A Scoundrels Kiss

by Shelly Thacker

  His muscles tense, Max surveyed the inn’s public room as the door swung shut behind him. He kept Marie by his side and a firm grip on the satchel full of weapons he carried.

  Cheroot smoke, the scent of roasting lamb, and the clamor of laughter and noisy conversations surrounded them. At this hour most of the tables were taken, filled with travelers, shopkeepers, journeymen and apprentices enjoying wine, ale and the local gossip.

  An enormous brick hearth dominated one wall. A pair of men rose from their table on its far side, tossing down a few coins. He escorted Marie in that direction, around a U-shaped, polished oak counter that divided the room into two halves, the stools around it crowded with customers.

  Marie was one of only a handful of women in the place. He knew she couldn’t help but attract attention. But daylight was fading and candles here and there provided the only other illumination. The hearth wasn’t lit at this time of year. The table he had selected was situated in a dark corner. Even if anyone remembered her presence, they wouldn’t be able to describe her.

  “Wait here, ma chère.” He pulled out a chair for her. “I’ll see about getting us something to eat. Keep your cloak on and your hood up, at least until I get back.” He deposited her two bundles and his leather satchel on the other chair.

  She sat down with a weary nod. “Will we be staying the night here?”

  “No, we’re only stopping for a quick meal and a change of transportation. I’d like to put a little more distance between us and Paris before we stop for the night.”

  “All right,” she agreed with a sleepy sigh, accepting his explanation.

  Trusting him.

  He felt a wave of emotion rising in his chest and tried to force it down. But he couldn’t stop thinking of the words she had whispered to him earlier.

  I remember what it feels like to love you.

  Feeling a lump in his throat, he reached down and cupped her chin, his thumb stroking over the little cleft as he tilted her head up. When he had left her bed this morning, he had had a solid plan: to lock up his feelings for her like valuables in a vault. To avoid hurting her any more than he already had. To travel hour after hour each day until they were both too exhausted to think of anything at night but sleep.

  But now, as he looked down into her heavy-lashed, sparkling eyes, he knew exhaustion would not be enough to keep them apart. They would seek one another in the darkness, like silver moonlight arcing toward the sun-warmed earth.

  All day, it had required every ounce of control he possessed to keep from pressing her back into the velvet cushions and making love to her in the coach.

  And even now as he gazed down at her, a sweet, shy smile danced across her lips and a blush colored her cheeks. He thought, sensed, knew that the two of them were thinking of exactly the same thing: the bed that awaited at the end of their journey.

  He wanted to capture that glowing expression on her pretty face and hold it forever in his mind and his heart. He bent down, kissed her lightly, then forced himself to let go of her.

  She might love him now—but her tender feelings would turn to bitter hatred as soon as they reached England and she learned who and what he really was.

  In nine days.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said on a dry throat. Forcing his mind back to practical matters, he turned and wound his way through the crowd toward the curving oak counter, where a harried tavernkeeper did his best to bark orders at a trio of serving girls while sliding mugs of ale and cups of wine to waiting customers.

  Max leaned on the counter and summoned the man with a flick of his hand, an imperious, quintessentially French gesture.

  “Oui, monsieur?” The tavernkeeper held three empty goblets in his left hand while wrestling the cork out of a bottle of Bordeaux with his right—until Max slid a gold louis onto the counter and instantly gained his full attention. “Bienvenue, monsieur. Welcome, welcome. How may I be of service?”

  “My wife and I”—Max nodded toward where Marie sat in the far corner—“would like an early supper. Perhaps some of that lamb you have roasting. And a couple of baguettes. Some cheese. Roquefort, if you’ve got it. And I don’t suppose”—he glanced at the customers in the room, noting that several were drinking coffee—“that you have any chocolate?”

  “For our very special customers, monsieur.”

  Max slid another louis onto the counter.

  “Such as yourself, monsieur.” The tavernkeeper pocketed the coins and sent one of his serving girls to the kitchen to fill a platter, repeating the list of requested foods.

