A Scoundrels Kiss

by Shelly Thacker

  “…an English ship,” she finished in a whisper.

  Her heart thudded as she remembered what Max had told her about the explosion: a hundred men killed, a handful of survivors horribly burned…

  The captain left badly injured and blinded.

  “His brother’s ship,” Ashiana confirmed, her expression pained. “Julian’s ship. It was Julian’s East Indiaman that the French attacked and destroyed in the English Channel.”

  Marie’s fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. His brother’s ship. The whole time he had been with her, that thought must have been on his mind.

  She had been horrified when he explained about the attack, shocked that he could invent such a weapon—when all along it was her chemical that had caused such unspeakable destruction. She shook her head in denial, stricken that her invention had been misused with such deadly purpose.

  Had almost killed Max’s brother.

  How he must hate her.

  She felt a chill, a slash of cold straight down her spine that left her shaking. Only now did she truly understand why he had lied to her, seduced her, used her. She had believed his sweet whispers and heated kisses came from love and desire, when the entire time his true motives were…

  Vengeance and hatred.

  She hadn’t been merely another assignment to him; he had wanted retaliation for what happened to his brother.

  Marie felt all the air leave her lungs. She had thought herself beyond pain, beyond feeling anything.

  Until now.

  “Marie?” Ashiana asked gently. “If you doubt that I’m telling you the truth—”

  “I don’t,” Marie choked out. “I don’t doubt you at all.”

  “So can you understand now why Max agreed to go to France?” Ashiana studied her with a hopeful look. “He wanted to prevent what happened to Julian from ever happening again. He knew this terrible weapon had to be stopped—”

  “And he wanted to punish the person who created it. Mon Dieu, he’s a far better actor than I gave him credit for,” Marie said brokenly. “How could he have pretended to love me when he must hate me so deeply?”

  “Oh, Marie, no, that’s not true!”

  Marie shook her head, barely hearing her. “To think that I believed he did this to me out of…out of callousness. Or his sense of duty because he’s a professional spy. But that wasn’t it at all.”

  “Callousness?” Ashiana looked puzzled. “A professional spy? I don’t think I’m explaining this correctly at all. Max is not a professional spy. And he didn’t set out to…” She fell silent for a moment, shifting her sleeping daughter in her arms. “Marie, I cannot claim to know what was in his heart when he first met you,” she continued softly. “But I know what’s in his heart now. He loves you.”

  “That is not true,” Marie bit out. “Why does everyone keep telling me that when it’s not true? He couldn’t possibly…I’m not…”

  I’m not the kind of woman men fall in love with, she almost blurted. I’m not beautiful and I’m hopeless at witty conversation and the only perfume I’ve ever worn is the scent of mineral acids and sulfur from the laboratory. I don’t have any of the qualities men admire.

  I’m not like you.

  I’m not like Véronique.

  “He doesn’t love me,” she repeated, blinking back fresh tears.

  Ashiana released a frustrated sigh, but it didn’t lessen the warm sympathy that still shone in her eyes. “I think, if I were in your position, I would say the same thing. In fact…” Her smile returned. “There was a time not so very long ago when I was in your position and I did say the same thing. These D’Avenant men can be very trying to deal with. One wants to club them over the head at times.”

  Marie sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “That sounds tempting.”

  “I should be more careful not to give you ideas.”

  “Ideas are harmless. Just don’t give me a club.”

  Ashiana laughed. “You may not believe this at the moment, Marie, but I can see why Max loves you. You remind me of him. In more ways than one.”

  Marie frowned. “I can’t see the least bit of similarity between myself and Lord Maximilian D’Avenant.”

  “But I can. I know Max. He has…” Ashiana pondered a moment. “I don’t know how else to say it: he has a gentle soul.”

  “That has not been my experience.” Marie swallowed hard and looked away. “‘Gentle’ is the last word I would use to describe what he’s done to me.”

