He wouldn’t let her go. “You already grieved for her, when she died. And you do exist. You’re here. With me.”
“But I don’t remember you either. The whole time I was in that…that asylum, the only hope I had was that seeing familiar people and familiar things would bring my memory back. But now I have and I still feel just as…” She struggled to find the words, and they came out on a shaky sob. “Lost and alone.”
He pulled her close, holding her tight. “You are not alone,” he said firmly.
She gave up struggling, gave in to his embrace, his strength, burying her face in his shirt. “But what if the physician was right?” she choked out. “He said I might never get my memory back. What if I feel this way forever?”
“What physician?” Max sounded worried. He tilted her face up. “Who? When did he say that?”
“After I woke up.” She gazed into those silver-bright eyes and spilled out all her fears. “He came to examine me and I heard him discussing my injury with the nuns. He said I was a very ‘strange case’ and the only other…other person he’d seen like me h-had gone mad and…died.” The word came out as a terrified whisper. “Max…p-please…help me. I don’t want to die.”
Even through the blur of tears, she could see her pain mirrored in his gaze, as if he somehow knew the desperation behind her plea, understood what it meant to feel what she was feeling.
He shut his eyes as if he couldn’t bear it, enfolding her in his arms. “You’re not going to go mad and you’re not going to die,” he whispered roughly. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Marie.”
She could feel the determination behind his words, as unyielding as the muscles of his arms and the steady beat of his heart. Closing her eyes, she slipped her arms around his back, holding on to him as tightly as she wanted to hold on to that confidence and courage. He stroked her hair, her shoulders, while her tears dampened his shirt.
Breathing unsteadily, she tried to force back the vast unknown darkness that rose up and threatened to claim her. She knew she could never face it alone…but with this stranger, this rescuer, this husband who spoke so gently and held her so fiercely, perhaps she could find the courage. The gentle pressure of his hand moving up and down her back quieted her, and her tears began to subside.
But almost as soon as that happened, she became aware that his touch didn’t seem soft and soothing anymore.
On the contrary, the feel of him stroking the curve of her back made a tingling sensation whirl tight deep inside her. All at once she became aware of the way her body molded to the angular muscles of his chest and abdomen…of his hips pressed against her belly…of the hardness there, which she hadn’t felt at all only seconds ago. He seemed to become aware of it at the same moment, because his hand stopped moving suddenly.
They stood like that, frozen for a heartbeat of time that felt like forever.
Until she lifted her head, thinking to pull away, only to be stopped by the intense heat in his eyes and the single word he spoke.
“No.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant, started to ask. But before she could do more than part her lips, his mouth covered hers.
Hot.
Sweet.
Incandescent.
She didn’t know where that word came from but it suddenly popped into her head. Light created by heat. Her hands fluttered on his shoulders. She thought to push him away. Wasn’t sure if she should. Or could. Or wanted to. Her senses swirled, burned to ashes by the dazzling heat of his kiss. A trembling began deep within her and she didn’t know if she felt shocked or frightened or…
The feeling was like the sensation she experienced at his touch, but far more powerful. His hands shifted, one circling her waist, the other sliding upward to tangle in her hair, holding her still as his lips moved over hers. His fingers caressed the nape of her neck, sending shivers to her toes. The rough stubble on his chin grazed her jaw. She uttered a small sound of uncertainty. He groaned in response, moving as if he would lift his head, as if he would stop.
But he did not.
Smoky and smoldering, the kiss suddenly deepened and flared into something hotter and brighter than the chandelier that lit the hall below, glittering through every inch of her. Sweeping away all hesitation, all questions. Her hands slid around his neck, holding onto him. She was stunned to realize that the fluttering in her stomach didn’t come from fear at all. It was a new sensation entirely. One beyond all imagining. A strange excitement.
And some bold part of her enjoyed it even as it shocked her.
Combustion. It was like combustion. She didn’t know where that word came from, either, but it described perfectly the way Max’s kiss made her feel.
Just when she thought she would melt from the sizzling heat, he changed the kiss in a way that startled her. One moment he was urging her to open her mouth a bit more—and then she felt the velvety glide of his tongue over hers.
She stiffened in his arms with a muffled cry, more from surprise than from protest, but he broke the kiss, released her, awkwardly stepped back.
He stared at her as if in a daze, his broad shoulders rising and falling rapidly. “Damn,” he choked out. “I’m…I don’t know what I…Good God.”
She could only stand there trembling, breathing just as heavily as he was, equally unable to put words to what had just happened.
But while she remained shaken, her knees weak, he seemed to recover quickly.
“Marie, until you get your memory back, until you’re…uh…feeling well, I…I’m not going to demand my husbandly rights.” He gestured to a door near the bed. “My room is right next to yours, so you’ll be perfectly safe. Get some sleep. Good night, chérie.”
Abruptly, he turned and left through the door he had indicated, closing it soundly behind him.
She blinked at his sudden disappearance. Wondered what on earth had just happened.
One moment he was kissing her, making her feel…a whole array of emotions she couldn’t begin to name…and the next he left her alone. Max seemed capable of being caring and tender or brusque and distant at his whim.
