by Darcy Burke
And he wished he could have thought of any other way to solve the problem.
Chapter 20
The safe house was homier than Sabine had expected. She had imagined something more…utilitarian, if not strictly institutional.
Instead, the British spies occupied this spacious yet cozy terrace in the middle of a perfectly normal—though affluent—urban neighborhood. The head of the station and his wife had raised three children here, to all appearances a well-to-do but otherwise average French family, all while conducting all manner of intelligence-gathering and covert operations on behalf of the British government. On some level, she supposed this made sense. But then, what use was a “safe house” that drew attention to itself by being something other than a house? And yet, she was nevertheless surprised that they seemed to have so easily gotten away with it.
The maid who had shown her to her room for the night explained that it used to belong to the Montagues’ daughter, Anne, who was now in her early twenties and living in England with her husband. The chamber was on the small side, obviously intended for a child, but cozy and pleasant with a large window overlooking the inner courtyard. Due to the size of the room, the bed was narrow and only suitable for one person, which was a shame.
As soon as the thought occurred to her, a flush of hot longing washed over her. Thomas had already explained they would be sleeping apart tonight, and of course, they would be. There was no need here, in a house occupied exclusively by British spies and their supporting staff, for them to pretend to be married. Here, everyone knew they were not married and never would be—unless they did something foolish and got caught, which was the very thing they were both anxious to avoid.
And yet…she wanted desperately to do something foolish. Nothing in her experience could compare to the past two nights in Thomas’s arms. It was a wonder, she thought a little dazedly, that married people ever left their bedrooms. Why would anyone who could have such delight ever choose to do anything else? What that man could do to her with his mouth and hands was nothing short of sorcery. If she could have his cock inside her, too, the way God had intended? She might expire from bliss.
But perhaps being married spoiled the pleasure somehow. Perhaps that was why men, in particular, often appeared anxious to avoid the state of wedlock. Or perhaps what passed between her and Thomas only seemed magical because it was illicit, and if she felt it were sanctioned, she would enjoy it less.
She jumped at a brisk knock on the door to her chamber, her heart pounding as if she had been caught in bed with Thomas and not merely fantasizing about it.
Whirling on her toes, she scolded herself for imagining it might be Thomas. It would not be. He would maintain a polite, professional distance from her while they stayed here, and that meant he could scarcely appear at her bedchamber door in the middle of the afternoon. Almost certainly, it was one of the servants. Thomas has mentioned something about having some of their clothing laundered while they were here. Likely, a maid had been sent to ask if she had anything that needed washing.
Yes, that was the most plausible answer.
She pulled open the bedchamber door and inhaled sharply in surprise. Bernard Joubert stood in the hallway, his handsome features pinched with nervous excitement.
“B—” she started, then corrected herself. Just because she thought of him as Bernard, she should treat him with the same respect she would any other gentleman. “Monsieur Joubert, what are you doing here?”
He glanced furtively in both directions, clearly concerned about being caught on her doorstep, so to speak. “Let me in, and I will explain,” he said urgently.
Ignoring a jangle of unease, she stepped aside and allowed him to enter the room. He was on edge, to be sure, but she could not bring herself to believe he would try to force himself on her or harm her in any other way. Especially not here in a house full of people who would come running if she screamed.
She shut the door behind her and turned to face him. “Whatever is the matter?”
“We must leave. Now. Before it is too late to escape without being noticed.” His tone was earnest. Urgent.
“Why would we want to do that?” Sabine asked, baffled by this sudden, impassioned plea.
He grasped her hands in his and squeezed gently. “I overheard some of them talking. They mean to take you straight from here to Le Havre with no further stops.”
Sabine’s eyes widened. No stops meant changing horses, and changing horses meant she would have to leave Gaston and Copine behind. Anger and betrayal sizzled to life in her chest. Thomas had promised she could bring her horses with her to England.
But then, he hadn’t really promised, had he? He had promised to try, but not to succeed. Still, he knew how much the horses meant to her. To her future. She could not imagine he would force her to leave them behind without explaining why first. So, either Thomas did not know what was being said or he had not had a chance to discuss the matter with her yet. And just because Bernard had overheard something did not necessarily mean it was true.
Either way, she could make no decisions before she spoke with Thomas.
She extracted her hands from Bernard’s as gently as she could. “If that is true, there must be a good reason. I am sure T—Monsieur Pearce will explain what is happening as soon as he can.”
Bernard shook his head vehemently, his expression darkening. “Monsieur Pearce,” he spat, “will lie to you, as he has lied from the very beginning. Is it not obvious that he only pretends to care about you and your horses to gain your cooperation? He has a mission to complete, and that mission is getting you to England. He is a spy. He will say and do anything to achieve his objective.”
“He is not a spy,” Sabine protested. “He is a diplomat. They only sent him because they had no one else who speaks French well enough to pose as a Frenchman who was not committed to other duties.”
