A Scoundrels Kiss

by Shelly Thacker

  Into her heart.

  The pistol slid from her fingers. Great choking sobs rose in her throat.

  She should go. After all he had done to her, she should just leave him and escape. Now. While she had the chance. Fleming might come back at any moment. And the man she had once believed to be her husband looked like he might already be…

  She had run across the entry hall and knelt by his side before she even knew what she was doing. Acting without thinking. Again.

  She felt for his pulse and found it, beating weakly in the strong column of his throat. He was still alive. She refused to let herself think of all the other times she had touched him, fiercely shutting those memories away behind a wall of anger.

  She could not let a man die—any man, even this man—if it was within her power to save his life.

  His skin was deathly pale, lighter than his golden hair, his clothing dark with blood. She struggled with the knotted rope around her wrists and tore it off. Her hands trembling, she opened his greatcoat and the frock coat and waistcoat beneath, looking for the bullet hole.

  She found it. In his chest.

  He was going to die if she didn’t help him.

  He needed a physician. But first she had to stop the bleeding. She ripped at the hem of her nightdress, wadded up the cotton cloth and pressed it to the wound.

  He groaned, his lashes lifting. His gray eyes were glazed. “Marie…” he murmured weakly.

  “Don’t try to speak,” she ordered, refusing to meet his gaze.

  “Fleming…”

  “He’s gone. You wounded him and he ran.”

  Max choked out a curse and struggled to rise. “Go…leave me…go!” He tried to push her hand away but collapsed with another agonized groan.

  The sound—God help her—made her heart twist painfully in her chest. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes. “I am not going to leave you here to bleed to death. I have my memory back, Monsieur D’Avenant. I know who I am—and I know you’re not my husband. You’re a liar and a fraud and I…” She couldn’t see through the tears. “I hate you. But I won’t leave you to die!”

  “Go!” He grabbed her wrist. “London…Grosvenor Square…my brothers…they’ll protect you.” He fell back, slipping into unconsciousness.

  His hand still gripped hers.

  Dawn shimmered in through tall casement windows behind the settee, casting Marie’s straight, still shadow across the parquet floor, over an Oriental rug, onto a mahogany desk at the far end of the richly furnished study.

  Dawn. How strange that the sun should rise today. As if this morning were no different from any other.

  She sat unmoving, not blinking in the brightness, not even breathing.

  But of course that couldn’t be true. She was breathing. She must be. Or she wouldn’t be alive.

  And she was. Wasn’t she? Alive? Yes. Yes, she was.

  She would be fine. Everything was going to be fine. Perfectly fine. Yes.

  She stared straight ahead, not moving as the sun’s golden glow filled and warmed the room. It did not warm her.

  Nothing could warm her.

  She couldn’t subdue the chills rippling along her limbs, despite the coat someone had wrapped around her. She couldn’t remember who, or when. It had been an hour or so ago. In the chaos of activity after she had climbed down from the driver’s seat of the coach in the middle of Grosvenor Square. Just before she had been escorted in here by a servant.

  She was still wearing it. A man’s heavy greatcoat. Dark blue.

  Odd that some part of her mind was still capable of registering details like that.

  She blinked, just once, as the light revealed more and more of the room.

  The servant, still standing by the door in his red-and-blue livery, stiff and silent.

  A portrait over the hearth, of a strikingly beautiful woman with flowing black hair and jewel-blue eyes.

  An array of strange weapons on the wall behind the desk: curved swords, evil-looking knives with twisted blades, machetes, battle-axes.

  A wooden ship on a stand in one corner, a scale model complete with sails and rigging and a flag over the stern—the renowned ensign of the British East India Company.

  She blinked again. How had she come to be in this palatial house?

  His family’s house.

  His house.

  Despite the crystalline clarity of all her other memories, the last three hours were nothing but a blur. A frenzied rush of action with no thought but one. To save a life. To get here. Because she didn’t know where else to go.

  And now that she was here…it was as if she had wandered onto a theater stage in the middle of a play. Everyone and everything around her was real, yet it all felt unreal.

  Which was exactly the opposite of the way she had lived the past month.

  She lowered her gaze to her hand. Her left hand. Stared down at the wedding ring on her finger, gleaming now in the morning sun.

  A band of gold and diamonds given to her on a moonlit night in Paris. At a romantic dinner for two. With whispered promises.

  It had all felt so real.

  Her hand began to tremble in her lap. She realized that she was still wearing not only the ring, but her nightdress. Torn and stained with blood. The same white cotton nightdress she had had on hours ago—only hours ago?—at the cottage, in the library, when he…

  When they…in the chair…

  She moved suddenly, for the first time since sitting down—lifting her hand, reaching for the gold ring. She pulled on it.

  It wouldn’t come off.

  She twisted and tugged. Couldn’t get the ring past her knuckle. A sob rose in her throat. Her heart was beating too hard. She yanked until her finger hurt and turned red. Still she couldn’t get it off.

  Frenzied, unreasoning panic rose in her chest. She had to get it off! Had to be free of it! Free of him! Free of the lies! Had to—

  Slowly, she lowered her hands and gripped the upholstered settee, forcing herself back to sanity.

