A Scoundrels Kiss

by Shelly Thacker

  “I know.”

  Julian turned toward him. “Damnation, you sound awfully calm for a man who might be facing a noose! Is this mademoiselle worth your life?”

  Max spun to face him, but Saxon cut in before he could say a single angry word. “Easy, little brother. We’re not trying to suggest that she shouldn’t matter to you.”

  “Only that you might want to think this through a little further,” Julian said. “When a man is young and inexperienced, it’s easy for him to get his head turned around by a few—”

  “Don’t even finish that sentence,” Max said sharply.

  Saxon came out of his chair to step between them. “Stow it, both of you,” he ordered in his most commanding voice. “Max, we know you’ve thought this through—from stem to stern, no doubt. But if there’s a chance this lady scientist might get her memory back soon, we need to decide right now exactly what we’re going to do.”

  “There’s no question about what we have to do,” Julian said flatly. “We have to find a way to hand her over to the proper authorities while keeping Max alive.” Rising from his seat, he headed cautiously for the cart of drinks in the far corner.

  Max could see Saxon tense against the urge to offer assistance, but the two of them let Julian make his way across the room on his own.

  “I can’t turn her in.” Max clenched his jaw. “There’s one patriot and one traitor in British Intelligence. I won’t risk giving her to the wrong one.”

  “But once we find out which one is which,” Saxon replied calmly, “I have to agree with Julian. You’ll have to bring Marie in.”

  Max turned away with an oath.

  “What else could you do? Spend your whole life on the run?” Saxon challenged. “With the military of two countries on your heels and a charge of treason hanging over your head? That’s no kind of life, Max. Not for you and not for her.”

  “I know that,” Max choked out. “Don’t you think I know that? Marie deserves better. Better than everything I’ve done.”

  “It sounds to me,” Julian said, gingerly pouring himself a drink, “as if we can’t possibly resolve this tonight. Sax, don’t you think we had better stash our ‘friend’ here someplace safe while we do a bit of investigating back in London? Pay a few calls to some associates we haven’t seen in a while?”

  “Have them find out what they can about Wolf and Fleming.” Saxon nodded. “You’re right, Julian. And I have just the place where our young spy and his lady will be safe.” He turned to Max. “The cottage I’m building for Ashiana in Sussex. No one, not even the rest of the family, knows about it because it’s supposed to be her surprise for Christmas. It’s not fully furnished yet, but I think it’ll do.”

  “Good idea.” Julian raised his glass carefully and took a sip. “We’ll send along a few of our men as guards. You get some much-needed rest, Max, while we put our minds to some truly devious scheming.”

  “Thanks.” Max tried to smile despite the lead weight settling in his heart. “Both of you. For everything.”

  “No need to thank us.” Saxon walked over and clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. “At least this will give me an excuse to get Ashiana’s pet off my ship and move him into his new home a few weeks early.”

  Max blinked at him. “Nicobar?” he asked a bit uneasily.

  “Think of him as added security.” Saxon smiled. “You’ll be staying in the only house in England protected by a full-grown Bengal tiger.”

  Holcroft. He had gone by that name for so many years, it was difficult to remember that he had ever had another. Not that he regretted abandoning the identity, the life, and the family he had been born to in an East End hovel two score years ago.

  He didn’t believe in regrets, he thought with a mocking curve to his lips, lounging in an overstuffed chair in the lavishly appointed bedchamber of his employer’s London town house.

  He had drawn the drapes to block any moonlight and left the lamps unlit. The servants hadn’t noticed his arrival—and he intended to keep it that way. Besides, he had always preferred the dark.

  He had done most of his best work in darkness.

  Helping himself to an expensive cheroot from the lacquered box on the table beside him, he lit it, listening to the sounds of Cavendish Square filtering in through the window: carriages drawn by high-stepping horses, the laughter of high-living young lords.

