Then jumped.
The next twenty minutes were some of the longest of Max’s life. Which was saying quite a lot, he thought ruefully, considering all he’d ever been through.
His gut knotted with fear as he carried his unwitting captive through the dark streets of Paris, hurrying away from the asylum and into the maze of alleys that made up the grimy quartier Saint-Victor. He half expected a troop of French agents around every corner, ready to snatch Marie from his grasp and march him off to face a firing squad.
A foolish thought, he realized; more likely they would dispense with the traditional formalities and simply shoot him on the spot. He was, after all, a spy. Deep in enemy territory. Kidnapping a French woman.
And there was no turning back now.
His breath came short and sharp. His every muscle felt taut. All along the narrow passageways, crumbling wooden tenements six and seven stories high crushed together, blotting out most of the moonlight. Only sporadic shafts of bright silver glistened on the wet cobbles beneath his boots.
At least the warm weather played to his advantage: he encountered few people, only the occasional drunkard or bleary-eyed prostitute stumbling home. Wolf and Fleming had briefed him thoroughly on the area, assuring him the streets would be empty. Not until winter would Paris be crowded with beggars day and night, when famine drove peasants in from the countryside by the thousands.
As for the criminals who plagued the city, most seemed to be plying their trades elsewhere this summery night, probably seeking quarry in the wealthy parks and gardens of Faubourg Saint-Honoré and Cours-la-Reine.
There was but one ruffian prowling the streets of Saint-Victor tonight.
Max grimaced at the name—ruffian—Marie had called him. He didn’t like carrying her this way, holding her so close, but he had no choice. She could hardly walk barefoot through the wet, filthy streets. He hadn’t thought to bring shoes for her. Hadn’t expected to find her tied to the bed and stripped almost naked.
He pushed that word—naked—to the back of his thoughts.
So far, his prisoner was proving not only willing but cooperative. He could feel her heart pounding as she clung to him, her arms tight around his neck, but she kept silent and didn’t question him. It seemed he had won her trust. For the moment.
All he had to do was keep it.
Stealing through the cramped alleyways, following the escape route he had traced and retraced over the past two days, he tried to ignore the way her lithe body filled his arms. But the threat of danger all around seemed to make his senses unnaturally sharp.
That was the only explanation he could think of for the intense…awareness he felt for the woman in his arms.
His cloak and the scrap of cotton she wore offered precious little covering, and he found himself inordinately conscious of every inch of her.
Every soft, feminine inch.
From the long, shapely curves of her legs, to the gentle fullness of her hips, to her slight, almost fragile shoulders.
And another part of her anatomy, softly pressed against his chest, which couldn’t be described as “slight” at all.
Plain? Had he used that word to describe her before? The sketch hadn’t done her justice. It hadn’t shown a single curve of her body, which wasn’t plain at all but…
Tantalizing.
Max was beginning to suspect that it was not fear alone causing his uneven breathing and the tension in his muscles.
The word that he kept trying to force aside had burned itself into his brain.
Naked.
“Husbandmax?” she asked in a tentative whisper, lifting her head. “Are we almost home?”
“Shh. Not yet,” he replied under his breath, remembering to speak slowly so she would understand. “Be patient.”
She nodded and settled her head on his shoulder once more, a gesture that was so sweetly innocent, so…trusting. Max fought the unsettling feelings she roused in him and forced his mind back to the matter at hand. He had to keep his wits about him if he wanted to survive.
To his relief, he met no opposition as he hastened toward the inn where he had a horse waiting. Not even a single suspicious gendarme. His long hours of reconnaissance at the asylum seemed to be paying off. No one had yet realized that Mademoiselle LeBon was missing. If her keepers followed their rigid daily routine, they wouldn’t notice her absence until well after dawn. Which was several hours away.
When the French discovered her missing, they would assume that her abductor had whisked her straight to the coast. Instead, Max intended to hide her right under the enemy’s nose. He would lie low until the pursuit died down, let the French chase their own tails for a few days, then follow a prearranged, zigzag route to the Brittany coast, where a ship would be waiting in a fortnight.
Wolf and Fleming had given him directions to a safe house here in Paris, one they had used before. But Max had looked it over and felt uneasy with the fact that it had only one bedroom. He had rented a different place, one more suitable to his needs: a modest town house on a quiet street in the Montmarte district, complete with two bedrooms and a butler and maid. Just the thing for a vacationing nobleman and his recuperating “wife.”
He was bloody glad for that decision, now that he had made the acquaintance of this unexpectedly attractive lady scientist.
Reaching the inn at last, he slipped in the back way.
She raised her head again as he climbed the inn’s back stairs. “This is our home?” she asked curiously.
“Shh. No, we’re only stopping here for a minute. And we don’t want to wake anyone.”
At the top of the steps, he turned left. His original plan had been to take to his horse and get her out of Saint-Victor as quickly as possible. But the town house he had rented was almost an hour distant, and her state of undress necessitated a slight change of strategy.
Though he had already packed his few belongings in his saddlebags, he had paid for his lodging through tonight. Entering the room he had left only two hours ago, he set Marie on her feet.