  She was not an emotional person. Had never been an emotional person. No matter what had happened over the past month or how she had reacted at the time.

  She hadn’t changed. She had not changed. Cool head. Calm reason. That was her. Yes.

  She had to stay in control. Too many feelings were roiling inside her, threatening to tear free and rip her apart. Feelings as sharp as the blades on the far wall. Fury and hurt and…

  Grief.

  And guilt.

  Armand. Véronique.

  Dieu, Véronique!

  She swallowed hard, not letting herself give in to those emotions. To any emotions. They were too strong and too overwhelming and there were too many of them. They would crush her. Batter her into something small and helpless.

  Logic. Control. That was the way to survive this. The only way. She had to think—

  A sound came from just outside the room. Voices. A man’s and a woman’s. The servant opened the door.

  She tried to breathe, just to breathe. In and out. She managed one shuddery gulp of air.

  “Thank you, Townshend.” It was the man’s deep voice. “That will be all for now.”

  “Very good, my lord.” With a bow, the servant exited.

  Blinking, Marie struggled to focus her eyes. A man had stepped inside, alone—a tall, heavily muscled blond man. He shut the door behind him.

  She didn’t know his name. The craggy-looking one with the severe expression who had seemed to be in charge earlier. Dressed in a shirt and breeches. Stained with blood. He had carried Max inside. She also recognized him now as the one who had given her his coat.

  He studied her for a long moment. “Would it…been all right—be all right with you if we spoke English, Mademoiselle LeBon?” he asked in stilted French. “My French is not what it should be.”

  She nodded numbly in reply and he crossed to the massive desk.

  This was his study, she realized. The weapons. The ship. He fit in here the way
that Nicobar fit into the…

  Bits and pieces of a puzzle started clicking together in her dazed mind.

  The “friend” who owned the cottage was Max’s own brother.

  This was the East India Company captain. The one who had married a princess.

  If any of that had been true.

  Marie’s gaze slid to the portrait over the hearth. “You would be…Mr. Saxon?” she asked hoarsely in English.

  “Lord Saxon, actually.” He took a seat behind the desk. “Lord Saxon D’Avenant. I’m Max’s brother. Sorry that there wasn’t time for introductions earlier, mademoiselle.” He didn’t spend any time on pleasantries. “The physician is with him now. Max is still unconscious. He’s lost a lot of blood and he’s got a few dozen stitches in him, but the doctor is of the opinion that the bullet didn’t cause any permanent damage. It missed his heart by mere inches, but it looks like he’s going to live.”

  An emotion slipped through the wall Marie had constructed around her heart.

  An emotion she didn’t want to feel. Didn’t expect to feel.

  Relief. So strong that she couldn’t speak.

  “You saved his life,” Lord Saxon continued quietly. “For which you have my gratitude. That was one hell of an impressive feat, getting him here on your own.”

  He regarded her with a strange look in his eyes. Not just gratitude, but something almost like…admiration.

  “I w-wasn’t…I don’t…” She couldn’t finish, unsure what exactly she was trying to explain. Or to whom.

  And he didn’t give her time to sort it out. “I had half a dozen guards watching over the two of you. Every one of them a crack shot. What the devil happened?”

  Perhaps it was the unexpected way he cut right to the quick of the matter or the commanding tone of his voice, but something made her answer. “I…I don’t know. Max left for London. He said he had to meet his friend—”

  “He didn’t have a meeting with me. He was supposed to stay put.”

  “He left,” she repeated dazedly. “That’s all I know. And when he came back, there were men with him. And they—”

  “What men? How many?”

  “Two, or perhaps more. Frenchmen, I think. I heard pistol shots outside and I…I hid in the greenhouse and one of them followed me and…the tiger…” She started shaking again, breathing in short, shallow gasps, fighting to control herself. “I believe the man is dead.”

  Lord Saxon muttered an oath. “And what about the other man?”

  “Fleming. He said his name was Fleming. He caught me before I could get away and…told me he had k-killed Max and he…” She couldn’t stop her trembling this time. “He did something that made my memory come back.” Shuddering, she closed her eyes, wracked with chills. “I-I’m not sure what it was, but I’ve heard of experiments. In Austria. A way of inducing a hypnotic state. He…he wanted—”

  “The formula for your chemical.”

  Her chemical.

  Marie opened her eyes. Her chemical. That one word sliced through the jumbled confusion in her head and suddenly made everything sharp and clear. As if she were viewing it all through a microscope.

  She blinked at the fair-haired, silver-eyed man on the other side of the room, feeling like she was only now awakening from a trance. One that she had been in for a very long time.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “that was what he wanted.”

  She held his gaze. That’s what all of you want. You and your brother the spy and the English Crown and the French military.

  There was no need to say anything more. She had already said too much.

  Only now, too late, did she realize that by coming here, by saving Max, she had placed her own safety at risk. These people wanted her secret. Would do anything to get it.

  She should have been thinking of herself.

  Why hadn’t she been thinking of herself?