  Max leaned a bit closer. “I understand the horses in Loiret are among the best and fastest in the province,” he said conversationally, “since this is a stop on the post-chaise route. Where would I inquire about hiring a pair?”

  “Je suis desolée, but I’m not sure we have any left today, monsieur. The post-chaise rider went out with his deliveries yesterday, and we’ve had many travelers passing through on their way to Paris. But you can ask the stable master.” He gestured to a door at the back of the room, on the far side of the counter. “He normally withholds one or two special mounts—”

  “For special customers,” Max guessed with a doleful grin. He could feel his coin purse getting lighter by the minute.

  “Oui, monsieur.” The tavernkeeper smiled broadly. “Tell him Marcel recommended you.”

  “Thank you for your help.” Max glanced over his shoulder to check on Marie, and found her engaged in conversation with the serving girl, who had hastened to bring out a heaping platter of food.

  The serving girl poured her a cup of chocolate, and his grin widened at the radiant happiness on his wife’s—on Marie’s face. She always took such pleasure from the simplest things in life.

  He didn’t want to leave her even for a minute or two, but knew she must be as tired and hungry as he was. He decided to let her eat. She would be safe at their table in the corner chatting with the serving girl while he hired a couple of mounts.

  He went around the counter and headed for the back door the tavernkeeper had indicated.

  Armand held his breath and kept his face turned aside as D’Avenant walked past him. Right past him. Inches away. Mais alors, their shoulders almost touched.

  Gripping the mug of ale he had just purchased, Armand subdued a murderous urge to knock the Englishman to the floor and beat him senseless.

  The anger he had felt while watching the cozy little scene outside had blazed to furious heights when he stepped through the door just in time to see the bastard kiss Marie.

  Taking a swallow of ale, he slid his gaze to the right, watching the English spy. Where was he going? Armand felt for his pocket watch and flicked a glance down at it. He had only minutes before Chabot and Holcroft and the rest came charging in. Fifteen minutes. He had wasted the first five, too blinded by outrage to think.

  But he was thinking now. And watching the black-garbed figure move through the crowd. That greatcoat no doubt concealed a weapon. Or two or three. It would be mercifully convenient if D’Avenant and the soldiers outside could keep one another occupied.

  Armand was trying to devise some way to bring that about—when D’Avenant went out a door at the back of the room.

  Blinking in surprise, Armand simply stared for a second, unable to believe his good luck. The Englishman was headed straight into the welcoming muskets of Chabot’s marksmen.

  And Marie was alone.

  Mon Dieu! Not pausing to thank God for his good fortune, Armand left his mug of ale on the counter and rushed over to his sister’s table.

  She was filling an empty cup from a carafe in her hand and didn’t notice him until he was right next to her.

  “Marie.”

  She looked up with a startled expression, setting the carafe down with a metallic clang.

  There was no light of recognition in her eyes. Only fear.

  “It’s me,” he said urgently, quickly. “Armand. Your brother Armand. Don’t you remember
me?”

  She went pale. Standing up, she quickly backed away.

  “Marie,” he said helplessly. Sacrèment, he had hoped that seeing him would bring her memory back. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m your brother. We have to get out of here. Now.”

  She came up against the wall, looking around wildly. But he had her trapped. The tavern was noisy and dimly lit—and D’Avenant had chosen the darkest corner.

  They hadn’t attracted attention. Yet. He moved closer and reached for her hand. “You have amnesia, Marie. Because of the carriage accident. But you have to believe me. I’m your brother, Armand LeBon. I’ve come here to rescue you.”

  “I c-can’t understand you!” She tried to pull her hand away. “M-my husband is coming right back!”

  “He’s not your husband,” Armand whispered harshly. “He’s an English spy. His name is Lord Maximilian D’Avenant. He kidnapped you and he’s taking you to England. Whatever he’s told you is a lie, Marie. Now we have to leave—”

  “No! No, I won’t—”

  “Marie, I don’t have time to explain.” Armand shifted his grip to her wrist. “You have to come with me.”

