Once a Spy

by Putney, Mary Jo

  Apparently he couldn’t sleep either. “Who else?” She tried to make her voice light and calm. “I’ve found I don’t like sleeping alone.”

  He sat up in bed and regarded her warily. “Neither do I, but sharing a bed seems likely to be disastrous.”

  “Perhaps we can find a workable compromise.” She cocooned herself in the quilt and gave him a gentle push on the chest. “Lie down, milord.”

  She clambered onto the bed, lying on top of his covers but close enough that she could roll on her side and drape an arm around his neck. “I promised I would do my best to make our marriage work, not just seize your money and run.”

  Bemused, he said, “You can do that if you wish to, milady.”

  “But I don’t wish to!” She drew a deep, steadying breath when she realized she was shaking. “For honor’s sake as well as for our mutual benefit, I must make a good faith effort to create a marriage that will satisfy us both as much as possible. Which means touching because we both like it so much.”

  She sensed him studying her through the shadows. “I can’t promise to share a bed with you and not become aroused,” he said bluntly. “You’re a lovely and desirable woman and my wife, and I am no longer a virtual eunuch.”

  She shuddered. “Don’t even joke about that! I hated the fact that men were maimed in order to become eunuch harem guards.”

  “Sorry, that was an ill-chosen word. But much as I want you in my bed, I can’t promise not to upset you again.”

  “If we have enough bedding between us, I think I can manage,” she said, hoping her words were true. “Part of the problem tonight was that your arousal was so unexpected and shocking.”

  “Unexpected, shocking, and frightening,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry, Suzanne.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she replied. “The problem is mine, and I will do my best to bridge the gap between us.”

  “If the answer is to have a lot of bedding, that’s easy in February.” He wrapped an arm around her and drew her cocooned self over so that she was half lying on his chest.

  She hadn’t realized how tense she was until she started to relax. With a long sigh of relief, she burrowed against him. “We can’t touch each other as thoroughly, but this is so much better than sleeping alone!”

  “I agree.” He brushed his lips across her forehead. “An American once told me of a frontier custom called bundling in which courting couples share a bed because the young man has to travel so far to visit with her. A board is laid down the middle of the bed and they’re supposed to stay on their own sides.”

  That surprised a laugh from her. “Do you think they do?”

  “Probably not, at least, not all the time!” He pulled her closer. “Blankets are softer than boards.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered as she began sliding toward sleep. “For accepting my weaknesses, and for your patience and willingness to try.”

  “You aren’t weak, ma chérie. I think you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known,” he said softly. “You survived a sad marriage to a man who didn’t deserve you. You survived pirate capture and years as a harem slave. You have the strength of endurance and the ability to change and grow. Since you have decided to do your best to make our marriage work in a way that suits us, I feel hopeful. We both want this. With commitment and intelligence, surely we will succeed.”

  “I hope so,” she said intensely. “I think you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I’d be a fool to let you go without a fight.”

  “I’m flattered.” He brushed his hand over her head. “Now rest. We both need it.”

  She exhaled slowly. Disaster had been averted, but now she must find a way to move beyond the horrors that had crippled her for so long. She owed it to Simon; she owed it to herself.

  But tonight, exhausted, she slept.

  Chapter 13

  Simon awoke feeling much as he did after a battle: battered, drained, and grateful to be alive. He opened his eyes to study Suzanne’s face, which was sculpted by the dawn light. There were blotches around her eyes, marks of her previous night’s despair.

  Yet here she was in his arms and both of them had slept. Granted, there were half a dozen layers of quilt, counterpane, blankets, sheets, and nightclothes between them, but this was infinitely preferable to sleeping alone.

  The layers were fortunate because he’d awoken with an erection. Back in the days when he’d been normal, that had been a regular phenomenon. Over time, it had become rarer and rarer and eventually he realized that passion was only a distant memory. He’d thought that state of affairs was permanent, and hadn’t much cared.