  “He owes you an explanation,” Ashiana said firmly. “Perhaps he’ll be able to help you understand his actions. At least better than I have.” She paused a moment. “He has asked to see you.”

  Marie gasped in surprise. “Lord Saxon said he was still unconscious.”

  “He awoke this evening, just for a while. He’s very weak, but your name was the first word he spoke. Marie, he’s so concerned about you—”

  “Please, Ashiana, I don’t believe him. And I don’t have anything to say to him. I never want to see that man again.”

  “You should at least hear what he has to say.” Ashiana, apparently, could be just as stubborn as her husband. “He knew you wouldn’t want to see him, but he thought something might persuade you to listen—he mentioned a letter?”

  Marie blinked, remembering only then the letter that Max had written and given to her to keep, just before he left the cottage. “I…I don’t have it. I left it at—”

  She stopped herself, realizing that the cottage was supposed to be Ashiana’s Christmas surprise. It would be unkind to ruin Lord Saxon’s special gift to his wife.

  “At the…um…place where we were staying,” she finished awkwardly.

  Ashiana shook her head. “It’s all right. I know about the cottage. Saxon was trying to explain everything to me today without mentioning it, but the story didn’t make sense until he told me. Especially with Nicobar involved. We’ve had more important things to worry about than keeping my Christmas gift a secret.” She smiled at Marie. “It’s kind of you, though, to think of me. Especially when you have more than enough of your own concerns to worry about.”

  Marie shrugged, studying the sleeping baby, thinking.

  Thinking of how this family wasn’t at all what she had expected. They didn’t seem heartless or devious in the least. These people cared about things like Christmas surprises and burping a baby in the middle of the night and…

  Trying to console a stranger who was crying and feeling so alone in her room.

  No, the D’Avenants didn’t fit her initial theory at all.

  And it was one of the basic tenets of science that if evidence failed to support a theory, the theory must be refined.

  Or discarded.

  But if the D’Avenants really were kind, caring people, it only made her wonder all the more how Max had turned out to be such a scoundrel.

  Perhaps he was the black sheep of the family.

  “Yes…well…” Marie said finally, clearing her throat, trying to remember what they had been discussing. “The letter must still be at the cottage somewhere. I didn’t think of it when I left because at the time I was so concerned about—”

  She stopped herself again.

  Max. She had been about to say “Max.”

  But she didn’t have to complete the sentence; it was clear from Ashiana’s expression that she understood.

  “The letter doesn’t matter,” Marie insisted. “He can’t possibly claim to have genuine feelings for me. Even if he thought he had good reason for abducting me, he didn’t have to…he shouldn’t have…”

  Unable to continue, she looked away, cheeks burning.

  “He owes you an explanation. And an apology,” Ashiana said softly. “He would like to see you, Marie. And I think you should go. Not because of anything else I’ve said, but because of this—a truth that it took me a long time and a great deal of pain to learn.” She stroked her daughter’s golden hair. “Anger and hatred are useless emotions, and they hurt the person w
ho feels them more than they hurt anyone else. If you always look for something to hate, for something to be angry about, you’ll always find it, because people and life are not perfect.”

  Her voice took on a certainty and a strength that sounded truly regal. “Only when you learn to forgive, to look for the good in life and in people, to love, will you be happy.”

  Marie shut her eyes, unable to even think the word happy. She couldn’t believe she would ever be happy again. She wasn’t sure she deserved to be.

  Véronique would never know another moment’s happiness.

  Opening her eyes, Marie was about to reply with a firm no, but the thought of Véronique suddenly made her realize she had an important question to ask of Max.

  One that only he could answer.

  “Very well,” she agreed quietly, already steeling herself for the coming confrontation. “I’ll see him in the morning.”

  Of all the agonizing days he had spent in this room, Max knew this would be one of the worst. And not because of the stabbing pain that was like a knife through the muscles of his chest every time he moved.