  England’s finest and most favored sons. He flicked ash onto the Parisian Savonnerie rug. Men possessed of too much money and too few brains.

  It was a wonder the country hadn’t been overrun centuries ago. He wondered what those wealthy lordlings below would do if they realized how very near they had come to that fate. How very close the danger still was.

  As close as the darkened room above their heads.

  How ironic, he thought, resting his muddy boots on a silk ottoman, that he should help bring it about. And how satisfying.

  It was a good thing that years of surveillance work had taught him patience. It was almost two in the morning before the door opened and his employer finally entered.

  “Good evening, my lord,” Holcroft whispered.

  He heard the sudden intake of breath, the startled pause ripe with panic. He always relished moments like this. The taste of someone else’s fear, especially fear of him, was like fine wine on his tongue.

  The man abruptly—but silently—closed the door. “You reckless fool!” he hissed under his breath. “What the hell are you doing in my house? For that matter, what the hell are you doing in England?”

  “Paying a courtesy call.” Holcroft blew a lazy ring of smoke in the darkness.

  “It’s about time for a little damned courtesy. I’ve had no word for a fortnight. I assume it’s our couriers who have become unreliable and not you.” The gentleman threw his elegant cloak and tricorne aside, but left the room dark. “Since D’Avenant failed to show for the rendezvous in Brittany, I assume our plan has succeeded and Mademoiselle LeBon is in Chabot’s custody?” He chuckled. “My counterpart is certain the young fool botched the job and got himself killed. He’s about to send condolences to the family—”

  “You may want to delay that.” Holcroft inhaled deeply, enjoying the aromatic smoke. “It’s never wise to make assumptions.”

  There was another delicious, panic-drenched pause.

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  “I mean the ambush at Loiret was a failure and Chabot is dead. D’Avenant killed him and escaped with the girl.” Holcroft rolled the cheroot back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. “We’ve spent the past fortnight searching every ship leaving from Calais, Le Havre, La Rochelle, all the way down the coast to Bayonne—but there’s been no sign of them. The ‘young fool’ is apparently a bit more skilled than you anticipated.”

  His host uttered a strangled torrent of expletives.

  In French. Strange how one always returned to one’s native tongue in moments of extreme duress.

  “There’s more, my lord. Armand LeBon disappeared during the confusion in Loiret and we have no idea where he is. And Lieutenant Guyenne has been promoted to replace Chabot—which only reinforces my belief that France’s true destiny is to remain a nation of lace-garbed lackwits led by prancing coxcombs. Without Chabot, Guyenne is about as useful as a piss-pot with a crack in it.”

  “In other words, if anyone is going to find D’Avenant and the girl, it will have to be us.”

  “Not at all, my lord.” Holcroft flicked another bit of ash onto the rug. “It may have to be you. I’m no longer convinced that the amount of profit involved in this affair is worth the effort. I’m risking a ticket to Tyburn simply by setting foot in England—and I’m thinking it may be wise to take my earnings and leave the country permanently. Tonight.” Holcroft smiled. In truth, he had no intention of leaving in the middle of this exceptional hunt simply because the quarry had gone to ground.

  Clever, resourceful prey like D’Avenant was all too rare.

  But Hol
croft never missed the opportunity to squeeze a few more shillings out of his miserly superior.

  “Unlike you,” his host muttered with distaste, “not all of us are in this for profit.”

  “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” Holcroft returned smoothly. “Have I offended your patriotic sensibilities? I know how much your loyalty to your homeland means to you.”

  “And you’re willing to bank on it. Knowing I’ll offer you whatever you ask to stay in the game. Damn it, I haven’t spent thirty years working and planning only to give up now. This woman and her chemical explosive is the best chance France has ever had for victory over England. Possibly the best chance we ever will have.”

  “The only problem being that the mademoiselle in question has vanished into thin air. And she has amnesia.”

  “She won’t after I get through with her, by God. And if she doesn’t regain her memory…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll kill her to ensure she’ll never be of any use to the English.”