  Then he met Suzanne again. Looking back, he recognized that his compelling wish to marry her had been the first indication that he was coming alive again. He was intensely grateful despite the complications desire was causing.

  As he looked back on his life, he suspected that he did not have the right temperament to be a soldier, but circumstances had pushed him into that role. He’d done what was needed and been damned good at it, but he was glad now that he’d be leaving the army behind.

  Suzanne stirred in his arms and raised a hand to stroke his face. “Good, we’re in the same bed. I didn’t dream last night.” She tilted her head and gave him a smile that lit up the room. “I’m glad you haven’t washed your hands of me.”

  “I never will.” After a moment, he added, “As I said, you hold the power between us, but I’m unable to read your mind. If I do anything you dislike, you must tell me.”

  “Why are you granting me all the power?” she asked seriously.

  “How else will you feel safe?”

  She bit her lip. “You’re perceptive. Yet it’s uncomfortable to feel that I am in control of our marriage. Part of me likes the idea, but you are a seasoned soldier. You are used to action and command. Surely you will eventually resent deferring to me.”

  He hesitated before replying. “I suspect you’re right. But I don’t want you to ever fear being honest with me, or be afraid of what I might do.”

  “I don’t want that either,” she agreed. “I’ve spent too much of my life between walking on eggshells and being actively terrified. Better for us and our future would be to share the power. I will tell you when you are being annoying, and you will tell me the same when needed.”

  “You’re never annoying,” he protested.

  She chuckled. “Up to this point, you’ve been honest with me, but that remark is worrisome. It suggests a lack of reason on your part.”

  He laughed, surprised at how buoyant he felt. “Very well, I’ll modify my words to say that you haven’t been annoying yet, but if you are, I’ll mention it.”

  “That’s fair.” She sat up and the quilt fell from around her shoulders.

  He was acutely aware of the shifting movements of her lovely breasts under her nightgown. But it was now daytime and he invoked his self-control. “We should probably sleep in your bed. That way I’ll be the one who has to get up and freeze my feet on the way back to my bedroom in the morning.”

  “As you wish, milord.” She slipped from the bed and immediately donned her sheepskin slippers as protection from the cold floor. “What shall we do today?”

  “We’ll get dressed and have a fine, leisurely breakfast. We’ll take a ride.” He grinned. “And this afternoon, I’ll start teaching you how to be dangerous.”

  She looked bemused. “We’re having an unusual honeymoon, aren’t we? The traditional ‘moon of honey’ is a time of discovery as two people explore each other’s bodies. We aren’t really doing that.”

  “We’re doing as much of that as is feasible for the two of us. But beyond passion, I think a honeymoon is a time for two people to give each other their full attention,” he said thoughtfully. “We’re doing that and exploring each other’s minds and spirits, which is even more important.”

  “Giving each other our full attention?” She smiled wryly. “So we are, but this means I received less than my
due on my first honeymoon. Jean-Louis was perfectly willing to initiate me into the mysteries of womanhood, as he delicately called it, but outside the bed, he spent little time with me even on our honeymoon. He was always off hunting and drinking and playing cards with his male friends.”

  Simon shook his head in amazement. “What a fool my cousin was!”

  “So I have come to realize.” Suzanne hesitated. “Do you mind when I mention him? Should I stop?”

  “Not at all! Whenever you talk of him, I feel better about myself and our marriage.”

  She laughed. “And so you should!”

  * * *

  A long day of riding and learning how to handle firearms left Suzanne tired but content. Despite the near calamity the night before, she and Simon had regained their ease with each other and were growing even closer. She’d never known a man to whom she could say anything.

  Nonetheless, she was a little uncertain about how they would arrange their night’s sleep. Simon made it easy. When they went upstairs, he said, “I’ll join you in your room when I’m ready for bed.”

  She entered her room and changed into her nightgown and robe quickly, not wanting to be caught half naked. After years in the harem, she had no modesty left, but she didn’t want to make things more difficult for Simon. She’d learned that men were easily aroused if they saw too much bare skin.