  She rose from the settee, her legs and her heartbeat unsteady. “Strangely enough, my lord, even after all your brother has done to me, I don’t wish him dead.” She fought to keep her voice even, to avoid showing that she understood her peril. “But he’s in your care now, and I’ve told you all I know, and—”

  “Not quite all you know. What happened to Fleming?”

  She thought of telling him to go to hell.

  But she wasn’t sure how to say that in English. And resisting would cause more trouble than she wanted at the moment. She judged the distance to the door with a flick of her eyes. “After he forced the formula out of me, he escaped. Max shot him in the leg, but he escaped. And now it’s—”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  That question, and the gentle tone in which he asked it, startled her into silence for a moment.

  Then anger bubbled up inside her. It seemed Max wasn’t the only member of the D’Avenant family skilled at feigning concern.

  “No. He—” She uttered a sound that came out as something between a laugh and a sob. “He didn’t cause any permanent damage. And now, my lord, I really must be on my way. I bid you adieu.”

  She started toward the exit, not sure where she intended to go, only that she wanted out. Now.

  “Please sit down, mademoiselle,” Lord Saxon said quietly.

  She stopped, a tingle chasing down her neck.

  He hadn’t made any move to stop her. In fact, when she glanced at him, she saw that he was leaning back in his chair.

  But there was no mistaking the firm set to his jaw and the determination in his eyes.

  The look was, in an odd way, strikingly familiar.

  He continued speaking in that calm voice. “It’s too dangerous for you to go anywhere. Especially with Fleming’s whereabouts unknown. He’s either looking for you or he’s on his way to deliver the formula to the French—”

  “Which might be cause for concern, if I had given him the correct formula.”

  It was his turn to look startled. “You said that he forced it out of you.”

  “He tried. He thought he succeeded.”

  The glimmer of admiration came into Lord Saxon’s eyes again. “Bravery under fire is rather a rare quality in a lady.”

  “I wasn’t about to give the formula to him. I’m not about to give it to anyone,” she said with a meaningful glare. “And I’m also not, by most people’s definitions of the word, a lady.”

  To her surprise, he let that comment go as if it didn’t matter. “Mademoiselle, I’m still not certain you understand the seriousness of your situation.”

  “Believe me, my lord, I am fully aware of the seriousness of my situation. I have spent the night dodging pistol fire.”

  “But you may not realize that both the French and the English are looking for you—”

  “It would appear the English have found me.”

  He shook his head, slowly. “You’re not among enemies here. I know you find this difficult to believe at the moment, but no one in this family means you any harm. We’ve been trying to protect you.”

  “Difficult, my lord?” Clenching her fists, she turned toward the door. “I find that impossible to believe.”

  His deep, quiet voice stopped her.

  “You won’t get two steps beyond that door.”

  She spun toward him, feeling outrage so strong it not only blazed through the wall of control she was struggling to maintain but burned it to ashes. “Do you mean to keep me here against my will?”

  “You have my apologies, mademoiselle, but that’s exactly what I mean.”

  She felt so furious that she lost command of the English language for a moment—and fell back on a few vivid French oaths.

  Lord Saxon quirked an eyebrow but remained calm. Infuriatingly, confidently calm. “The safest place for you at the moment is right here. With us. For your sake and for Max’s. I’m not sure how much he’s told you about his past, but I spent ten years trying to keep him alive—and I’m not about to stand by now and see him hanged.”

  That word penetrated her anger and made her he
art skip a beat.

  Which only made her all the more angry.

  “Hanged? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you may be the only thing standing between my brother and a noose at the moment. He was supposed to turn you over to the Crown by now, but he refused to do it. Because he’s in love with you—”

  “My lord,” she interrupted, “it really isn’t necessary to continue lying to me.”

  “Because he’s in love with you,” Lord Saxon repeated firmly. “He’s been trying to protect you. He’s been more concerned with keeping you safe than doing his duty—and he might be facing charges of treason because of it. If he really were the heartless blackguard you think he is, he would have handed you over to the military the minute he set foot in England.”

  She shook her head, her pulse roaring in her ears. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe a word you’re—”

  “Believe what you like, mademoiselle, but for the time being, you will remain here as our guest.” His voice softened a notch. “Besides, Max would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you.”

  Lies wrapped around lies.

  “You can’t do this!” she shouted at him in frustration. “I’ll escape. I’ll—”

  “And where would you go?”

  She opened her mouth to issue a scathing answer.

  But she couldn’t think of one.

  His simple question stole the fire from her temper. She dropped her gaze to the floor as reason took hold with jarring force.

  She was in the middle of London. Without a sou—or a farthing—to her name. Dressed in nothing but her torn, bloodied nightdress and Lord Saxon’s greatcoat.

  Where would she go?

  Home. She had had some vague idea of going home.

  But now she realized—with a finality that made her heart ache—that she had no home to return to. The manor had been destroyed by the fire. Even if she made it back to France, somehow, she had nowhere to go. And no one she could turn to for help.

  Grandfather was gone. And Véronique.

  And Armand…she didn’t know what had happened to Armand.

  And she didn’t have any friends. She had spent all her time in her laboratory. It was the only place she had ever felt comfortable and happy.