“You’ll need some clothes before we go any further,” he said quietly. “I want you to stay here while I see what I can find. Don’t open the door. Don’t make a sound. And don’t leave this room. Do you understand?” He reached for her hand in the darkness and squeezed gently. “You promised to trust me, remember?”
“Y-yes.”
He didn’t delude himself that her quick assent meant he had earned her undying loyalty. From her wavering tone, it seemed she considered him the lesser of many unknown evils.
For now, that would have to do.
“I won’t be long,” he assured her. Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed it.
He didn’t linger and didn’t question that impulsive gesture. He exited and closed the door softly behind him.
Pausing in the hallway for a moment, he listened to the various muffled sounds that came from a few of the inn’s dozen rooms: snores at the far end of the corridor, a rhythmic grunting that sounded decidedly sexual in a chamber on the left.
Max ignored the unexpected heat that rose in him and stayed focused on his surroundings. Other than those few muted sounds of activity, the inn was silent. Even the most determined carousers had slunk off to their beds or fallen asleep over their cups by this hour. He moved quickly but silently down the stairs.
He had already learned that the key to living unnoticed among the enemy was to make oneself unworthy of notice. The rules, Wolf and Fleming had instructed, were simple: observe, imitate, blend in, become merely another of the unremarkable many.
Carrying a half-naked woman through the streets of Paris definitely qualified as remarkable.
He had gotten away with it so far, here in Saint-Victor, but they would soon be crossing the Seine and passing through the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, where there were wider avenues, more streetlamps, easily offended sensibilities, and gendarmes on patrol. He didn’t want to push his luck. He would at least get Marie a dress and some shoes before
they left.
At the bottom of the stairs, he paused. He had thought to wake the proprietor and purchase whatever female garments the man might be able to offer.
But if he did that, the innkeeper would certainly remember him—and be able to provide a physical description should the French authorities stop by to question whether any suspicious persons had passed through this night.
Max frowned. Honesty was definitely not called for in this situation. Too dangerous.
Theft, on the other hand, had possibilities.
If a few items disappeared, the loss would be blamed on the quartier’s many impoverished, desperate inhabitants.
Turning right instead of left, Max followed his nose toward the kitchen at the rear of the inn, feeling only mildly surprised at the ease with which he accepted the idea of stealing. Not long ago he would have considered such an act despicable. Unthinkable. But at the moment, becoming a common criminal hardly bothered him at all. Hell, he was already a spy. Not to mention a ruffian.
At this rate, he was well on his way to becoming a complete scoundrel.
Max returned to the room upstairs a short time later with a bundle of booty. If this spy business didn’t work out, he thought with black humor, perhaps he could sign aboard the nearest galleon as a pirate. All he lacked was a gold earring and a bottle of rum. He had pilfered not only a dress and shoes, but food and a clean linen dishcloth that could be ripped into bandages for Marie’s bleeding wrists and ankles. He had wrapped it all up in a tablecloth.
Opening the door, he found that his cooperative captive had drawn the window’s shabby curtains and lit every one of the short candles on the mantel over the grate. He shut the door behind him.
She turned toward him, gazing up at him with that same look of wonder she had had earlier.
Except that this time, he felt the same wonder.
When he had seen her face for the first time, in the moonlit window at the asylum, he had been surprised to find her appearance intriguing, her features an uncommon blend of strong and delicate that was undeniably appealing. And now…
As she stood there in the flickering glow of the candlelight, wide-eyed and barefoot, she looked fragile. Lost. Her dark hair hung in limp disarray. Tear tracks showed through the smudges of grime on her cheeks. Her lips held only a pale hint of color.
Yet there was something about the way she held her chin tilted at an unmistakably brave upward angle, even in the face of so many unknown dangers. And her eyes…
Captivated him. Beneath a fringe of ebony lashes, the deepest, loveliest eyes he had ever seen drew him in and held him fast. It was the spark of keen intelligence that transformed her whiskey-colored gaze into something unique and compelling.
But beneath that spark, so close to the surface, he could see fear. It made him feel protective, made him feel—
No, damn it.
Abruptly he turned away, stalking away from her to deposit his booty on the bed. He had no business feeling sympathy or protectiveness or anything else for this woman. She was his prisoner. An enemy prisoner.
She might be blissfully unaware of that fact—but he didn’t dare forget it.
“H-husbandmax?”
He didn’t reply. Wouldn’t give in to the odd feelings that threatened his logic. Marie Nicole LeBon was responsible for the deaths of a hundred Englishmen. For his brother’s injuries and blindness. He would be perfectly justified in despising her.
“Husbandmax, I-I hope it’s all right…that I lit the candles,” she said when he didn’t speak. “I…I don’t like being alone in the darkness. At the…at that place…”
Her voice choked out, but she didn’t have to explain.
He felt a chill as he remembered the unholy screams that had filled the asylum. He had been subjected to them for only an hour and knew he would never forget, knew they would plague his nightmares. To think that she had been alone in that place, night after night, for three weeks—
Stop it, he ordered himself. Stop thinking of her suffering. Remember the suffering and death she inflicted on so many others. For the price of a few damned coins.
