To keep her with him.
“You were afraid…of hurting me?” she whispered.
“Yes.” Grateful for the blackness of the night, he gently cleansed away any evidence of her lost innocence.
“Because I didn’t remember what lovemaking was like, you thought I might be nervous and you might hurt me?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you wanted to be with me so badly.” Her voice became thick, as if with tears. “Max, that was so thoughtful of you.”
He couldn’t summon a reply past the tightness in his throat.
“Max, you didn’t hurt me,” she insisted firmly. “Please don’t worry about it anymore. You didn’t. You couldn’t.”
God, he wished that were true.
He set the cloth aside silently, finished with what he had set out to accomplish. He should go. He had to hide the evidence. And track down the horse. And there were plans to be made. Food and clothes to be secured. Weapons to be cleaned and reloaded.
But when she twined her fingers through his hair and drew him closer, he let her, his arms braced on either side of her only a moment before he slid them around her slender form and pulled her tight against him.
“I love you, ma chère,” he said brokenly, meaning it more than any words he had ever spoken.
She murmured her reply against his lips. “I love you, husbandmax.”
It was many kisses later before either of them spoke again.
She settled against him as he lay on his back with one arm across his eyes.
“Max?” she asked sleepily, “will you promise me something?”
Anything. Everything. “What?”
“No more secrets between us?”
He felt a sharp pain, right in the center of his chest. It almost made him give in to the agonizing longing to tell her the truth. But if he told her now, if she ran from him—straight into the danger that surrounded them on every side…
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to give the only answer he could give.
“I promise,” he said quietly. “No more secrets.”
As morning crept over the countryside and the rain finally stopped, Max stood outside the shed, leaning back against the weathered wood. Dressed only in breeches and boots, arms crossed over his chest, he watched the dark sky turn to light gray.
He had found their horse. The exhausted animal hadn’t wandered far. He’d tethered the stallion behind the shed, out of view, where it could graze on the lush summer grass. Then he had cleaned and reloaded his pistols.
His hands had shaken as he did that, as he remembered the events in Loiret. At the time it had all been a blur, everything happening so quickly that he had acted on pure instinct, for once letting brawn rule brain, matter rule mind.
But his actions were vividly clear in retrospect. He had shot Marie’s brother. And killed a man.
Taken a life. Perhaps two.
It was impossible to deny anymore, he thought, watching the sun break over the horizon in a blaze of gold: he was changing. Into someone he barely recognized.
He found himself asking the same question Marie had asked once: when this was all over, would he go back to being the “old” Max?
Or would he remain the “new” Max?
Or was there really as much difference between the two as he wanted to believe?
He closed his eyes against the sunlight.
Where in the name of God was the honor in what he was doing?
Should he follow the dictates of his logic…or his heart?
Never in his life had he thought to find himself asking that. Everything had seemed so clear back in England. A matter of black and white. King and country. Defeating the enemy and saving lives. Justice for what had happened to Julian. All very noble and honorable, on an intellectual level.
But when he looked at Marie, he didn’t feel intellectual at all. His purpose and his plans had become as murky as last night’s sky.
Was he her abductor or her protector? Her enemy or her only ally? Despicable bastard or loving husband?
In much the same way as she had lost her memory, her past…he had lost himself.
Turning, he looked inside the open door of the shed to watch the light stealing inside and covering the sweet, sleeping woman curled in the hay beneath his greatcoat.
Once, not long ago, he had been grateful to simply have his life and his health, so grateful that he had thought he would never dare ask God for anything more.
But now he dared.
He wasn’t going anywhere near the coast and he wouldn’t hand Marie over to British Intelligence. He couldn’t, not knowing whether Wolf or Fleming was the traitor. Whichever master spy remained loyal to England would bloody well suffer heart failure when Max failed to show at the rendezvous, but that was too damned bad.
