Never suspecting they had the real genius right in the palms of their hands.
But she was in the palm of his hand now.
“Yes,” Max said. “That’s probably why they were trying to bring your memory back. And now that you’ve disappeared, they’ll be looking for you. For both of us. And they won’t give up easily, Marie. The two of us have to go into hiding for a while.”
He stood, taking the clean dish towel with him, walking toward her.
“So we’re not going home?” she whispered.
He thought of telling her the rest of it: that they would have to leave the country. He decided that could wait. There was no sense in scaring her more than she already was.
“No, we’re not going home,” he confirmed. “Not yet. It wouldn’t be safe. They’d find us there.” He came to stand before her and tore the cloth into strips. “Let me see your wrist.”
Still clutching the shoes, she cautiously held out one hand, her eyes on his.
“I’ve missed you, ma petite,” he said softly, wrapping her raw, torn skin in the length of linen. “I’m sorry I took so long to find you. I won’t let them hurt you again.” Looking down into that warm whiskey-colored gaze, he tied the bandage gently. “I promise.”
He tended her other wrist as well, then knelt at her feet. She lifted the hem of her stolen gown just enough to allow him to care for each ankle. By the time he rose, he sensed that he had regained some measure of her trust. It swirled in her eyes—along with uncertainty and fear.
Not only fear of “them” but of him.
He found it novel, to say the least, that she could be genuinely frightened of him. No one in his entire life had ever looked at him that way. As if he were quite possibly dangerous.
“Max, I…I didn’t tell them anything.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t tell them anything because I don’t remember anything.” She blinked, those thick lashes sweeping downward, then up again, more slowly. “I don’t remember you at all.”
“I know.” He reached out and tilted her head up, his thumb straying to the little cleft in her chin. “But you will, in time. You will. And until then, I’ll keep you safe. I won’t let them take you from me again.”
That sounded convincing.
Damned convincing.
She didn’t reply, but she took in an unsteady breath, her lips parting.
Max felt a sudden rush of heat. Her mouth was so close to his that if he bent only fractionally closer…
He quelled the impulse, holding himself still. Those lips could prove far more dangerous to him than any French bullet.
“Max, will I ever get to go home?”
Her words broke the spell, forcing his mind back to his duty.
She had no idea that her home had burned to the ground a month ago. That her sister was dead. That her brother was locked in the Bastille.
And he couldn’t tell her any of that.
No matter how vulnerable, how innocent, how intriguing she might seem, her memory loss concealed her true, ruthless character.
She was an enemy scientist. He was taking her to England. Turning her over to British Intelligence. She had taken a risk, gambled and lost.
Now she would have to pay the price.
“Max?” She tilted her head to one side.
He released her. “We have to go.”
“But will I—”
“Yes. Yes, you will get to go home eventually.”
It was a lie.
But what was one more lie among so many others?
Safe. She had thought she would feel safe once she escaped her captors and left behind that horrible place of screams and darkness. Only now did she realize that had been a foolish hope. She wasn’t sure she would ever feel safe again. Not even with her rescuer.
Especially not with her rescuer.
Before they had left the inn, he had allowed her a few minutes to clean up, using the washbasin and pitcher provided in the room. And she now had a full stomach after sharing the food and cider he had brought along. But she did not feel any better. She could not relax, was not lulled by the warm night wind or the horse’s steady gait or the strength of the arm that circled her waist.
She held herself stiffly as they rode across a stone bridge that spanned a river, her mind whirling from one troubling question to another like the moonlight that leaped over the rippling water.
Max had helped her escape, true. He had been gentle with her, answered her questions, explained everything, even tenderly cared for her painful wrists and ankles.
But he also carried a pistol.
As soon as she had seen it gleaming in his boot, she had somehow remembered not only the word but the sound. A sharp, explosive noise that brought a sickening chill to the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know where she had heard a pistol shot before, but it disturbed her deeply. She did not like the fact that Max carried a gun.
Pistol. Husband. Wife. Married.
Bits and pieces of a stranger’s life. Words and fears that twisted around and around until her head ached and her stomach hurt. No matter how hard she tried to understand, the past remained a dark nothingness as distant and unreachable as the night sky above.
She had wanted so badly to reach into that darkness, to remember. But seeing the pistol brought a new anxiety that now lurked within her. Perhaps not knowing was better than knowing. Safer. If she ventured too close to that vast emptiness, it might swallow her up.
Exhausted from troubling questions she couldn’t answer, she closed her eyes and tried to shut it all out.
After a time, her mind began drifting, dreaming. Her body relaxed against the strong arms surrounding her, the hard, muscled chest at her back. She slipped into a shadowy place between sleep and awareness where everything was as understandable and safe as Max’s velvety-smooth voice assured her it was.
“We’re here.”
Jarred awake, she opened her eyes, not sure how long she had been dozing. The moon still shone above in the night sky, and it appeared they were still within the city. Paris must be huge if they could have traveled so far without leaving it behind.