  But Simon took his time before joining her. She should have known he wouldn’t permit any awkwardness. She was sitting up in the bed leaning against piled pillows when he arrived. He moved to the fireplace and began preparing the coals to warm them through the night.

  His tone conversational, he asked, “Do you need another massage? It usually takes a few days for sore riding muscles to recover.”

  “I’d like that,” she admitted. “As long as it doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”

  He stood and brushed his hands off. “If you’re asking if that will make me want you more, the answer is yes. But any minor discomfort is more than balanced by the pleasure of feeling you under my hands.”

  She wanted his touch also, so she pushed the covers back and lay face down on the lower sheet. Simon moved to the side of the bed and began gently kneading her neck and shoulders. “That feels so good,” she murmured.

  “So do you,” he said as his strong fingers soothed her muscles and bones.

  On impulse, she asked, “What are you thinking when you do this?”

  He hesitated before saying, “That any woman who enjoys being touched as much as you might someday become comfortable with more intimate touching.”

  Suzanne froze. “Relax,” Simon said with a gentle pat on her rump. “If that ever happens, it will be because you want it.” Then he returned to gently kneading her back into relaxation.

  When she was halfway to sleep, he said, “Now we build a bedtime sandwich.”

  “Oh?”

  “Since you’ve been living in a hot climate for years, you must need more blankets, so you’re the lowest layer.” He deftly rolled her onto her back and pulled several of the blankets over her. Then he lit the shielded night candle, which gave only a minimum of light, and extinguished the brighter lamp.

  Lastly he climbed onto the opposite side of the bed, lying on top of the blankets that covered her before pulling the other blankets over them both. With a contented sigh, he rolled onto his side and put his arm around her. “This is neater than our impromptu arrangement last night.”

  Suzanne agreed as she burrowed against him. He was so warm and comfortable. Here they were in each other’s arms and, if he had an erection, she wouldn’t know about it. “Good night, milord,” she whispered. “Thank you for marrying me.”

  He made a soft, friendly sound before his breathing became slow and steady. She was ready to do the same, but as she drifted into sleep, she wondered if he was right that her love of holding him might someday make her more comfortable with full intimacy.

  She hoped so. Dear God, she hoped so!

  * * *

  Their honeymoon might have been unconventional, but it fulfilled the requirement of spending all their time and attention on each other. Suzanne’s riding skills had come back effortlessly, and she loved exploring the countryside with him.

  Simon’s honeymoon concept hadn’t involved shooting lessons or teaching his lovely bride a range of dirty tricks she could use in self-defense, but she clearly enjoyed that part of it, too. Her determination to never be a victim again made her an apt student. He’d buy her some weapons that would suit her size when they returned to London.

  The sandwich system of sharing a bed was not infallible. Several mornings he’d woken up with a hand resting on Suzanne’s breast. She might sleepily move it away, but she wasn’t upset.

  They were invited to dinner by several neighbors, which he hadn’t expected. Suzanne pointed out that he was a major landowner in the area and people were curious about Simon and his French wife.

  Though France had been the enemy, Suzanne’s charm swiftly won them over. Simon remembered many of the neighbors from his childhood, and he was warmed by their welcome. As Suzanne said later, the only thing that would have made him more desirable to the neighbors was if he were single.

  He retorted that the thought of dodging eligible daughters was alarming, and he was grateful that he had a wife to protect him. They’d both laughed. He loved the way they could laugh together. White Horse Manor was feeling very much like home.

  The days of their idyll drifted together until a fortnight had passed. March had arrived and the day was lovely and sunny, early spring rather than winter, so they rode across the valley to visit the white horse. The shape was impossible to recognize close up, but Suzanne was intrigued by the crushed white chalk that filled and defined the ancient depressions.