  He knew how to deal with that sort of pain. He had had a great deal of experience. During the ten years of his illness—most of it spent in this massive four-poster bed, staring at these familiar walls with their mahogany paneling and dark green wallpaper—he had learned to focus his mind on what was happening around him, not on what he was feeling inside. By old habit, he used the trick now to relegate his physical suffering to a small, carefully contained portion of his awareness.

  But the technique availed him nothing against the other pain he felt: the wrenching sensation that half his soul had been torn away and was irretrievably lost.

  Marie. Her name had echoed through his thoughts even while he was unconscious, the deepest part of him calling to her. Marie, Marie, Marie…

  He had awakened to learn that she had saved his life, had disobeyed his direct order to leave him behind. She had risked her life, her safety, her freedom to bring him here. And he had dared hope that might mean something, that she might still harbor some minute particle of love for him, some spark of caring that hadn’t been snuffed out by the truth.

  But this morning, Saxon had been characteristically blunt in relating his meeting with her in his study. And though Ashiana had tried to sound more encouraging while describing her talk with Marie last night, the essential news from both husband and wife was the same.

  Marie Nicole LeBon, brilliant French scientist, the only woman he had ever loved, hated his guts.

  And all he could do was lie here in this room where he had spent so many days feeling as he did now—in pain, weak, dependent, uncertain. It was infuriating. He hated the feeling of helplessness, now more than ever.

  He didn’t even have the strength to lift his head from the pillow. He had tried to sit up an hour ago, against the express orders of his physician and his brothers, and only succeeded in passing out again.

  The clock on the mantel over the hearth chimed half past ten.

  Damnation, where was she? She had sent word that she would be here at ten. It was maddening being forced to wait, to arrange an appointment as if they were strangers. He didn’t feel like being formal and civilized. He wanted to storm into her room, take her in his arms and tell her…

  Tell her…

  God help him, what could he say? How exactly was he going to explain? He knew how his actions must look from her point of view. From any point of view.

  He had abducted her with every intention of handing her over to her enemies. Had lied to her about her life and her identity. Lied to her about her sister’s death. Pretended to be her husband. Said that he loved her when he didn’t mean it. Taken her to bed.

  Taken her innocence.

  And now he wanted her to believe that he truly loved her.

  How could he expect her to forgive the unforgivable?

  He lay still, reserving his strength, waiting. Trying to think of what to say.

  Making silent, fervent bargains with God.

  When the knock came, it was so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

  He forced his gaze to the door, jaw clenched, prepared to endure the loathing that he knew he would find in her gentle brown eyes. “Come in.”

  He said it in French.

  She stepped inside. But she didn’t look at him.

  He held his breath, his first feeling relief that she was all right, that Fleming hadn’t hurt her…his second the familiar sensation of his reason unraveling at her mere presence.

  She looked so achingly lovely, her glossy brown hair swept back in a simple braid, her slender curves complemented by the unadorned gown she wore—silk in a deep color Ashiana liked to call “tiger orange.” His heart turned over as he looked at her. Marie.

  His Marie.

  But he couldn’t see her eyes.

  She closed the door behind her and remained pressed against it, her hand on the latch as if she might change her mind and flee. When she finally raised her head, she glanced everywhere but at him.

  He could almost sense her mind evaluating and analyzing as she took in the bookshelves that lined two walls from floor to ceiling; the desk in one corner cluttered with scientific journals and papers and theater programs, and invitations that had arrived in his absence; the massive globe on a pedestal, given to him by one of his history professors at Oxford; the bust of Shakespeare in front of the tall sash windows. His brothers had always kidded him that his room looked more like a library than a bedchamber.

  Her gaze traveled slowly to the bed, to the books stacked beside it on the thick Axminster rug: volumes in English, French, Italian, German, Russian, along with a few manuscripts in Hindi, which he had been learning from Ashiana before he left. Her eyes lingered over only one item—an Ayscough microscope in use as a bookend on the floor—before coming to rest on the spectacles that lay on his bedside table.