  “But first you have to find her.”

  Another pause. “Very well, Holcroft. Your compensation has just doubled.”

  Holcroft smiled and tamped out the cheroot. “Excellent, my lord. Now then…how shall we locate young D’Avenant, when a veritable legion of your countrymen has failed? He may have gone deeper into France. He could be anywhere in Europe by now.”

  “No, he’ll come home. Back to England. He must realize by now that he’s been betrayed. He’ll want a safe place to hide.”

  Holcroft nodded. “We should watch his family, then. His friends. He might turn to them for help.”

  “Or he might stay as far away from them as possible.” The deep voice became slow, thoughtful. “I think the best course is to flush him out. He’ll be nervous. Suspicious. Won’t know whom to trust. We can use that. Turn his own fears against him.”

  “And how are we to flush him out when we don’t even know where he is?” Holcroft asked dryly. “Hunting dogs?”

  “No, something far more civilized.” A low, confident chuckle sounded in the darkness. “I’m simply going to send him an irresistible invitation.”

  Heaven could be no sweeter than this. Eyes closed, Marie lay curled beside Max, her cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as the scent of exotic flowers wafted around them on the humid air. The dining room of his friend’s “cottage” wasn’t furnished yet, so they had taken their afternoon meal into a huge glass room Max called the “greenhouse” for a picnic.

  They had finished eating an hour ago, but she felt sleepy and perfectly content to stay right here. Max seemed equally reluctant to move. Perhaps they were too used to resting during the day and traveling by night. It was difficult to switch back to a more normal routine. And she was in no hurry to do so.

  In fact, she was in no hurry to do anything. After two weeks spent fleeing on horseback, on foot, and by ship, she found it a joy simply to stay in one place. To relax. To feel safe.

  When they had arrived here three days ago, Max explained that his friend had generously offered the cottage for as long as they might like to stay. The friend—a man by the name of Mr. Saxon—had even sent along a half-dozen handpicked guards who were currently patrolling the grounds outside.

  She and Max had finally left France and its dangers behind, and she couldn’t be happier. She felt no homesickness for the country of her birth. None at all. Too many of her experiences there—the ones she could remember—had been frightening and unpleasant. Max had said he didn’t know when it would be safe for them to return home. She had assured him it didn’t matter.

  France was part of her past, a past that was lost to her, one she no longer cared to find. England seemed a lovely place, lush and green and filled with friendly, helpful people. At least the ones she had met. The guards were all quite nice. And Max’s friend was so kind to lend them his cottage.

  It seemed that hostilities between countries didn’t necessarily have to mean hostilities between the citizens of those countries.

  England seemed a good place to begin making a new life, filled with new memories.

  She inhaled the heady fragrances rising from the foliage all around them. “Tell me the names of the flowers again, Max. Frangi? Franchi…?”

  “Frangipani,” he whispered. “And jasmine and queen of the night and English roses.”

  “Mmm.” She sighed drowsily. The two of them still spoke French whenever they were alone together. “Do all English cottages have ‘greenhouses’ like this?”

  “No. This place is a great deal more grand than a typical cottage.”

  Grand was the word for it, Marie decided. The house was all built on one floor, and though it had only a few furnishings, and many rooms weren’t finished yet, the parts that were complete were spectacular: an entry hall lined with white marble pillars; walls gleaming with mosaic patterns of inlaid ivory, lapis, and mother-of-pearl; and a marble terrace that spanned the back of the house, with a graceful fountain at its center.

  And then there was this chamber, made all of glass, that took up the entire east wing. Overflowing with plants and shrubs and trees and vines that properly belonged in a rain forest, it was so vast she couldn’t see the other side—even though she and Max had set up their picnic in a clearing at the center.

  “I think your friend’s cottage is…what was the word you called it in English?” She opened one eye and smiled up at him. “‘Smashing’.”