They were in a courtyard surrounded by a wall of…she couldn’t remember the word. Squarish, green, leafy…things. A three-story brick building loomed out of the darkness. They seemed to be at the back of the place, in the middle of a long row of similar buildings, each with three stories and a courtyard walled in by leafy-things.
“This is somewhereelse?” She blinked drowsily. “The place you said we’ll be safe until we can go home?”
“As safe as we could possibly be.” He sounded as tired as she felt. He slid his arm from around her waist and she realized uncomfortably that she had snuggled close to him in sleep. Some unconscious part of her seemed to trust him, pistol or no pistol.
He dismounted from behind her in a single fluid movement. “Just remember what I told you,” he whispered. “When you meet the butler and maid, don’t say anything about the asylum. Or about my work or the people who are looking for us.”
“Because they might repeat the information to the wrong person.” She yawned. “And the men who are looking for us might be able to find us.”
“Right. These servants are well trained and well paid, and they know better than to gossip about their employers—and they shouldn’t have any opportunity, since they’re living here with us. But let’s be careful all the same.”
He reached up to help her down, his hands closing around her waist, and she felt that tingle of heat go through her body again—the remarkable sensation that returned every time he touched her. It radiated from his hands upward and downward and…everywhere.
But as soon as her feet touched the ground, he released her, turning away to lead the horse over to a tall black…pot.
No, that wasn’t it. Pole? No. The muddled feeling always got worse when she was tired, and at the moment she was too exhausted to fight it. She lifted her hands to her forehead as if she could rub awa
y the confusion. Max tied the horse’s…
He had told her that one. Reins. He tied the reins through a circle in the tall black thing, then came back to her, fishing for something in his waistcoat. “I’ll take care of the horse later. Let’s go inside.” He withdrew a key and lifted his gaze to hers. “I’ll show you to… Are you all right?”
She massaged her temples, nodding. “I’m just very tired.” She let her hands drop to her sides.
He reached out and brushed his fingers over her cheek, his expression concerned. “Let me show you to your room. You’ll feel better once you’ve had some sleep.”
He withdrew his hand quickly and stood there gazing at her for a moment, blinking as if in surprise. Abruptly he turned and led the way to the door at the rear of the house.
She followed, too weary to question why she felt a little less afraid of him every time he touched her. It didn’t make any sense. But then nothing had made any sense from the moment she awakened almost two weeks ago.
He unlocked the huge, ornate door, they stepped inside, and he closed it behind them. An oil lamp burned on a table next to the entrance, its smoky scent mingling with the smells of wax floor polish and fresh flowers. She couldn’t see much by the dim light. Max picked up the lamp and escorted her down the corridor, past a kitchen and a large dining salon and two chambers that she couldn’t remember the names for, and into a grand entry hall lit by a…
She stopped, shutting her eyes against the brightness and the frustration of not being able to remember what that was called either. It hung high over their heads, made of glittery bits of crystal. She opened her eyes, squinting. Candles. Large, shiny, thing-that-held-dozens-of-candles—
“Chandelier,” she said triumphantly.
Standing beside her, Max glanced down with a smile. “Yes. I told the servants we would be arriving late tonight and asked them to leave it lit so we wouldn’t kill ourselves going up the stairs.” He led her toward a curving staircase that rose to the floor above. “You can meet Monsieur and Madame Perelle in the morning. They’re a very nice old couple. I think you’ll like them.”
He started up but she froze a few steps from the bottom, staring at a painting that hung high on a wall opposite the front door. “Max…that’s us!” she breathed.
He came back down to stand next to her, his smile widening. “I wondered when you might notice that. I brought a few things from home, Marie. I thought they might make you feel more comfortable while we stay here. That painting was always your favorite.”
She stared up at the picture in its carved golden frame, feeling a mixture of surprise and joy. It was like looking through a window into her past—and the past didn’t look dark or frightening at all, but bright and happy and…loving.
It showed the two of them outdoors on a sunny day. She was sitting on a small chair with Max standing to one side, his hand resting on her shoulder. Both of them were smiling—and wearing very expensive-looking clothes: she had on a flowing gown of blue and gold, while Max wore a blue-and-white uniform festooned with ribbons and medals. Her hair was piled atop her head in a mass of curls, held in place by combs that sparkled with jewels. A small black-and-white dog perched in her lap. A large house filled the background.
“Is…is that our home?” she asked in wonder, gazing at the sprawling building.
“Yes. Château de La Rochelle. In Touraine,” he said slowly. “You don’t remember it?”
She fastened attention on the house. Home. That was her home! The place she had wished for and dreamed of during all the long, bleak days and nights of her imprisonment. It looked lovely. Somehow, in all her fantasies of home, she had never imagined herself wealthy enough to live in a place like that.
Her gaze traced over every column, every window, every sculpture on the immense green lawn, and she willed a memory to come, even a single twinge of recognition.
But she felt…nothing.
“No,” she whispered after a moment, shaking her head, sadness chipping away at her happiness. “I don’t remember it.”