“H-husbandmax?” she whispered.
“The candles don’t matter.” He untied the bundle. “We’ll be leaving momentarily. And stop calling me husbandmax. It’s just Max.” He shot her an irritated glance and spelled it out slowly and sarcastically. “M-A-X.”
“I’m sorry…Max.”
She looked like she might cry.
Which made something twist painfully inside him.
He looked away. Oh, God help him. He would far rather face a troop of French soldiers bristling with weapons than tears in those large brown eyes.
How the hell was he going to get through this? How could he play the loving husband to the woman responsible for what had happened to Julian? Especially when his feelings for her seemed to run hot and…
Hotter.
Exhaling slowly, he raked a hand through his hair, remembering what Wolf had said just before he left London: Do be careful not to damage her, D’Avenant. She’s all we have.
He had better start playing his role and playing it convincingly.
“Darling, I’m sorry,” he said in the calmest voice he could manage, picking up the shoes and the serving wench’s gown he had stolen from the kitchens. “I don’t mean to growl at you. I’m just worried about your safety.” He walked over to her and held the garments out like a peace offering. “Put these on and we’ll go. I have a horse in the stables outside, and I brought some food we can eat on the way.”
She took the clothes with a tentative smile. “Is it a very long way to our home?” She unfastened his cloak from around her neck and let it fall from her shoulders.
He couldn’t reply for a moment, transfixed by the way the candlelight burning behind her rendered her chemise almost transparent, outlined the lush curves he had felt while holding her in his arms. “Yes,” he replied at last, his mouth dry, before he corrected himself. “I mean, no. Well…not exactly. We’re not going home. At least not right away. We’re going somewhere else. First. For a while.”
He was babbling like an idiot. What the devil was wrong with him?
“Where is ‘somewhereelse’?” she asked curiously, bending to put the shoes and gown on the floor.
“It’s not a place. It’s…” Max turned his back, pacing over to the bed, trying not to be aware of every little rustle of fabric over soft skin as she took off the chemise and pulled on the gown. “I have to explain a few things to you. But we really don’t have time now.”
“What kinds of things?”
“It can wait. As soon as you’re dressed, we have to go. I’ll—”
“Why do you have a pistol?” she asked suddenly in a taut voice.
Max turned to find her gaze locked on his right boot, where he had a small dueling pistol tucked against his calf.
She backed away from him, clutching the shoes to her chest like a shield. “I…remember what a…pistol is.” Her breathing was unsteady, her voice rising.
“Marie, it’s all right,” he said in his most reassuring voice. He stayed where he was, not pursuing her, mentally gauging the distance to the door in case she ran. Praying it wouldn’t come to that already. “I’m not going to hurt you. I only need the gun to protect you. And I have no intention of using it against anyone, unless absolutely necessary.”
That should sound believable. It was the truth.
“Protect me from whom?” she asked in a small voice. Her back came up against the far wall.
Max hadn’t planned on explaining everything now, but the look on her face told him she was ready to bolt and run. Trust was the only glue that would keep her at his side. Trust or a good strong rope. He didn’t want to resort to that. It would destroy his carefully laid plans.
He had to keep her cooperative.
“From the people who want to take you from me,” he said carefully. He sat on the bed, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. “You really don’
t remember them?”
She shook her head, her expression wary.
He started the story he had worked out with Wolf and Fleming. The short version. “These people started causing trouble for us a few months ago—”
“Us?”
“Yes, us. You and I. You’re my wife. We’ve been married for two years—”
“What’s a ‘mywife’? And what’s ‘married’?”
Max grit his teeth, frustrated at having to speak slowly and define every detail for her. They had to get out of here. Fast. “Marriage is when a man and a woman…uh…decide to spend their lives together. They pledge themselves in a ceremony called a wedding. After the ceremony, they’re considered married and they live together. The man is the husband, and the woman is called the wife.”
“I see.” She remained plastered to the wall.
“We’ve been married two years.” He continued quietly. “I’m a scientist. A chemist…”
He said that word carefully, watching her eyes for any sign of recognition. There was none. She regarded him with curiosity, with wariness, but there wasn’t a single spark of memory.
“…And there are certain people in the military who want to use my latest invention as a weapon.” The closer he stayed to the truth, he had figured, the easier it would be to live the lie. Still, none of it seemed to register on her. “But I refused. These men from the government were the ones who caused the accident that injured you. They kidnapped you, planning to use you to blackmail me into doing what they want.” He paused, closing his eyes as if in pain. “I was out of my mind with worry. I couldn’t find you. I didn’t know if I would ever see you again. Then I learned that they had locked you in that asylum.”
“And…and that’s why Sister Ratface kept trying to make me get my memory back?” she asked slowly. “So I could tell them about your experiments?”
Max pondered that. It was a good guess. Judging from her injured wrists and ankles, it was clear the nuns hadn’t been terribly concerned with her welfare. The French military had probably handed her over with instructions to keep her locked up and well-guarded—with perhaps the promise of a reward if she got her memory back. No doubt they hoped she might tell them whatever she knew about her brother’s work.
A Scoundrels Kiss Page 6