And what did he mean she would be perfectly safe? Because he was close by and could protect her? Or because he wouldn’t be demanding his husbandly rights?
She found the nearest chair and sank onto the silk cushion. Was there something about husbandly rights that would make her unsafe?
And what were “husbandly rights” anyway? She didn’t have the vaguest idea. Whatever they were, the subject seemed to make him uncomfortable. Did it have something to do with kissing?
If so, she thought—blushing even as she dared think it—she wanted to know more. She touched her lips, her blush deepening at the way they still felt sensitive from the sweet, hot pressure of Max’s mouth on hers.
Perhaps when she met Madame Perelle in the morning, she would ask her about it. The older woman was married. She probably knew all about kissing and husbandly rights.
Yes, she must ask Madame Perelle to explain.
It was an hour later before Max dared open the door again, just a crack.
Peering in to make sure Marie was asleep, he found that she was indeed abed, in an oddly childlike pose: curled on her side, with her hands over her ears. She still wore the serving wench’s gown he had stolen earlier, and she had left the lamps lit…because of her fear of the dark.
He thought of dousing them to better conceal himself but didn’t want to linger that long.
Holding an armful of clothing, he stepped inside, crossing the room silently and swiftly. He went straight to the armoire and opened it. The carefully oiled hinges didn’t make a sound. The gowns inside looked as if they had been hung randomly, but he had arranged them by size. He removed the ones that were too large for her and replaced them with the smaller dresses he held, all in the same colors and fabrics.
When making his purchases at a nearby ladies’ shop two days before, he had selected each item in three sizes, hinting with a wink that he had
a number of mistresses to keep happy. The shop was discreet, and they delivered.
Thank God Marie hadn’t been in the mood to try anything on tonight. With a quick look over his shoulder, he completed the rest of his task, taking several pairs of slippers from inside his shirt and setting them on the floor of the armoire, covering them with the parasol and hats.
The shoes should fit her quite well. Tending her ankles earlier hadn’t been an entirely charitable act. He had marked the length of her foot on one of the bandages with a little rip, and hidden the cloth up his sleeve.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to use quite the same technique with the ring. While stocking the armoire yesterday, he had placed several rings of different sizes in the drawer. During the numerous times he held and squeezed Marie’s hand, he had paid particular attention to her fingers. Since they felt so slender, he had decided on the smallest ring, the ruby, as her “family heirloom.”
While she had gazed at it on her hand, he had turned his back and slipped the alternate rings into his pocket.
Hurrying now, relieved that his plan was working so well, he picked up the oversized gowns. He glanced down to make sure he hadn’t dropped anything as he shut the armoire soundlessly.
Then he went still, his hand still touching the smooth mahogany panel.
There on the floor beside the armoire lay the white rose, the one she had set aside in her excitement to see her belongings.
He swallowed hard, clenched his fist against the wood. Damn it, no. He had just spent an hour convincing himself that he didn’t care about her. Didn’t feel guilty about deceiving her with a false past woven from lies. That he felt nothing for her…and that the kiss meant nothing to him.
He had surrendered to a momentary lapse of reason. He would never repeat the mistake. Never.
But as he looked down at the forgotten rose, unwanted emotions swept over him.
Guilt. Regret. Tenderness. Sympathy. More than that: empathy.
Max, please help me. I don’t want to die.
He turned and gazed at her, lying there looking so vulnerable and innocent in sleep. Help me.
Why did she have to ask that? It was as if someone who knew him intimately had handed her a play script about his life, and she had chosen the precise line that would cut to his heart more directly than any other.
He knew exactly how it felt to live with fear of the unknown, of death. God help him, he knew.
During his illness, he had endured days when he felt sure each breath would be his last, when the pain and uncertainty had almost overwhelmed him, and he had offered up the same prayer. Please help me. I don’t want to die.
But the entire time, he had been surrounded by a loving family. And they had helped him. Even in his darkest moments of fear, he had never once felt…
Lost and alone.
He couldn’t forget the stark fear in her eyes as she said those words. They had touched his heart as deeply as her tears.
Frowning, he turned and picked up the rose, not sure exactly what he meant to do with it. Carrying the gowns toward his room, he stopped beside her bed, realizing what he wanted to do with the pale blossom.
But if he left it there, she would know he had been in her room while she slept.
However, he thought just as quickly, she couldn’t guess his true purpose. She would think he had checked on her out of husbandly concern. That he had left the flower as a silent symbol that she wasn’t alone. She would believe that he cared about her.
Which would be good for his mission, he told himself.
He laid the rose on the pillow next to her.
Then he walked out of her bedchamber and shut the door silently behind him.
And locked it.
Max carried the armful of gowns to his wardrobe and stuffed them in among the various other feminine garments and shoes that were the wrong size for Marie. He would dispose of it all tomorrow. After hiding the key to her door in his writing desk, he paced about his bedchamber, filled with an edgy, unfamiliar energy.
His room was a masculine version of hers, decorated in vivid shades of red, gold, and blue that a Frenchman would no doubt find tasteful.
