A Scoundrels Kiss

by Shelly Thacker

  “I’m…I’m sure he’s looking for me.”

  “And when he finds you, you will give him the tongue-lashing he deserves, non?” Other customers in the crowded café were signaling for Emeline’s attention, impatiently holding up empty cups, and she turned back to her work. “I will return in a moment, madame.”

  The serving girl disappeared into the throng of expensively dressed men and women who were spending the afternoon gossiping and drinking and nibbling, some standing in the center of the room, others seated at the round marble tables scattered along the walls. The rushing words of their conversations were a droning roar in Marie’s aching head.

  If anyone was in for a tongue-lashing, she thought, turning back to the window, it was her, not Max. But she would endure it gladly…if only she could find her way home.

  She drew aside the lace curtain, her heart beating so hard she could hear it despite the din of the café. Outside, the late afternoon sun threw long, black shadows across the bustling sidewalk and the cobbled street. The encroaching fingers of darkness made her shiver despite the cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Her body seemed to have taken on a permanent chill, a layer of fear that tingled over her skin like ice.

  In her terror this morning, she had fled blindly from the Rue Saint-Honoré—then couldn’t find her way back, confused by the maze of crowded streets. She had tried to find a coach to take her home, but couldn’t. When she finally did locate one for hire, she couldn’t tell the driver where he should go.

  All she knew was that the town house was in a row of houses and courtyards near a park. She didn’t know the name of the street.

  When she had left this morning, she had been so happy, so caught up in the sunshine and fresh air, she hadn’t thought to make note of the name. Besides, she had planned to be gone no more than an hour.

  All afternoon, the coach driver had taken her from one park to another, but she didn’t recognize any of them. Almost numb with panic, she had finally asked him to bring her here, to the café famous for its chocolate, hoping that Max would think to look for her here.

  She didn’t know what else to do.

  Letting the curtain fall back into place, she huddled deeper into her cloak as another chill chased down her spine. All she wanted was to have Max hold her, draw her into his arms and make her feel warm and safe again. She wanted so badly to get home to him.

  But she was unable to reach him.

  She was lost. Utterly alone and lost. In a sea of strangers.

  Her gaze darted nervously around the room from one laughing, animated, powdered-and-rouged face to another. She had lost her hat, had no way of concealing herself from the people who might be searching for her and Max. At first, she had thought of going somewhere else. Hiding in the darkest corner she could find. But if she did that, Max wouldn’t be able to find her when he came looking.

  And if he didn’t…couldn’t…

  Her lower lip quivered. She blinked hard, fighting the tears that filled her eyes. What would she do if Max couldn’t find her?

  “Madame?” Emeline reappeared at Marie’s elbow. “Would you like another cup of chocolate?” she asked gently.

  “I…I don’t h-have any money left,” Marie admitted in a whisper. She had given the last of her coins to the coach driver. “I’m…n-not even sure how I’ll be able to pay you for this.” She looked down at the half-full cup that sat before her on the round marble tabletop.

  The cup disappeared as Emeline whisked it away and replaced it with another. “Then the price has just come down, madame,” she said, pouring steaming chocolate from the silver carafe in her hand. “Today at Café Procope, chocolate is free for all ladies who become lost while shopping. And so are these.” She slipped a dish of pastries onto the table. “But please don’t tell mon patron.” She flicked an uneasy look at the short, stocky man who presided over a long marble counter at the far end of the room.

  Still struggling against tears, Marie silently nodded her thanks.

  Emeline set the carafe on the table, leaving it there. “Would you like me to sit and stay with you a while, madame?”

  Marie almost said yes. She didn’t want to be alone. She never wanted to be alone again. Before today she hadn’t realized just how vulnerable she was. How a simple activity that everyone else might take for granted—going out to a shop and back—could become a terrifying ordeal for her.

  She felt helpless. She found that sensation foreign and frightening and awful…and she didn’t know how to make it go away.

  “No, Emeline, thank you.” Truly, she would welcome Emeline’s company, but she wasn’t going to get this generous girl into trouble. “Y-you’ve been more than kind. I’m sorry to keep you from your work.” She picked up the cup, though she knew the hot drink could not warm her.

  “De rien, madame. It is nothing.” Emeline smiled. “My work is to make certain the customers here enjoy a pleasant time—and you are far more pleasant than most of my customers at any time.” She glanced toward the rear of the café, where the man at the counter was summoning her with a sharp gesture. “Oh, la, la, mon patron and his demands!” she muttered. “I hope you will excuse me, madame.”

  Alone once more, Marie took a sip of chocolate and rested the cup back in its saucer, barely tasting the sweetness. She looked out the window again, watching for Max. Outside, a man carrying a long pole lit the streetlamps. Darkness was already falling.

  Darkness.

  She wrapped her hand around the cup to stop its clattering. Dieu, she wished she had never thought of going for a walk this morning.

  Just as she wished she could erase that name from her mind, the one that tormented her: Véronique LeBon.

  Who was Véronique LeBon? A relative of Max’s? Someone she had loved? Someone she had hated?

  Part of her longed to know…and part of her was terrified of hearing the answer. The aching pain in her head, the smothering sensation of drowning in the black void—it was beyond bearing.

