"Yes, ma’am, the private dining--"
"No, thank you, Mister Jones, your dining hall will be more than satisfactory."
Marie’s head snapped round.
"Very well, my lady," the innkeeper said. "Call us if you have any difficulties."
"That is most comforting," Celeste replied, and then the old man left them to their meal.
"We cannot possibly eat in here." Madame Arnott’s tone was filled with indignation.
Celeste rolled her eyes as she walking into the room. "Do not be such an elitist, Marie. Has the Revolution taught you nothing?" she teased, sitting at a vacant table along the far wall.
Lady Rivenhall pulled at the satin ties to her straw bonnet and stretched her neck from side to side. So, it took several moments for her to notice that conversation had come to a standstill in the smoke-filled room. Celeste looked up and saw that the predominantly male patrons were looking in their direction.
Marie huffed. "This is why we cannot eat in the hall. It is the same wherever we go. The men, they…convet?"
"Lust."
"Oui, the men, they lust for you. We shall be remembered."
"I do not care, Marie. I am hungry and tired, and I want to sleep. It will take far too long to prepare a meal for us in a private dining room."
"This is not wise."
"What’ll you have, me lady?"
Celeste turned to the serving girl, whom she knew to be the married daughter of the innkeeper. "I shall have whatever is prepared."
The woman’s eyes widened and she licked her lips in nervous agitation. "But, ma’am, all we gots is mutton stew and some bread. Me mother would be ‘appy to make you--"
"No, thank you. The mutton stew will do very well, thank you. And would you mind bringing a pitcher of ale? I am rather parched from our journey."
Madame Arnott gasped, and Celeste ignored her. She stared at the wooden table, knowing that if she looked at any of the men in the room they would view it as encouragement.
The ale was brought, and she poured herself a large tankard full. Celeste sipped the bitter brew and remembered the many times that she had sat with her troops drinking ale when nothing more palatable was available. Her men had looked to her for strength and inspiration before battle, and she had given them nothing but treachery and deceit.
Celeste had tried to hate all the French, but with every passing year the line between good and evil grew indistinct. The young men under her command had joined the army rather than starve in the streets of Paris.
How could these men be blamed for her father’s death?
But it was those men who had suffered for it. The information she had given Wellesley had led to the loss of many French lives. Not the lives of the wealthy men that murdered her father and now sat at Napoleon’s side. No, the men that died on the battlefield at Albuera were farmers and peasants, her troops.
Celeste refilled her cup, tired of war and dying and of the enormous burden she carried. If she unmasked the traitor, French soldiers would die; if she did not, English soldiers would die.
Did it really matter?
"Here’s your stew, me lady."
Celeste smiled in thanks and ate in quiet contemplation. She scarcely tasted the food, noting only that it was hot and filling. But no matter how much she ate or how much she watched the patrons of the dining hall, her mutinous mind continued producing images of last night.
Of course, she knew what she had done was sinful, but when she thought of being held in the earl’s powerful arms she wanted to be wicked all over again. To run her hands the length of his nude body in an attempt to understand why his form enticed her so, why he enticed her so.
She had hoped that if she bedded him, her infatuation would be satisfied, would run its course. What an innocent fool she had been. Holding him inside her had only made her body crave more of his exquisite touch.
Despair settled in her chest, and she took another sip of ale, and another, until the emptiness faded. The man despised her. He thought her a spy and would continue to do so. After she had exposed the traitor, she would return to France and continue gathering information for Falcon.
But what if she told him the truth?
The thought flashed in her mind before she could stop it. She knew what would happen--he would not believe her and in the process of proving her claim, the traitor would escape them. Men’s lives were in her hands. It was too great a risk.
And besides, a small voice whispered, she did not deserve a man as fine and noble as the Earl of Wessex. She sipped her ale.
"Need a bit of company, me lady?"
Celeste looked up at the tall man that stood before her. He was young, blond and probably considered very handsome for a small village such as this.
"Marie, please, go upstairs."
Madame Arnott obeyed, all too familiar with the commanding tone of her lady’s voice.
"That’s right," the man said with a wink. "Give us some time to ourselves, won’t it?" His eyes roved over her with carnal speculation, further blackening her already foul mood.
"Sir, I have invited neither you nor your stench to join me, and I strongly suggest you leave my presence."
The large man planted his palms on her table and leaned toward her, saying, "A woman as fine as you ain’t accustomed to sleeping alone." His smile became seductive. "I would be happy to offer me services if you promise not to wake the entire inn when you scream me name."
Celeste’s lip curled in a sensuous smile. "I’m afraid it is you that shall do the screaming."
The burly man’s eyes flared with desire a moment before he shrieked in pain. He looked down at her knife cutting into the delicate skin between his fingers. Celeste held her weapon while he held her gaze, withdrawing his fingers from either side of the blade and examining his injury.
"You bi…" he began, and then apparently thought better of it. He walked back to his friends as their laughter rang out through the noise in the dark room.
Celeste wiggled the tip of her knife from the wood of the table and sheathed it to her thigh. She took one last gulp of ale and rose, heading for the staircase with all eyes fixed firmly on her back.