On a table beside his bed, the butler had thoughtfully left a glass and three decanters of liquor to choose from. But Max had never been a drinking man. Alcohol clouded one’s intellect, and he preferred to keep his mind clear and sharp.
Which was why he found the company of a certain whiskey-eyed mademoiselle so disturbing. Nothing that came in a bottle had ever affected him as powerfully as she did.
He shook his head, sighed, and decided he should go to bed. It seemed unconsciousness would be the only way to escape thoughts of his bewitching prisoner.
Nudging off his boots, he took the dueling pistol from the right one and slid it underneath his pillow, a wry expression curving his mouth. If the little weapon had caused Marie concern, she would be dismayed indeed by the twin-barreled gun hidden in the drawer of his bedside table. Not to mention the wicked, jointed steel knives of various sizes, folded and concealed in secret, padded pockets of his waistcoat. Or the miniature explosive devices and other tools of the trade given him by Wolf and Fleming which were currently resting comfortably in a satchel in his armoire.
He took off his waistcoat and removed the blades, stashing them in the drawer with his gun. Fishing his spectacles out of the left pocket, he tossed them atop the book on the table.
He hoped Marie wouldn’t question why both doors to her room were locked each night. He either had to secure her bedchamber or stay with her every second.
Which was not an option.
He had been an idiot to kiss her, he chastised himself, hanging his waistcoat on the clothing rack beside his armoire. He could not fathom this unique effect she seemed to have on him. She befuddled his logic and stole away his self-control with the merest blink of her ebony lashes. Being near her filled him with all manner of irrational, passionate longings.
After just one kiss, he couldn’t seem to rein in his imagination. He kept picturing sensual images of this woman who was supposed to be his enemy: Marie in his bed. Naked. Her sparkling brown eyes on his and those soft lips parted for his kiss.
His body responded quickly and enthusiastically to the idea and he forced the fantasy from his thoughts, yanking off his shirt and tossing it onto the rack. Mind over matter. Brain over brawn. That had always been his way. No woman had ever affected him so strongly that she interfered with his thinking.
Not that he had had dozens of women, he thought ruefully, taking a linen nightshirt from the armoire and stalking back to the bed. There had been three, to be exact. Beautiful, skilled, experienced women. Soon after his recovery, Julian had taken him on a tour of London’s better brothels.
Max had discovered untold pleasures—along with the true and disagreeable meaning of the term “drunk as a lord”—but he could never get past the feeling that the casual liaisons left much to be desired. Despite the ladies’ many charms, there was something missing. He had never been quite sure what it was, but he felt reasonably certain he wouldn’t find it in a brothel, so he declined to follow in his brother’s rakish footsteps.
The thought of Julian made his throat tighten. Over the past few months, the two of them had become close, despite their differences in temperament. Julian had made it a personal project to show his younger brother all the world had to offer: horse races, hunts, boxing matches, and—a mutual favorite—shooting clubs. Jules had even postponed a planned voyage to Calcutta so they could spend more time together.
If only he had left on schedule, the Rising Star might not have been in the Channel when the French decided to test their murderous new weapon.
Clenching his jaw, Max doused the lamps, filled with renewed determination. He meant to succeed at this mission. Despite the odds.
Folding his hands behind his head, he stared up into the darkness…thinking of just how huge those odds actually were.
Wolf and Fleming had e
xpressed confidence in him, but he had already made at least one serious mistake: kissing Marie. And raising the subject of his “husbandly rights” had been even worse.
In her state of mind, she might never have questioned the sleeping arrangements—if only he hadn’t brought it up. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to understand marital relations at all. Which was just fine. Her innocence and naïveté could prove most helpful.
Thus far, he wouldn’t win glowing notices for his awkward performance as Max LeBon, loving husband. He could only hope the house was convincing. The portrait, he thought, was a nice touch. He had purchased it from one of the artists who crowded the quartier Latin. The man had been happy to paint new faces on a work rejected by another patron, and even included the jeweled combs Max brought along—purchased only an hour before—in Marie’s hair. Max had explained it all as a joke he was playing on a friend.
The artist had mentioned the story about the irritating dog. Max had invented the rest. The paint was probably still wet, but it was a passable likeness. Provided Marie didn’t look at it too closely. Which was why he had hung it so high.
So far, he had managed to avoid getting killed—but how much of that was skill and how much of it was luck? His four days of training with Wolf and Fleming, exhilarating as it had been, might prove woefully inadequate now that he was in the field. On his own.
And tomorrow the real danger would begin.
The French would find her missing and launch their search. He intended to check the newspapers daily, but he doubted they would be so good as to provide him with news of the pursuit. They would more likely keep their secret plans secret. Which would leave him in the dark.
And now that he had gotten Marie out of the asylum and out of French hands, the next step would prove even more challenging: he had to help her regain her memory of the chemical weapon she had invented.
Which also held a great deal of risk. If she got any part of her memory back, she might get it all back and know their marriage was a sham. But possessing that weapon was England’s sole hope of survival. The French might have enough of the compound to be reproducing it even now.
A Scoundrels Kiss Page 8