“What about Domino?” He pointed to the dog. “You must remember Domino. We had a devil of a time trying to make him sit still for that portrait.” Max chuckled. “The artist and I were ready to give his little derrière a well-earned boot, but you insisted that you wanted him in the painting. Sometimes I think you love that little hound more than you love me.” He reached out and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “I thought about bringing him here for you, but decided it was better to leave him at home. Didn’t want him keeping the neighbors up all night with his barking. And you know how hard he is on furniture.”
She glanced at Max, then back at the dog in the painting, but Domino was no more real to her than the house. “No, I…I don’t know how hard he is on furniture.” Her voice began to waver. “I don’t even remember that I had a dog—have a dog,” she corrected.
“I’m sorry, chérie.” Max turned away, pain in his voice. “I wouldn’t have brought our portrait if I thought it would upset you.”
“No. I-I want to see my old things. But maybe seeing them in a picture isn’t enough. Maybe I have to actually touch them and hold them.” She turned to him with a rush of hope. “Did you say you brought some of my other belongings?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. I had to leave in a hurry. But let’s see if any of it helps.” He took her hand and led her up the stairs to a door at the end of the hall on the floor above.
She stepped into a room filled with costly furniture: a huge bed draped with green-and-white flowered silk, a folding screen and fat chairs covered in the same fabric, a dressing table crowded with boxes and crystal jars and many items she couldn’t identify.
Emerald velvet curtains concealed the windows. Gold paper and framed paintings decorated the walls. Twin oil lamps glowed on the small tables that flanked the bed. A generous fireplace took up most of one wall and a bouquet of white flowers overflowed the mantel, scenting the air with their heady fragrance.
“I don’t remember any of this,” she said forlornly, looking around from the middle of the room.
“No, no, of course not. The furnishings came with the house.” Max set the lamp he carried on the mantel, then plucked a single flower from the bouquet and came over to hand it to her. A white rose. “Except for these. I sent for them today. You’ve always loved flowers. Especially white roses.”
“I have?”
“Yes. And as for your things, they’re in here.” He crossed to an armoire that was taller than he was. When he opened it, she could see that it was stuffed with clothing.
Holding her breath, she hurried over to look, setting the rose aside, eagerly touching one gown after another. Gold and red and blue. Velvets and silks and satins. Lacy sleeves, flounces, ribbons, and on the bottom of the armoire, a parasol, a fan, a hat with a large bow and a floppy brim, another with a veritable flock of feathers.
But she couldn’t remember having seen any of it before.
She exhaled in a shuddery breath, feeling tears burn her eyes. “These are mine? Really mine?”
“All of them,” he assured her. “It looks like you lost some weight at that damned asylum, so the dresses might fit a bit loosely, but you never did care much for fashion. You used to say that a fascination with clothing was the mark of a tedious woman.”
“I did?”
“You did. But once in a while you allowed me to buy you something nice.” He opened a drawer in the left side of the armoire and hunted through it. “Here. These were my wedding gift to you.”
He handed her a pair of combs studded with jewels—the very ones she was wearing in the portrait downstairs. She turned them over and over in her fingers, her vision blurring with tears while the sapphires and diamonds sparkled in the light, as bright and beautiful and unfamiliar as everything else.
Max kept hunting through the drawer. “What about this? You’ll have to remember this.” He produced a ring—a large, square-cut ruby—and took her right hand
, sliding it onto her finger. It fit perfectly. “That once belonged to your grandmother. Your mother gave it to you on your eighteenth birthday. It was so special to you that you kept it in its box and rarely ever wore it—but, oh, darling, I’m forgetting. Do you even remember what ‘mother’ means?”
She gazed down at the ring. Her lower lip quivered. “Yes.”
There was an uncomfortable pause, then Max turned to the drawer again, digging through it. “I’m sorry, Marie. I didn’t mean to tell you all this tonight. You’re tired—”
“But I want to know. Where is she? Where is my mother?”
With a sigh, he slid the drawer shut, keeping his back to her. “Your family are all gone. You were an only child, and your father died when you were quite young. You lived with your mother until we married. And she…” He turned to face her. “She was always frail, and about a year ago she fell ill with pneumonia—”
She suddenly handed the combs back to him and spun away, unable to hold in the tears.
“Darling, I’m sorry. Damn.” His voice became hoarse. He shut the armoire firmly. “I shouldn’t have told you all this now. I wanted to wait until you were feeling better—”
“No, no, you don’t understand.” She covered her face with her hands.
“I understand that I’ve hurt you.”
She shook her head. Hot, choking pain filled her heart and her throat. “It’s not…not hearing about my mother and my family. What hurts is that you’re telling me they’re dead and I don’t feel anything.”
He came over and took her by the shoulders, gently turning her toward him. “Marie, you’re just tired. You need some sleep. You’ll feel better in—”
“No, I won’t! I’ll feel just as empty inside!” She tried to push him away. “How can I feel anything? How can I grieve for people I don’t remember? How can I feel sad about the death of a stranger? It’s like they never existed. Like I never existed!”
A Scoundrels Kiss Page 7