  She struggled against his hold and opened her mouth as if to scream. Then suddenly her gaze shifted over his shoulder and she froze.

  Before Armand could turn, he felt a pistol in his back and heard a deep voice at his ear.

  “Let go of my wife.”

  Marie couldn’t even take a breath. Time seemed to wrench to a stop. The three of them stood motionless as the laughter and noise in the rest of the room continued, flowing around them. The hammering of her heart and a droning buzz in her head made her feel dizzy. Dieu, what was happening? Her eyes darted from the stranger to Max and back again.

  “I said let her go,” Max repeated in a low growl. “Now.”

  The man kept his hand clamped around her wrist. And she still couldn’t understand what he was saying.

  He was talking much too fast. “It’soverdavenant. There aretwenty armed men surroundingtheinn.”

  “Nineteen. I almost tripped over one on my way out. Take your hand off my wife.”

  The man’s grip only tightened. “She’s not yourwife, you lyingbastard. She’s my sister.”

  Max’s gaze leaped to hers. He swore under his breath.

  Marie stared at him. She couldn’t speak. Her head throbbed as hard and painfully as her heart. She couldn’t make out half of what the stranger said—but it sounded as if he had just claimed to be her brother!

  How could that be true? She didn’t remember him at all!

  But he had dark hair like hers. And brown eyes. Even a cleft in his chin. If she hadn’t spent an hour yesterday studying her reflection, she never would have noticed a resemblance, but…

  No. It couldn’t be true! She was confused. If he were telling the truth, everything Max had told her—every word, every moment they had shared, every kiss—was a lie. All of it.

  All lies.

  “Very creative,” Max said through clenched teeth. “But my wife doesn’t have a brother. I don’t know whoyou are and I don’t know who ‘D’Avenant’ is—and I don’thaveany patience left. What I do have isaloaded pistol and a strong urge to useit. Now let her go.”

  “Killingme won’t helpyou. The menoutsideare comingin. In aboutthirty seconds.”

  “You’ll be dead in five.”

  “Nothingwill bring theminside faster thanapistol shot.”

  “This would be botheffective and silent.” The stranger flinched and made a strange little hiccup of a sound.

  And instantly let her go.

  “Put your hands on the table where I can see them.” Max quickly searched the man’s coat pockets.

  “IfI hada gun,” the man said in a furious whisper, “you’d bedead by now.”

  Marie remained flattened against the wall. The man had told her his name. What had he said? Armandlebon.

  Armand LeBon?

  Her gaze flashed from one man to the other. Max LeBon. Armand LeBon. One was telling the truth. One was a liar.

  Armand, Armand, Armand. She didn’t remember the name at all. Nor did it make her feel that smothering, terrifying darkness that the other name, Véronique, had made her feel.

  The stranger must be lying. He had to be lying!

  “Marie.” Max’s voice commanded her attention. “I want you to—”

  “He is not your husband, Marie,” the man sputtered. “He’s onlyusing you. Allhewants is the—”

  Max did something that made the man gasp and go silent. “Marie, we might only have a few seconds. Listen to me,” he said urgently. “There’s a staircase at the far end of the room. I want you to go upstairs. Quickly. Find an empty room. Wait for me there. Don’t come back down no matter what you hear.”

  Marie was shaking so hard she couldn’t move. Her eyes were locked on the stranger, her mind reeling. He had said one thing quite clearly.

  He is not your husband.

  “Marie!” Max whispered sharply.

  She tore her gaze from the man who looked like her to search the handsome face and silver-bright eyes she had come to know so well. “Max—”

  “Ma chère, if you love me, do as I say.”

  The heat and urgency in his eyes, in his voice, finally penetrated her confusion and fear. There was only one choice she could make.

  And she chose the man she loved.

  “No! Marie, don’t!”

  Ignoring the stranger, she edged around them and hurried into the crowd.

  Max exhaled unsteadily as Marie finally obeyed his order. His heart was racing. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat. For the first time, he felt grateful that her amnesia was so impenetrable.