Bernard rolled his eyes. “Do not be so naïve. That is what he told you. But that is what a spy would tell you, is it not? Some pretty lie that makes him seem honest and noble. And even if it is not a lie, so what? He needs you to be compliant to complete his mission. He needs you to like him. Maybe even love him. Everything he does is intended to achieve his goals. And you are falling for it.”
A shard of uncertainty stabbed her. Because, God help her, Bernard had a point. From the very beginning, Thomas had behaved in a manner that made him seem like her ally. Even when he had been lying—pretending to be her distant cousin—he had acted as though he was on her side. And once he had told her the truth about who he was and why he had come, the only time he had given her cause to dislike him was when he had admitted he would have abducted her if she had not agreed to accompany him.
She had believed that he liked her, that he enjoyed her company, that he was attracted to her and maybe even a tiny bit in love with her. But what if it had all been merely a role he was playing to gain her trust and cooperation? What if everything that had passed between them—up to and including the last two nights of glorious passion—had been intended solely to seduce her into doing whatever he asked of her? What if he felt nothing for her at all?
The suspicion sank deep into her stomach, a cold, heavy weight. Her heart could not accept the idea that he was feigning his desire for her. Every caress they had exchanged seemed too ardent, too intense to be anything but genuine. Logically, she was not sure it would even be possible for a man to successfully “pretend” himself into a state of arousal if he truly did not desire a woman. She felt fairly certain she could not do it for a man she did not find attractive, but then, she was a woman. Men were different, or so she had been informed on numerous occasions.
But even if his desire for her was genuine, it could still all be a lie, couldn’t it? He could desire her quite fervently and still be using her feelings for him for his own ends. How hard could it be for a man as handsome and charming as Thomas to manipulate her into falling in love with him so she would be easier to manage?
Not h
ard at all was the answer. She was already in love with him. After just seven days.
Closing her eyes, she pressed her fingers to her temples and tried to think rationally. Suppose he had been lying all along. Suppose he had known all along that they would have to leave Gaston and Copine behind here in Paris. Suppose he did not care about her except as a warm, willing body—in both a sexual and nonsexual sense. Did any of that mean that leaving the safe house with Bernard Joubert was a good idea?
“Where would we go?” she asked finally.
Bernard’s expression brightened. Clearly, he thought the question meant she had already made up her mind. “We are in luck. My father’s house is a short distance from here, just inside the city walls. We could walk there if need be, though I am sure we can hail a ride.”
“And then what?”
“We will go back to Duval. He will be able to keep you safe from Bonaparte and his secret police for as long as necessary. And he can get your horses back from the English for you, too.”
Sabine nodded. This was probably true. Duval undoubtedly had the means to do both of those things for her. But he also had his own agenda, and however much she might agree with that agenda—and that was a lot, for she detested the practice of slavery—any interest he might have in protecting her would end the moment doing so no longer benefitted him. If she went to Duval for help, she would be safe enough, but she would be as much a pawn as if she’d were arrested. Duval would certainly use her continued safety as leverage in any negotiations he had with the British whenever they needed his support, and that did not sit right with her, even if she understood why he not only would do so, but should.
Aside from that, of course, if she stayed in France, she would be in hiding. The whole reason she was so determined to bring Gaston and Copine with her was so she could establish a business and support herself. But that would be impossible if she had to live in secrecy. She would, in fact, be completely dependent on Duval’s continuing goodwill and her own usefulness to him for her survival. Even if she wound up in England without her horses and with no means of supporting herself, at least she had a parent there who apparently cared enough about her to send someone to get her to safety. Better to be dependent on someone who had an intrinsic reason to support her than on someone whose only reasons for doing so were based upon her value as a negotiating tool.
Slowly, she shook her head. “No. I do not think that would be in my best interest.”
“How could it not be in your best interest?” Bernard practically screeched the words, and Sabine winced, wondering if someone elsewhere in the house might overhear. “You are French. You belong in France, not England, where the food is terrible and the people are worse. Why would you want to go there when you can stay here and be safe and keep your horses? That makes no sense at all!”
“I am half English,” she said gently. “Just because I did not know that until a week ago does not make it less true. But even if I were entirely French, it would not be in my best interest to remain in a country where I have to hide to stay safe. I cannot abide that idea, and the only place I can be safe and live openly is England. Which means it is where I need to go.”
Bernard’s face pinched into a petulant expression that utterly spoiled the masculine beauty of his features. She half expected him to stomp his foot on the floor like an angry toddler, but instead, he reached out to take her hands again. “If you stay, I will take care of you. I will see to your every need, your every desire. We can be together. We can be married.”
Oh, God. His infatuation with her was more serious than she had imagined. Up until now, she had hoped he was too young and inexperienced to take his feelings for her seriously. After all, he was scarcely out of his teens, and few men that age actually contemplated getting married, even if they fancied themselves in love.
And now she did not know how to refuse him without hurting his pride and possibly making the situation worse. It was bad enough that he was proposing marriage; it was worse that he actually seemed to expect her to accept.