***
The Earl of Wessex stood at the bar of the Dog and Duck, thankful that he had borrowed Alfred’s coat and hat before mounting Samson. The ride was a relatively easy one, and he had overtaken the lady’s landau before lunchtime. Aidan had spent the rest of the afternoon at a sedate pace, just far enough behind so as not to be noticed by the coachman.
He slipped into the dining hall just as Lady Rivenhall sat down to eat. Aidan ate stale bread and stared, along with every other man in the room, as the lady downed tankard after tankard of ale.
This had no doubt been a source of confidence for the brave young lad that had ventured so high above his station. Aidan thought that he would be forced to intervene, but the lady had proven just as deadly as always…with the possible exception of last night.
A surge of desire swept through him as he watched the woman ascend the stairs. He washed it down with a mouthful of ale and called for another bowl of stew. Aidan waited for his food, trying not to imagine what garments she was removing, trying not to remember the feel of her silk stockings wrapped around his waist as he drove into her, trying not to remember the taste of her flesh as he took her pink nipple in his mouth.
"Another ale," he shouted with a lick of his parched lips.
Is that why the ethereal woman imbibed so much? Was she remembering, or, more likely, was she trying to forget?
He only prayed that he could.
***
Aidan’s morning broke at dawn with the pounding of his head caused by the banging at his door.
"Just a moment," he shouted irritably as he donned his buckskins and opening the small door. "Yes?"
"The lady’s coach is preparing to depart, my lord."
"Well done," he said, tossing the boy a shilling and pulling on his boots and shirt. "Make ready my horse, I sha
ll be down shortly."
"Yes, sir."
Aidan reminded himself that he needed to remain concealed, needed to observe whom she spoke with and where she was staying. He glanced down the corridor before coming downstairs only to see her seated, much as before, eating breakfast. And he had never seen anything more beautiful.
Her golden hair was twisted atop her head with peacock feathers sprouting from a hint of a hat. Her gown was designed to draw attention to her small waist, and when she looked down at her food, Aidan remembered kissing that elegant neck as her pulse thundered with her passion.
"Fancy meeting you here," he said before he knew what he was doing. Her mouth parted in shock and she ceased to breathe. He remembered that as well. "I assume you are traveling back to London?"
"Y-yes, Madame Arnott is seeing to our luggage," the lady said to the table.
The earl sat down in the chair opposite hers and waited for her blue green eyes to meet his.
"What luck. Then might I offer my services as escort?" he said, infusing his smile with every ounce of his considerable charm.
Her eyes divulged her alarm and he almost felt sorry for her. "No, thank you, my lord, that is not necessary. I’m quite sure you have better ways of occupying your time."
Aidan shook his head. "No, not really."
The stunning woman leaned forward, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts. "Then let me put the matter in other terms, my lord," she said, her shock having faded. "It will be a cold day in hell before I allow you into my conveyance."
"Then I suggest you don your jacket, my lady," he said, assisting her from her chair. "Because you are about to descend into the mouth of the inferno."
Chapter Nineteen
Lady Rivenhall could scarcely breathe as she was escorted outside by the determined Earl of Wessex. His large hand wrapped completely around her forearm, and when she attempted to pull away he discreetly tightened his grip, causing her to lose feeling in the tips of her fingers.
Celeste glanced up at the unshaven lord and knew by the hard glint in his striking eyes that there was no escaping him. She heard a gasp and looked over at her companion, saying, "It appears we shall have a passenger on our journey back to town."
Lord Wessex bowed elegantly and smiled in the direction of Madame Arnott. "Think of me as an armed escort, my lady. It would never do to have one of Lord Elkin’s guests robbed on their return to London."
Marie glared at the young earl. "How very kind of you, my lord," she said, her tone flat.
"Think nothing of it," Wessex said, helping them into the carriage.
Celeste molded herself to the far side of the landau with a fixed stare out the window. She felt Marie settle on the lavender squabs to her right, but she did not dare look in her companion’s direction for fear that she would make eye contact with the man that now filled the enclosure with his overwhelming presence.
He settled opposite her, and she could have sworn she felt the heat from his legs straight through her skirts. Celeste wiggled a fraction of an inch backward, but continued to stare over the grassy hills outside. Lord Wessex rapped on the ceiling of the conveyance and they lurched forward to begin their six-hour journey back to London.
Six hours! How would she survive?
Celeste closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she saw a smile spreading across his rugged features. Damn him. He was enjoying her discomfort, and she wondered if it would be possible to look out the window for the entire six hour journey. She focused on the distant landscape, but it did not help that she could sense the earl’s continuous regard.
The trio sat in silence for fifteen minutes before the earl asked, "How did you come to be employed by Lady Rivenhall, Madame Arnott?"
Celeste’s gaze darted to Marie’s face. Madame Arnott never spoke of that time and she hated Lord Wessex for making her do so.
"That is none of your affair," Celeste spat ungraciously as she stared into his eyes.
His ebony brows furrowed with confusion, and the matter would have ended there, but for some inexplicable reason Marie answered the man.