  Oh, how she wished Max would come walking in the door. She prayed that nothing had happened to him.

  That possibility left her stomach so tied in knots that she could barely keep a few sips of chocolate down. What if he had been found by the men who were searching for them? What if he had been taken into custody? What if he was hurt? What if…

  She forced herself to stop thinking that way. Slipping her hand into the pocket of her cloak, she grasped the small tissue-wrapped box, the gift she had bought for him.

  He had to be all right. He could take care of himself. He carried a pistol. And he was intelligent and cautious and…

  Unless he was so concerned about her disappearance that he neglected to be cautious. What if—

  Emeline tapped her on the shoulder, startling Marie so badly that she almost knocked over her cup as she spun around.

  “Yes, Emeline?”

  “There is a man here looking for a missing woman, madame. You match the description he gives. Is that your husband, the gentleman with mon patron at the rear counter?”

  Her heart thudding with equal parts hope and fear, Marie hesitantly stood to get a clearer view.

  She looked across the room at the man Emeline pointed to—a man wearing a greatcoat and tricorne like so many others in the café. From the back, he seemed too tall. He turned just as she rose.

  Panic filled her throat.

  Until he turned completely and she found herself captured by a familiar silver gaze.

  Max. She wanted to run into his arms, but he was already crossing the café with rapid strides. Beneath the coat, he still wore the same dove-gray waistcoat and breeches he had had on yesterday. Stained with dirt and sweat. His face was unshaven. Deep lines bracketed his mouth. And his expression—

  His expression changed from relief to anger as his eyes took in the cup and carafe and pastries on her table.

  By the time he reached her side, his gaze had turned icy. “Thank you, mademoiselle,” he said to Emeline in a clipped voice, to
ssing a few coins on the table. “That will be all.”

  “Monsieur, she did not—”

  “I said that will be all.”

  “Yes, monsieur.” With a sympathetic glance at Marie, Emeline bobbed a curtsy and went back to her duties.

  “Max…” Marie ached to throw herself into his embrace, but she had never seen such a look in his eyes. His frosty gaze held her utterly still.

  Except for her heart, which fluttered wildly.

  He didn’t say a word. Taking her elbow in a steely grip, he turned on his heel, hurrying her through the crowd toward the door. She could feel not only heat but fury radiating from his body.

  “Max!” she gasped in protest at his hold on her arm. “Let me expl—”

  “Not a word, madame,” he ordered under his breath, his voice like a blade. “Not one word.”

  Outside in the gathering darkness, he lifted part of her cloak to conceal her face and rushed her through the flow of people, down the street to a coach that waited at the end of the block. He called to the driver and opened the door.

  “The direction I gave you earlier, monsieur. Quickly.”

  The man nodded and cracked a whip over the horse’s back. The coach started to move even as Marie felt herself lifted into the interior. Max swung up behind her, slamming the door with a force that made it rattle.

  Tumbled onto the seat as the coach jolted forward, Marie untangled herself from her cloak and sat upright as he took the seat across from her. She didn’t know which she felt more—relief at being rescued or surprise and outrage at the way he was treating her. Her head throbbed relentlessly, the pain muddling her thoughts and emotions into a jumble that made words impossible.

  “Madame,” he said in an ominously quiet tone when she didn’t speak, “perhaps you would care to tell me your precise definition of a morning stroll.”

  “Max, I’m sor—”

  “No, I’m the one who should apologize. It seems I interrupted your afternoon snack. And it looked like you were having such a pleasant time.”

  “I-I didn’t mean to…to…”

  “You didn’t mean to what, Marie? Leave the house? After I told you half a dozen times how dangerous it was?” He yanked off his tricorne and threw it on the cushion beside him. “Rather hard tobelieve, since that’s exactly whatyou did. Without so muchas onewordto me.”

  “Max, you’re talking too—”

  “You knew I wouldn’t letyou go, so you deliberately defied me andwent wandering around thecity allday. In broad daylight. Alone. With no concern intheleast for your safety oryour life!”

  His voice rose with each word until the last was a shout that stunned her.

  “That’s not true! I-I didn’t intend to be gone so long.” She felt tears welling in her eyes. Trying to sort out his angry words made her headache worse. She had wanted him to listen, to understand, had longed for him to hold her. “And I meant to tell you before I left, but—”

  “But you didn’t. And it doesn’t matternow, does it? We’ve lost an entire day’s work, thanks to your little excursion. Where the hell have youbeenall this time?”

  “Max, slow down and let me explain. I-I went to the park first, then to a shop on the Rue Saint-Honoré—”

  “Saint-Honoré?” he sputtered in disbelief. “Good God, woman, whynot just stand atop the Palais du Louvre and wave a red flag? Half ofParis must have seenyou there. And anyone who missed you just saw you inthat café! How in the name of all that’s holy did you get all this way onfoot inthe first place?”

  “I…I didn’t. I hired a coach.”

  “A coach.” He glared at her, slowing down at last, biting out each sarcastic word. “You hired a coach. Perfect. So now there’s a hackney driver who knows exactly what you look like and where you live. That’s absolutely perfect, Marie. Did you accomplish anything else in this brilliant day’s work? Perhaps introduce yourself to a detachment or two of gendarmes?”