But she had to do it.
Once again, she gently extracted her hands from his. “Monsieur Joubert, as flattered as I am, I could not possibly accept such a proposal. Why, we scarcely know each other. To even think of marriage after so brief an acquaintance is reckless. We might discover in very short order that we do not suit at all. Not to mention that marrying me would mean that you, too, would have to live in secrecy. What sort of a life is that?”
Joubert frowned, his even complexion mottling with obvious anger. “That is not why you refuse me,” he spat. “You refuse me because of him.”
“No,” she said quickly. “Monsieur Pearce has nothing to do with it.” And it was true. She would have refused the young Frenchman’s offer even if she had not been in love with Thomas.
“That is bullshit! He has made you fall in love with him, and now you will do anything for him.” His eyes narrowed, an accusatory coldness entering them. “You are letting him fuck you, no?”
Sabine was torn between anger that he thought what she did with Thomas was any of his business, and amusement that, at least now, she knew the French word for fucking. Baiser, eh? “No,” she retorted curtly. “And you need to leave. Now.” She pointed at the door. “Get out.”
Rage and frustration flashed across his pretty features. “You will regret this. I would marry you. He never will.” With that parting shot, he stalked to the door, wrenched it open, and strode into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him with a thud.
Sabine’s throat tightened. “I know,” she whispered into the silence.
Chapter 21
“Is it true?”
Thomas turned to find Sabine standing in the doorway to the small antechamber off the first-floor hallway that acted as a de facto meeting room for safe house visitors. He had asked one of the maids to send her down from her room, but he hadn’t been expecting her to arrive quite so soon.
He beckoned her to enter the room and closed the door behind her. “Is what true?”
The room was furnished with several comfortable chairs, but Sabine chose to remain standing. “That from here we will be traveling straight through to Le Havre. That I will have to leave Gaston and Copine behind.”
A chill gripped his midsection. “Where did you hear that?”
She gave him a wan smile. “I did not hear it. Not exactly. Bernard did, and he came to my chamber to tell me and to ask me to run away with him before anyone could stop us.”
Goddammit! Thomas had known Joubert was going to be a problem, but he had not anticipated this sort of problem. Even after their discussion in the tavern, he would not have dreamed the boy would have the gall to attempt to persuade Sabine to run away with him.
“He promised Duval would protect me, but in the end, what he really wants—or at least thinks he wants—is to marry me,” she added. “I said no, of course.”
Thomas scrubbed his hand over his face. “Christ. This is a bloody disaster.”
It was painfully obvious Joubert could no longer be trusted to accompany their party to Le Havre. He had, after, just deliberately attempted to subvert the task Duval had ordered him to complete.
Of course, Duval had made it clear that he would be willing to shelter Sabine as long as necessary if they could not get her safely out of the country, but Thomas did not believe the man would have given his step-nephew permission to actively undermine the mission. As Thomas had pointed out to Montague, having Sabine under his protection would give Duval a good deal of bargaining power with the British, but that power would not come without a cost. And if Duval was seen to have deliberately sabotaged the British mission to achieve that end, the result was more likely to be hostility than gratitude.
No, Duval was not behind this. Joubert had simply developed a tendré for Sabine—Thomas could not find fault with him for that—and decided to try to keep her for himself.
But now he was a liability. He knew too much. He knew who Sabine was and
that the British were trying to get her out of the country by way of Le Havre. He knew the faces—if not the names—of a half-dozen British agents. Worst of all, he knew where the Paris safe house was located. All it would take to seal the fates of the Montagues and a sizable proportion of Britain’s covert operations in France was for Joubert to reveal what he knew to the first French government official he encountered.
“So,” Sabine asked again, “is it true?”
And then there was that. For the love of all that was holy, how had Joubert come to overhear any discussion related to the next leg of the journey to Le Havre? He could not possibly have been listening in on Thomas’s conversation with Montague. That had taken place behind closed doors and while Joubert had been shown to a room upstairs for the night. So, either the Frenchman had made up the entire story in the hopes it would be enough to induce Sabine to jump ship and had just been lucky enough to get a part of it right—possible but not probable—or he had heard someone other than Thomas and Montague discussing the matter. And that meant there were some very loose lips under this roof. Thomas had never even trained as a spy, but he certainly knew better than to casually discuss confidential operational plans out in the open where anyone could overhear!
In addition to the problem with Joubert, it appeared Montague had some house cleaning to do.
Sabine stared at him, waiting for an answer.
“It was,” he said. “It is not any longer. I came up with another plan and convinced Montague it had a better chance of working than trying to force you to leave your horses.”
“But…why?”
Thomas explained what Montague had told him about her uncle’s clever efforts to locate them by word of mouth and then described his alternate plan.
When he had finished, Sabine said, “So we will not be spending our nights together anymore, will we?”
He shook his head. “I don’t see how, no.”