"My husband was Lady Rivenhall’s cousin," she began, lifting her blue eyes to meet the green of the inquisitive earl’s. "When Celeste was but four years of age, French revolutionaries invaded my home and stabbed to death my husband, ten-year-old son, and seven-year-old daughter.
"I had been caring for my ailing mother and returned home five days later to the stench of their decaying corpses. I buried them in the flower gardens of our home and then traveled to Paris to care for a child that had recently lost her mother. I have been thus ‘employed’ ever since."
Celeste slid her hand to cover Marie’s where it rested on the velvet squabs. She squeezed, lending Marie her strength, but a tear escaped Marie and cascaded down her cheek. Celeste quickly looked up at the roof of the landau, blinking rapidly to discourage her own tears.
She turned her head, never once looking at the odious man who had caused Marie to relive the old pain.
"I’m very sorry for your loss, Madame Arnott," he said with such sincerity that Celeste turned to see his face, to see if his features mirrored his tone. "I lost my parents many years ago, and while I would never presume to imagine the pain you have endured, I have felt the loss of family."
Marie nodded in acceptance of his condolences, and then it was the earl’s turn to stare out the window. The next two hours of the journey passed in complete silence, and Celeste was convinced that it would have continued had they not stopped to water the horses.
Celeste bolted from the carriage before Lord Wessex could assist her down. She headed for the open fields opposite the stables, desperate to breathe air not dominated by the masculine scent of the handsome earl.
She bent the golden stalks of grass beneath her feet as she made for a cluster of ancient oak trees. Images flashed through her mind of her father being dragged down the stairs, of the French soldiers laughing as she hid in the parlor. Of her father saying, "Conceal yourself, Celeste. Please, my love." His last thoughts had been of her, for her.
But she hadn’t returned to her room. She had run to the window and watched in horror as the drunken soldiers mocked her English father. And when that had ceased to amuse them, they had beaten him and finally…a captain had pulled his pistol and shot her father in the head while she watched, a coward hiding in the parlor.
Celeste reached the trees and sank to her knees, burying her face in her gloved hands. It had been months since she had allowed herself to think of her father, of that day. She wondered again if he would be proud of her, if she were doing the right thing, if he would forgive her lack of courage that day long ago.
"I’m sorry, Lady Rivenhall."
She heard the soft whisper from above.
Celeste looked up the length of the tall earl standing over her, and on a ragged breath, sneered, "Why should you be? We’re French, after all."
The man sank down on his haunches, and she instinctively flinched away from him as if he would strike her. His eyes flickered with confusion. "I---"
"Save your apologizes, my lord, and return to the carriage."
But the man did not move, and the longer he remained the angrier she became. Celeste struck out suddenly, pushing him on the shoulders with the force of her anger and causing him to lose his balance and fall on his back. He stared at her in disbelief as he rested on his elbows, still making no move to leave. Rage overcame her, and Celeste flew at him, hitting him in the chest with her fists.
"Stop it."
Celeste swung at his face, but he caught her wrist and rolled her on her back.
"Stop," he yelled, now as angry as she.
Celeste attempted to kick him, but the earl responded by straddling her while holding both arms firmly to the ground. Had he shouted or struck her, she would have endured. But instead he bent over her, looking into her eyes as he whispered, "I’m sorry," then bent his head and kissed her so gently she was uncertain if she merely remembered his
lips.
Desperate to be comforted, Celeste lifted her head and pressed her mouth to his. He jerked backward, and she could see the suspicion in his striking eyes, but she didn’t care. She pulled her arms from beneath his slackened grasp and wrapped them around his neck, kissing him with all the emotion unlocked by her memories. Her tongue slipped into his mouth and she drank him in, his strength, his honor, his very soul---and for the briefest of moments she felt worthy of him.
But then the earl tore his lips from hers and jumped to his feet, pacing back and forth in the golden grass, the sun reflecting off his black hair.
"We must talk." He seemed agitated and Celeste sat up to listen. "We must discuss last night and…what occurred." Wessex shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "We must discuss what will happen once we return to London."
Celeste shook her head to clear it. "What are you saying?"
The handsome man looked down at her. "You will not be permitted to venture out unless I am informed."
"Not permitted!" She was on her feet, her mouth hanging open.
"Yes, if you require an escort, you will summon me and me alone."
"A bit proprietary, don’t you think, my lord?"
The earl stopped pacing and stared at her, anger warming his eyes to a golden green. "No, Lady Rivenhall, it is pragmatic. If you will recall, the only reason you are not in the hands of the authorities is--"
"That you enjoy burying yourself between my thighs."
They stared at one another for several moments before he answered, "Yes."
Celeste closed her mouth and took a deep breath, flaring her nostrils. "Well, my lord, I find your offer lacking enticement."
"Are you suggesting, madam, that you would prefer the hangman’s noose to my bed?"
"Yes, that is precisely what I am saying."
They stared at one another in silence. "You’re distraught, Lady Rivenhall. I shall give you one week to reconsider your imprudent answer," the tall man said, striding toward the landau.
"I shall not require a week, Lord Wessex," she shouted at his broad back. "I have given you my decision."
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