  “It has turned out rather well, hasn’t it?” Max curled a strand of her hair around his finger. “This place is going to be a surprise Christmas gift for his wife. She’s not fond of the crowds and noise in London, so they’ll be able to stay here when they come up to visit the…uh…his family. We’re only about an hour south of the city here.”

  Closing her eyes again, Marie let her thoughts drift as she listened to the oddly soothing sounds of this miniature jungle: the chirping of birds in the branches overhead, the trickling of a stream that the chamber had been built around, the strident cry of a striking, jewel-toned bird that she had caught a glimpse of yesterday. A “peacock,” Max had called it.

  “And where did he get the idea for such an exotic place?” she asked.

  After a moment, she wondered whether Max had heard her. He had been in an odd mood all day, distracted.

  In fact, he had been in an odd mood ever since they had arrived here. Instead of relaxing and enjoying the respite, he seemed ill at ease, his tension worse with each passing day. Perhaps he didn’t like England.

  But there was more to it than that. He lapsed into lengthy silences at unexpected moments. He hadn’t been eating much. And though they spent every moment together, and made passionate love every night, he always had an air of…of…

  She couldn’t even name this mood that seemed to hold him in its grasp.

  Except, perhaps…sadness.

  “Max?”

  “India. It’s all designed to reflect his wife’s home in India. She grew up in a palace. As a princess.”

  Marie propped herself up on one elbow, intrigued—and eager to keep Max from retreating into his thoughts. “And how did an Englishman come to marry a princess from India?”

  A hint of a smile tugged at his lips, as if he realized the motive behind her question. He toyed with the lock of her hair that he held captive. “It’s rather a long story, Marie.”

  “I have time,” she offered quietly, meaning it in a way that went deeper than the question she had asked, telling him with her eyes that she wanted to share whatever burden it was that troubled him.

  His gray gaze, soft as the fog that enveloped the English countryside each morning, traced over her features. For a moment, she thought he was finally going to reveal what was bothering him.

  But he answered her question instead. “My friend is a captain in the East India Company—a company of merchant ships that trade in the Orient. But it wasn’t trade that brought him together with his princess. It was…” His mouth curved in a wry expression. “A jewel t
hat belonged to her people. A sacred sapphire that…uh…came into the possession of Saxon’s family, accompanied, unfortunately, by an ancient Hindu curse.” His features and his voice turned serious. “Most people don’t believe in that sort of thing in this day and age, but Saxon came to believe. Because the curse slowly killed his father and then…struck his brother…and it lasted until…”

  “Until this princess helped him break it?”

  His wry grin returned. “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. Though at first she was sent by her people to get the sapphire back and kill him.”

  Marie gasped. “And this woman who was sent to kill him—she’s now his wife?”

  “They worked out everything between them in the end.”

  Shaking her head in surprise, Marie glanced up at the intricate glass ceiling that soared far above them. “And now they love one another so much that your friend is building this wondrous place for her. Max, I would like to meet these people someday.”

  There was another long silence before Max responded.

  “Someday.”

  A low puh-puh-puh sound drew Marie’s attention to a clump of bushes on their left. She sat up. “I think our friend has returned,” she whispered with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.” Oh, I hope he’ll actually show himself this time.”

  Max sat up beside her. “Just don’t make any sudden moves, Marie. Nicobar will think you’re playing.”

  “I thought you said he was tame.”

  “He is. Well, almost tame. He’s usually very friendly. But if you make a sudden move, he’ll think it’s a game and he’ll pounce. Trouble is he doesn’t know his own strength. Thinks he’s still a kitten.”

  Marie held her breath as a large shape became visible through the foliage—a flash of orange and black accompanied by a low feline rumble that wasn’t quite a purr and wasn’t quite a growl.

  Then a pair of amber eyes peered at them from between the spindly fronds of an exotic bush. She could hear the huge cat sniffing the air.