  She didn’t remember her own brother.

  “Bastard,” the younger man snarled. “They’ll kill you before you get two steps out the door. I only hope it’s lingering and painful.”

  “Glad to make your acquaintance, too, LeBon.” Max kept the knife firmly pressed against Armand’s ribs with his left hand, fighting a wave of fury. This was the man responsible for what had happened to Julian. LeBon was the one who had forced Marie to make the chemical. Sold it to the military. Enjoyed the profits.

  “It’s all over for you, D’Avenant. Let me take her out of here.”

  “Right. You’ve done such an admirable job of taking care of her up to now.” Torn between murderous rage and the need to save Marie, Max shifted sideways, reaching for the leather satchel that sat on his chair. He might have only seconds.

  “Damn you, you’re going to get her killed!”

  “Don’t pretend that you care about her, you son of a bitch.” Keeping his eyes and his knife on LeBon, he rifled through the satchel, feeling for the black cylinder—the one about the size of a pint of ale. He grabbed it and set it on the table. “How did you know where to find us?”

  “The same way I know you won’t live long enough to make it back to England.”

  Max took out a second cylinder. “Answer the question.”

  “Figure it out for yourself.”

  Max rolled the second smooth black object across the floor toward the counter. “It’s been a real pleasure, LeBon.” He drew his twin-barreled pistol. “Unfortunately, we’ll have to continue this fascinating conversation another time.”

  He aimed—then fired.

  Not at LeBon, but at the object he had sent rolling across the floor.

  The explosive sound of the gun going off was deafening in the crowded room. The bullet shattered the cylinder and it spewed forth a cloud of choking black smoke. The tavern erupted in shouts and screams as he spun and shot the second cylinder. People leaped out of their chairs. Glasses and plates went smashing to the floor.

  He thrust the spent pistol into his pocket, shoved LeBon aside and grabbed the leather satchel. The billowing smoke plunged the room into darkness and chaos. Within seconds it was impossible to see and almost impossible to breathe. Coughing, he drew a second pistol from inside his c
oat as he turned to run.

  “No!” LeBon grabbed for him blindly, caught him by the shoulder. Max jammed an elbow into the other man’s ribs.

  With a strangled curse, LeBon lunged for the gun.

  Max fought him, trying to wrest free. The shots were already bringing in the armed soldiers. He heard angry shouts as the crowd fighting to get out blocked the efforts of those fighting to get in.

  Armand’s hand closed around the barrel of the pistol. Max made a sudden turn, brought up his knee into LeBon’s midsection, and slammed him backward against the wall. The gun went off. The younger man shouted in pain and surprise and let go.

  Max heard him fall to the floor. Unable to see, he turned and felt for the satchel. He almost tripped over it. Grabbing it, he ran, forcing his way through the terrified crowd of customers who were trying to find the doors and windows.

  It seemed to take an hour to reach the counter. He vaulted over it, ran across the short clear space behind it, leaped over the other side. He found his way to the stairs. The smoke wouldn’t last much longer. It was already clearing on this side of the room.

  He took the steps two at a time. He made it halfway up when the sound of a pistol shot exploded through the chaos. Too close. Instinctively, he threw himself down. Landed hard. The edge of the steps knocked the breath from him.

  And he lost his grip on the satchel. It skidded down the staircase.

  Where was Max?

  Dazed with panic, Marie stood shaking in the corridor, gripping the edge of a doorway to keep herself from running back down the way she had come. She had heard the screams below. And the shots.

  Pistol shots. Sharp, explosive sounds that brought a sickening chill to the pit of her stomach. She remembered that sound. Somehow she remembered that sound!

  Her heart filled her throat. The pain in her head made it hard to think. The few people occupying the inn’s upper floor had fled their rooms minutes ago. The first tendrils of smoke drifting into the hallway became black plumes.

  She coughed and wiped her stinging eyes. Where was Max? She couldn’t bear it anymore. She ran back toward the stairs.