  “Stop it!” she retorted, her temper flaring. “I don’t need you to tell me how foolish I’ve been. I feel foolish enough already. I didn’t mean for anything to go wrong!”

  “What a relief,” he snapped. “I hate to think of what might have happened if you had left the house with bad intentions. Well, I hope you enjoyed your tour, Marie, because you won’t have the chance for another. We’re leaving Paris. First thing in the morning.”

  “Leaving?” she gasped. “Y-you mean it’s safe for us to go home to Touraine?”

  “No, it is not safe for us to go home to Touraine. Nor is it safe for us to stay here. Not after your expedition today. We’re leaving Paris and we’re leaving the country.”

  She started trembling. “But where…where are we going?”

  “Frankly, I think it’s better that you don’t know. If I tell you, you’ll no doubt start planning a few sight-seeing side trips.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “As soon as we get home, I suggest you go upstairs and pack.”

  “Max, it’s not fair of you to—”

  “At the moment, madame, I am not the least bit interested in being fair,” he said coolly. “I’m your husband and you will do as I say.”

  Marie stared at him, seized by overpowering and unfamiliar emotions: indignance, anger, hurt. He didn’t understand at all. And he wouldn’t listen. He wasn’t interested in the fact that she had gotten lost. He didn’t care how hard she had tried to get home. He didn’t care about the darkness and cold that even now held her in its frightening grasp. He…

  Didn’t care.

  She turned away stiffly, staring at the window even though the curtains were drawn. The two of them endured the rest of the ride in tight-lipped silence.

  When the coach came to a halt in front of their town house, Max got out first, but she refused his help as she stepped down. Instead she reached into the pocket of her cloak, gave him a cool look, and plunked the gift she had bought him into his upturned hand.

  Then she stalked past him and went straight into the house without a word.

  The clock in Max’s bedroom chimed midnight as he poured himself another brandy.

  Wearing a robe of black silk brocade, his hair still wet from his bath, he set the decanter on the bedside table with a clatter, lifted the glass and emptied it by half.

  The heat of the liquor blazed down his throat, matching his mood. He wanted to stop thinking. Obliterate his logic. Blot out every damn thought in his head.

  Wanted to forget.

  He shot a glance at the mirror beside his armoire, staring at his reflection. He didn’t know himself anymore. The face was the same, but he felt different.

  Never in his life had he lost his temper the way he had today. Never had he yelled at anyone so heatedly. He hadn’t just been angry—he had been shouting, snapping, door-slamming angry. He had completely lost control.

  Turning away from the mirror, he prowled across the room. When he had first seen Marie after looking for her the whole damned day, he had wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her breathless. At the same time, seeing her standing there in that café with her table full of pastries and chocolate, as if nothing were amiss, he had wanted to shake her for being so careless.

  He had been so swamped by emotions that he had forgotten his role. Forgotten his duty. Sounded like a furious husband.

  Because he had felt like a furious husband. A furious, worried husband.

  Never had he experienced the kind of heart-wrenching fear he had felt while searching for her all day. Not even during the years of his illness. This was an entirely new emotion. One that came from the thought of any harm befalling Marie. Of never seeing her again. And it had nothing to do with his mission. Nothing. It had gripped him because he…

  Because he…

  Had feelings for her. Feelings that ran deeper than physical desire or mere affection.

  He drained the contents of the glass. Strode back to the bedside table and poured another. He had to extinguish every particle of that notion from his mind. Along with his l
ogic.

  Because for once, his logic was not helping him but betraying him.

  Gripping the glass, he turned to stare at the gift that lay on his writing desk amid a pile of shredded tissue.

  A fishing lure. She had bought him a fishing lure.

  A small gift. A simple gesture. A symbol of all he had lost during his illness, all the pleasures he could now enjoy again. She did remember what he had revealed about his past last night…and wanted to show that she understood. That he was not alone.

  Something twisted painfully in his chest. The inexpensive, thoughtful gift was so typically Marie.

  And if A equals B, and B equals C, then C must equal A.

  That was one of the most elemental rules of logic: if all evidence pointed to a single conclusion, one must accept the conclusion.

  And according to that law of reasoning, there wasn’t as much difference between the “old” Marie and the “new” Marie as he might like to think. The proof was right before his eyes.

  The fact that she understood German and English was undeniably part of the real Marie. And the fact that she doodled chemical symbols. And her intelligence. Her independence. Her impatience. Logical traits for a woman scientist. Her lack of ladylike refinement. The fact that she didn’t care a whit for fashion. All inescapably real.

  All aspects of the “old” Marie.

  So what about her thoughtfulness? Her concern for feeding the hungry. Her concern for him. I don’t want anything to happen to you, Max. The tears in her eyes when he spoke of his past. The fishing lure sitting there amid the shredded paper.

  Caring. Empathy. Kindness.

  If all the other traits he had witnessed were true facets of the real Marie…how could that aspect of her character be untrue?

  But it had to be. Because if her kindness were real, he had been wrong about her from the beginning.