night in Vornay, but he hadn’t realized how much it had skewed Joubert’s perception of reality. “I do not keep her locked up. She stays in the room to reduce the risk of being seen and recognized,” he gritted out. “You will notice she is not in the room now, but out in the stables seeing to the horses, something you would have volunteered to help her with if you were any kind of driver. But instead you are in here where it is warm and dry.” Joubert opened his mouth, but Thomas held up a hand to stay his objection. “As to what I am doing with her, I am not accountable to you or anyone but her, but please feel free to ask her whether I treat her with anything less than the respect she is due.”
The boy’s mouth made several ineffectual opening and closing motions before he finally sputtered, “Well, I can hardly ask her since I never see her! I will tell you what—tomorrow, you can drive the carriage, and I will sit with her in comfort all day and be her husband for the night. How about that?”
Thomas had to thank his training as a diplomat for his ability to keep from rolling his eyes. “You were sent to drive us to Le Havre, Monsieur Joubert, and that is what you will do. But even if I were willing to take on the task of driving, I cannot, because I do not have the proper attire for such a role.” He heaved a ragged breath, trying to regain his temper. He needed to smooth this over, or Joubert actually might do something reckless in the belief that he was protecting a helpless young woman from a ruthless despoiler. “I realize that today must have been espe
cially difficult, given the weather, and I appreciate your concern for her well-being. I will make sure tomorrow morning that you have adequate opportunity to speak with her to assure yourself of her safety. But we cannot be at odds with one another if we are to keep her safe from the true threat, and you understand as well as I do that threat is not me.”
Joubert tossed back the last of his brandy, his pretty golden curls glinting in the illumination of the oil lamp mounted on the wall behind him. “Alone?”
“Alone?” Thomas repeated.
“I mean, you will allow me to speak to her alone? Where you cannot overhear. If you are mistreating her, she might be afraid to say so in your hearing.”
God save me from knights in shining armor! “Yes, where I cannot overhear.”
“That is acceptable, I suppose,” the boy allowed. He rose to his feet, swaying just enough to demonstrate that he’d imbibed rather more than his limit. “Now, I need the privy.”
Thomas watched the young man walk rather unsteadily to the back of the pub and shook his head. He didn’t know if he had made the situation better or worse, but he felt fairly certain he had changed it.
Chapter 14
Pleased with the thorough grooming she had given Gaston and Copine and assured that both animals were healthy and sound despite the rigors of the past few days, Sabine slunk back to the room via the coaching inn’s back stairs to avoid being seen. Anyone who had caught sight of her in the stables attending to her horses must have thought her a strange sight—a woman wearing a plain woolen dress, work boots, and a fancy white lace-trimmed bonnet with an exceptionally deep brim—but hopefully, they would imagine she was attempting to conceal a rash or an unsightly birthmark rather than her identity.
Monsieur Pearce was not in the room when she opened the door with her key, for which she was grateful. Despite the cold, wet weather, she was as damp with sweat as with rain after her labors, and she wanted to wash up.