  One lens was cracked, damaged when he had been shot.

  He hadn’t yet asked someone to hunt through the clutter on his desk for his other pair; his mind had been on more important things.

  Her gaze finally rose to meet his.

  And he felt the impact as if he’d been shot again.

  He flinched. Not because he saw fury or loathing there. On the contrary. Those deep, whiskey-colored eyes that had captivated him from the start, that he had seen brighten with curiosity, sparkle with laughter, flash with stubbornness, and darken with desire, now held…

  Nothing.

  No outrage, no indignation, no accusation. Nothing.

  She stared right through him. As if he were invisible. A ghost.

  The words of apology and explanation choked him before he could utter a single one. He had stolen the light from her eyes. What words could excuse or explain that?

  Mercy of God, he wished she would strike him. Curse him. Glare daggers at him. Anything but this. Instinctively, he tried to get up, to go to her, but he couldn’t make his weakened body respond.

  He fell back against the mattress, bit back a groan. “Marie, you don’t—”

  “I would prefer that we speak English, my lord.”

  The icy monotone and the formal way she addressed him were as emotionless and distant as her eyes.

  And the rosy curve of her mouth, the generous fullness that he had kissed so often, the lips that had parted so sweetly beneath his, were now a firm, unyielding line.

  “Marie,” he whispered hoarsely. “Ma chère—”

  “Don’t call me that.” She shut her eyes, her hand tightening around the door latch. “I’m not your love or your darling or your anything. And I never was.”

  He thought of arguing that point, then decided he had better keep things civil if he wanted her to hear him out. The hint of sharpness in her voice encouraged him. At least it was a reaction. Not much, but a sign that she could still feel.

  Even if what she felt was hate.

  “I only meant to ask,” he said quietly in English, “i
f you would come in and sit down rather than standing there fastened to the door.”

  She opened her eyes. “That won’t be necessary, my lord.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Marie.”

  Her chin tilted to an unmistakably brave upward angle and her eyes finally took on a shade of emotion, a hint of indignation. “I’m not afraid. It simply won’t be necessary for me to sit down because this will not be a lengthy conversation. I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for your brother Saxon. He refuses to let me leave the house, though he insists it’s not because he’s planning to turn me over to the authorities—”

  “It’s not. It’s because I won’t let you risk your life, Marie,” he told her gently. “And neither will Saxon. We’re trying to get in contact with the man I was working for in the British intelligence service. But he may have been killed. Until we decide how to proceed, you’ll be well protected here. This is the only place you’ll be safe.”

  That won him another reaction, a change in her expression so slight that someone who didn’t know her well wouldn’t have noticed.

  But he saw it: a definite spark of outrage. Which cheered him immensely.

  However, she still didn’t budge from the door. “In other words,” she said with icy calm, “you still plan to turn me over to your superiors at the first opportunity.”

  “No, absolutely not. I have no intention of turning you over to anyone at all. That was my intention when I first took you from the asylum in Paris, and even when…Bloody hell, Marie, this is a long story and I would prefer not to have to tell it with an entire room between us.”

  “You don’t have to tell me the story. Your sister-in-law Ashiana has already told me about your brother Julian’s ship being blown up. I understand your motives completely, my lord.” She emphasized the word motives with a glacial stare. “And I would prefer that you stop calling me by my given name.”

  “Very well, mademoiselle,” he said with more bite to his voice than he intended, his determination to be reasonable and accommodating rapidly losing ground to his emotions. “But since the two of us have nowhere to go, I would hope you could spare five minutes to listen to me. If I had intended to cart you off to the dungeon, I would’ve done so the minute we set foot in England. And my family has certainly had ample opportunity to pack you off to Whitehall by now. You’re a highly intelligent woman, mademoiselle. Think about it.”