As for getting out of France…
He would have to come up with adequate disguises, trade the stallion for a less noticeable horse, try to pass himself and Marie off as a pair of peasants. Observe, imitate, blend in, become merely another of the unremarkable many. Wolf and Fleming had taught him a great deal.
To confound his pursuers completely, he would head south, to neutral Spain. By traveling at night and staying away from the main roads, they might be able to avoid the search parties. If they made it to Spain, they could secure passage on a merchant ship to England.
He could only pray that he had changed enough, developed enough cunning and skill, to outwit the enemy and reach English soil.
Indeed, Wolf and Fleming had taught him a great deal.
But so had Marie.
He was taking her home.
England
Just north of the port of Southampton, the town of Chatham was a place where merchants, seamen, clerks, and gentleman farmers could stop along their journeys to the city, the countryside, or the coast.
It was also a place where a young couple, newly arrived in England and a bit worse for wear after a fortnight on the run, could go unnoticed amid the bustling crowds.
Max had chosen the town’s largest inn, a sprawling place that boasted forty rooms, stables for fifty-two horses, a reception hall, a tavern, a coffee room…and a number of private dining salons for those who wished to enjoy gaming or other pursuits away from the curious eyes of the masses.
And for this meeting, he thought as he paced in one of those private salons, he definitely needed to avoid curious eyes. Especially the whiskey-colored gaze of a certain lady who was currently asleep in his bed upstairs, safely locked in.
The lady he loved. She was the reason he was here, alone, waiting to meet with the one man in all of England who would be able—and willing—to help him.
The one man he could trust.
A chandelier overhead illuminated paintings of thoroughbred horses and keen-eyed spaniels that seemed to follow him with dark stares as he paced to the door of the salon and back again. Despite the warmth of the summer night and a fire in the grate, chills kept trickling down his neck. And despite the familiar feel of his surroundings—English oak beneath his feet, Windsor chairs flanking the room’s table, air redolent with Cheshire pipe tobacco and stout British ale—he felt no relief at being back on his native soil.
On the contrary, he felt more uneasy than he had during the entire journey through the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains or the rough voyage out of the Spanish port of San Sebastian. Instead of making him feel more confident, each passing hour made him feel certain that he had been too lucky too long, that a net was closing around them from all sides. A net that he and Marie could not possibly escape. Not together.
Not alive.
Moving restlessly to the window, he opened the heavy curtains an inch and looked outside, watching. Waiting. Carriages, horses, footmen, and travelers—mostly gentlemen accompanied by ladies of commercial intent at this hour—crowded the inn’s cobbled drive.
He had sent a message home as soon as they had arrived in Portsmouth yesterday morning. Chatham was ten hours from London by coach
, but far less than that for a lone rider on a good horse.
His brother Saxon should have arrived by now.
In his note, he had asked Saxon to dress for an evening on the town and meet him here, alone, at ten tonight—and to avoid mentioning Max’s return to the rest of the family. He hoped that those looking for him and Marie were still searching on the Continent, but in case someone was watching the D’Avenant family town house in Grosvenor Square, he didn’t want to signal his arrival and his whereabouts.
He could only pray that Saxon’s being late had to do with the casual tone of the note.
Max had thought it best to withhold the details of his situation until he could talk to his brother in person. Perhaps it was a mark of how much he had changed, how cautious he had become, he thought grimly, but he did not trust the British post with his secrets.
He rubbed his bleary eyes with the heels of his palms. He had been on the move, on guard, suspicious, and wary so long, it almost felt as if life had always been this way and always would be. Sleep had become something stolen in minutes, not hours. Meals were a heel of bread, a leg of mutton, a flask of wine—anything quick and portable. The days were spent hiding, the nights traveling at a grueling pace.
And he had spent so much time looking over his shoulder, gripping a pistol, that his hand actually felt strange and weightless without one.
He glanced down at the dark clothes he wore. He had become more comfortable in darkness than daylight. More ruffian, as Marie might say, than angel.
More spy than whatever it was he had been before.