  They shared a pleasant picnic lunch on the hillside before heading for home. Their light mood faded when they entered the house and Simon found a letter franked by Lord Kirkland. He broke the wafer and read it, his brow furrowing.

  “Bad news?” Suzanne asked.

  “Not really, but the honeymoon is over. Kirkland says that the Comte de Chaurry, an influential émigré, is holding an entertainment in three days and a card of invitation will be waiting for us in London. So it’s time to return to the real world.” He glanced up at Suzanne. “Is de Chaurry one of the émigrés you met when you first came to London?”

  She made a face. “Yes. He looked through me as if I was a scullery maid but he wasn’t actively insulting.”

  Simon frowned. “Are you ready to face him and his snobbish friends?”

  She smiled wryly. “With you beside me, I’m ready to face anyone.”

  They were a team now. And if anyone insulted her, he’d break them in half.

  Chapter 14

  Suzanne did her best to suppress her nervousness as their carriage stopped before the de Chaurry mansion. “I’m glad Jenny will be returning from Dorset this week to start looking after me, but even without her, I’m better dressed than when I first arrived in London.” She stroked a hand over her emerald-green silk skirts.

  “You look particularly beautiful tonight, and beauty is power,” Simon said seriously.

  “And if beauty isn’t enough, I have those defensive moves you taught me.” She smiled wryly at him. “The ability to fight back lends confidence.”

  “Indeed it does, but I hope that the evening won’t require you to break anyone’s fingers.” He helped her down from the carriage. “From now on, we speak French.”

  “Oui, milord,” she said demurely as she took his arm and they ascended the steps to the heavily carved double doors.

  Suzanne felt odd as she tried to think in French. Though it was her native language, in Constantinople she’d had almost no opportunity to use it and she’d been speaking English since she escaped captivity. At her request, she and Simon spoke English almost all the time because she’d wanted to become more fluent.

  Constant practice had worked; though she wasn’t t
ruly bilingual like Simon, her English had improved dramatically. Now, alas, she must once again play the role of a French noblewoman. She had become very good at playing roles, first as an obedient young countess, later as a submissive harem slave who had accepted her fate.

  She was feeling a good deal less submissive since marrying Simon. Drawing on her years as an expensive and highly polished French countess, she raised her chin and held the arm of her warrior husband as they entered the house.

  As soon as they stepped into the vestibule, they heard the sounds of music and laughter and voices chattering in French. She was instantly jarred into her old life, and remembered how trapped she’d felt as Jean-Louis’s wife. She’d been like a canary in a gilded cage, meant to be admired, not listened to.

  “How are you managing?” Simon asked under his breath.

  Simon, God bless him, paid attention to her. “Well enough, though it’s an odd feeling to be in a grand French household again.”

  “Agreed. I haven’t been in French society for many years.” He smiled at her. “Luckily, we are both very adaptable.”

  After Simon gave their names to a footman, they were escorted upstairs to the hosts, who were receiving guests. “Colonel and Madame Duval,” the footman announced.

  “Welcome to my home,” the Comte de Chaurry said. He was silver haired and elegant, as was his very fashionable wife. “I’ve heard you are now the Comte de Chambron?”

  “It seems presumptuous to claim the title when I’m not entirely sure,” Simon said as he took the other man’s hand for a brief handshake. “Several cousins stood between me and the title. France is still too unsettled for certainty.”

  He drew Suzanne forward. “But there is no question that my wife is the Comtesse de Chambron, as she is the widow of the last verified comte.”

  De Chaurry’s eyes narrowed as he registered that fact. His wife looked as if she’d bitten into a sour lemon when she was presented to Suzanne. In her turn, Suzanne looked ironically amused and was impeccably polite to her hostess.

  De Chaurry began to introduce them around the room. Suzanne and Simon were studied thoroughly, but greetings were civil. Halfway around the room, a well-dressed woman who was chatting with friends turned and gave a gasp of shock. “Suzanne, my darling girl, can that really be you?”