The clock on the mantel over the grate chimed half past midnight when he finally spotted a familiar figure outside—not on horseback but descending from a coach.
The mode of transportation was a surprise, but Max exhaled deeply in relief. There was no mistaking his older brother. Even in the lamplit darkness, dressed in a black cloak and tricorne like so many others, Saxon D’Avenant could not blend unnoticed into a crowd. It wasn’t merely his height and heavily muscled build that set him apart but an air of authority that commanded attention, even when he wasn’t wearing his East India Company captain’s uniform. One of the inn’s footmen was already rushing over to bow and offer to be of service.
But Saxon waved the man away and turned to help someone else down from the coach.
Max’s grip on the window curtain tightened. His brother hadn’t come alone.
Then he recognized the second person’s elegant evening clothes, the rakish tilt of the hat…
And the bandage over the man’s eyes.
Julian! His brother Julian! An initial jolt of surprise became a broad smile that broke over Max’s features. When he had left England, Julian had still been confined to bed, incapacitated by the injuries he suffered in the explosion that sank his ship. The physicians had feared he might not even walk again.
But here he was, looking like his old self—despite a sling around his right arm and the bandage over his eyes. A pair of fetching young ladies of the evening walked past him and he turned his head with a smile, as if catching their scent or sound. He seemed inclined to follow until Saxon caught his elbow and led the way inside.
Max let the curtain fall, still grinning. There was no changing Julian. Thank God. For the first time since setting foot on English soil, Max began to feel like he was home.
And it felt good.
Not safe, not even the same…but undeniably good.
A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. In his note, he had told Saxon to ask the innkeeper for “Mr. LeBon’s” private dining room.
He opened the door to find Saxon leaning a burly shoulder on the left side of the portal, Julian in the same pose on the right.
“Greetings, little brother,” Saxon said with a slow grin. “Let me guess—you’ve decided to pursue writing and you’ve taken a nom de plume?”
“Or better yet,” Julian countered, “you’ve finally started living up to the family reputation for sin and scandal, and you’ve left such a trail of debauchery behind on your Grand Tour that you’ve been forced to take a new identity.” His mouth curved in a rakish smile and he held out his uninjured hand. “Welcome home, lad. When can we expect the tearful signorinas from Venice and Rome to come looking for you by the boatload?”
Max grasped his hand and shook it vigorously, laughing for the first time in weeks. “God, it’s good to see you up and about, Jules.”
“Up and about and out,” he said emphatically. “Just don’t tell my physicians.”
“You can trust me on that score,” Max assured him as he shook Saxon’s hand. His older brothers looked so much alike with their long, queued blond hair and angular features that they almost could have been twins. But Saxon’s brawny muscles distinguished him, along with a few scars from his numerous encounters with various knives, swords, and flying fists over the years.
“Didn’t think you’d mind the extra guest,” Saxon explained as he stepped inside, leading Julian with a subtle touch on the elbow. “Why the summons down here to the coast, Max? I take it you’re only stopping for a day before continuing the next leg of your Grand Tour.”
“Uh, you could say that. I’ve got some explaining to do.” Max shut the door and waved them toward the chairs. “How are you feeling, Jules?”
Making his way slowly to the table, Julian felt for a chair, sat down and took off the sling. “Better than my physicians anticipated.” He flexed his hand experimentally. “And you wouldn’t believe how ladies love to fuss over a wounded war hero. Been getting complaints from the neighbors—they can hardly get through the streets of Grosvenor Square without fighting their way past flocks of women coming and going from our town house.”
“Flocks?” Max asked with a dubiously raised eyebrow.
“Flocks,” Saxon confirmed with pained expression, tossing his cloak and tricorne onto a nearby settee. “Between Julian’s hundred or so admirers, and Mother’s friends coming to visit Ashiana and little Jacinda, the house has been so jammed with feminine chattering and ribbons and giggles and perfumes it’s been like living in—”
“Paradise,” Julian said with a happy sigh.
“A harem,” Saxon grumbled.
Max chuckled as he and Saxon took seats flanking Julian.
“Felicity Montjoy even came to see him,” Saxon noted. “She brought him some of those pistachio candies from Florence he likes so much.”
“Felicity is back in England?” Max regarded Julian with surprise. “How is she?”
“I have no idea.” Julian’s happy grin vanished. “I sent her on her way. And she’s not Felicity Montjoy anymore—she’s the Contessa di Padovano and has been for some years now. She ran off with that ridiculously wealthy Italian, if you’ll recall.”
“But she was recently widowed,” Saxon explained for Max’s benefit. “That’s why she’s back in England. You could have at least accepted her gift, Jules.”
Max studied Julian, puzzled that he might still be holding a grudge against one of their oldest and dearest friends. They had practically grown up with the Montjoy children, their nearest neighbors in Kent. Julian and Felicity had been especially close—so close that both families had assumed the two would marry someday…until she eloped rather suddenly. “How long has it been since Felicity has been home—ten years, eleven?”
Julian waved a hand dismissively. “I have no interest in discussing the Contessa, her late husband, or her pistachios. May we please change the subject?”
Exchanging a curious look with Saxon, Max changed the subject. “How is my new little niece, Jacinda?”
“Beautiful.” Saxon beamed with paternal pride. “As beautiful and perfect as her mother.”
Max shook his head in wonder at the softness stealing into his brother’s eyes. Saxon had long ago earned a reputation as a tough, dangerous, uncompromising man who gave no quarter. Max had seen that diamond-hard gaze stop a sailor in his tracks at twenty yards. But marriage and fatherhood had brought out
a side of Saxon they had all once feared lost.
“Since you’re back in England, Max, why not stay a few days?” Julian removed his tricorne and tossed it onto the table, a bit too far to the left. It teetered and fell off the edge, but Saxon caught it and replaced it silently. “At least until next week? My physicians have agreed to finally remove these blasted bandages so I can see again.”
Max turned to him with another jolt of surprise. “So you’re going to be…” he blurted hopefully, “that is, they’re sure…”
“They’re not sure, but I am,” Julian said staunchly. “At first my eyes hurt like the bloody devil, but they feel perfectly fine now. The only thing that’s keeping me from seeing is that bunch of lily-livered Oxford men—no offense—who keep telling me we have to be cautious.” As quickly as the ire had come into his voice, it vanished and his easy grin returned. “Might keep a black eye patch, though. Ladies seem to love that look. Piratical and all.”
“Yellowbeard of Grosvenor Square,” Saxon dubbed him.
“Bold plunderer of the hearts of unattached females in every corner of the globe,” Max added.
“Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,” Julian said with an enthusiastic waggle of his eyebrows.
The three of them laughed, and Max felt pleased that Julian hadn’t lost his renowned sense of humor.
But at the same time, he didn’t miss the look of concern in Saxon’s eyes. Saxon and Julian were only a year apart and had always been the closest of the four D’Avenant brothers…and Max could tell that Saxon was worried.
Only now did he himself sense something amiss in Julian’s usual lighthearted mood. Perhaps the very fact that it was so usual, that his jovial brother seemed almost unaffected by the horror of losing his beloved Rising Star and all but a handful of his crew in an explosion that had left him injured and blinded.
Max wondered whether Julian had discussed the explosion with Saxon. At the time Max had left England a month ago, Julian hadn’t said a word about the experience to anyone. Not one word.
“All I need to do now is convince the Company to grant me a new ship,” Julian continued, a hint of irritation creeping back into his tone. “You won’t believe this, Max, but I applied to the Company shipyards at Deptford to have one built—and they wrote back that the request would have to be delayed ‘until the question of my continued service was resolved.’ The directors are ready to discharge me! One of them actually mentioned the word pension.”
A Scoundrels Kiss Page 22