Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  She was silent a moment, knowing she’d never really understand the need to have. You had to be without first. It wasn’t as simple as greed, which she would have understood. It was as complex as ambition and as personal as dreams. Whether she was still following her first impulse, or something deeper, she was with him.

  “They were heading north—the first man said Remo’d told them to. They figure to flush us out in here, or drive us out where they can pick us up.”

  “Logical.” As if it were pricey Columbian, they passed the Virginia tobacco back and forth. “So for tonight, we stay put.”

  “Here?”

  “As close to the huts as we can without being spotted.” With regret, he stubbed out the cigarette as it burned into the filter. “We’ll start out just after dawn.”

  Whitney took his arm. “I want more.”

  He gave her a long look that reminded her of a moment by the waterfall. “More what?”

  “I’ve been chased and shot at. A few minutes ago I lay behind that tree wondering how much longer I was going to live.” She had to take a deep breath to keep her voice steady, but her gaze never faltered. “I stand to lose every bit as much as you do, Doug. I want to see the papers.”

  He’d wondered when she’d back him into a corner. He’d only hoped they could be closer before she did. Abruptly, he realized he’d stopped looking for opportunities to ditch her. It seemed he’d taken a partner after all.

  But it didn’t have to equal fifty-fifty. Going to his pack, he searched through the envelope until he came to a letter that hadn’t been translated. If it hadn’t been, his deduction was it wasn’t as vital as those which had. On the other hand, he couldn’t read it. Whitney might pass on something useful.

  “Here.” He handed her the carefully sealed page before he sat on the ground again.

  They looked each other over, wary, distrustful, before Whitney lowered her gaze to the sheet. It was dated October, 1794.

  “Dear Louise,” she read. “I pray as I write this letter will reach you and find you well. Even here, so many miles away, word comes to us of France. This settlement is small, and many people walk with their eyes regarding the ground. We have left one war for the threat of another. Political intrigue can never be escaped, it seems. Every day we search for French troops, the exile of another queen, and my heart is divided as to whether I would welcome them or hide.

  “Still, there is a certain beauty here. The sea is close and I walk in the mornings with Danielle and gather shells. She has grown so in these last months, seen more, heard more than any mother can bear for her daughter. Yet from her eyes the fear is fading. She picks flowers—flowers such as I have never seen grow in any place. Though Gerald still mourns the queen, I feel, in time, we can be happy here.

  “I write you, Louise, to beg you to reconsider to join us. Even in Dijon you cannot be safe. I hear the stories of homes burned and looted, of people dragged to prison and to death. There is here a young man who received word that his parents were driven from their home near Versailles and hung. At night I dream of you and fear desperately for your life. I want my sister with me, Louise, safe. Gerald will open a store and Danielle and I have planted a garden. Our lives are simple, but there is no guillotine, and no Terror.

  “There is so much I need to talk with you about, sister. There are things I dare not write in a letter. I can tell you only that Gerald received a message, and an obligation from the queen only months before her death. It burdens him. In a plain wooden box he holds a part of France and Marie which will not release him. I beg you, do not cling to what has turned against you. Do not tie your heart as my husband has to what is surely over. Depart from France and what is past, Louise. Come to Diégo-Suarez. Your devoted sister, Magdaline.”

  Slowly, Whitney handed the sheet back to him. “Do you know what that is?”

  “A letter.” Because he hadn’t been unaffected, Doug slipped it back into the envelope. “The family came here to escape the Revolution. According to other documents, this Gerald was some sort of manservant to Marie Antoinette.”

  “It’s important,” she murmured.

  “Damn right. Every paper in here’s important because every one adds a piece to the puzzle.”

  She watched him secure the envelope in his pack. “And that’s all?”

  “What else?” He shot her a look. “Sure I feel sorry for the lady, but she’s been dead quite a while. I’m alive.” He put his hand on the pack. “This is going to help me live exactly the way I’ve been waiting to.”

  “That letter is nearly two centuries old.”

  “That’s right, and the only thing in it that still exists is what’s in a little wooden box. It’s going to be mine.”

  She studied him a moment, the intense eyes, the sensitive mouth. With a sigh, she shook her head. “Life’s not simple, is it?”

  “No.” Because he needed to take the lonely look from her face, he smiled. “Who wants it to be?”

  She’d think later, Whitney decided. She’d demand to see the rest of the papers later. For now she wanted only to rest, body and mind. She rose. “What now?”

  “Now …” He scanned the immediate area. “We make do with our accommodations.”

  Making a primitive camp deep in the trees on the hill, they ate Merina meat and drank palm wine. They built no fire. Through the night they took turns keeping watch and sleeping. For the first time since they began the journey together, they barely spoke. Between them was the breath of danger and the memory of a wild, mindless moment under a waterfall.

  Dawn in the forest brought streams of gold, shafts of rose, misty greens. The scent was like that of a hothouse with its doors just flung open. The light was dreamy, the air soft, carrying the cheerful sound of birds greeting the sunlight. Dew skimmed over the ground and clung to leaves. A shaft of sunlight turned tiny drops into rainbows. There were corners of paradise in the world.

  Lazy, content, Whitney cuddled closer to the warmth beside her. She sighed when a hand stroked down her hair. Pleased with the feelings drifting through her, she settled her head on a male shoulder and slept.

  It wasn’t difficult to lose time watching her this way. Doug gave himself a moment of pleasure after a long, tense night. She was a stunner. And when she slept there was a softness about her that her tart wit concealed when she was in gear. Her eyes often dominated her face. Now, with them closed, it was possible to appreciate the sheer beauty of her bone structure, the flawless purity of her skin.

  A man could fall very quick and very deep with a woman like this. Though he was sure-footed, Doug had already had a stumble or two himself.

  He wanted to make love with her, slowly, luxuriously, on a soft, springy bed piled with pillows, lined with silk, lit by candles. His imagination had no trouble setting the scene for him. He wanted it, but he’d wanted many things in his life. Doug considered one of the highest marks for success the ability to separate what you wanted from what you could get, and what you could get from what would pay off. He wanted Whitney, and had a good chance of having her, but instinct warned him it wouldn’t pay off.

  A woman like her had a way of tossing out strings on a man—then tugging on them when they were good and tight. He had no intention of being tied down, or tied to. Take the money and run, he reminded himself. That was the name of the game. In sleep, Whitney stirred and sighed. Awake, so did he.

  It was time for a little distance, he decided. Reaching across her, he shook her by the shoulder. “Rise and shine, duchess.”

  “Hmmm?” She simply curled into him, as warm and sinuous as a napping cat. He was forced to let out a very long, very slow breath.

  “Whitney, get your ass in gear.”

  The phrase penetrated the fogs of sleep. Frowning, she opened her eyes. “I’m not sure fifty percent of a pot of gold’s worth having to hear your charming voice every morning.”

  “We ain’t growing old together. Anytime you want to back out, just say the word.”

&nb
sp; It was then it occurred to her that their bodies were pressed close, like lovers after a night of passion—and compassion. One thin, arched, and elegant brow lifted. “And what do you think you’re doing, Douglas?”

  “Waking you up,” he told her easily. “You’re the one who started crawling all over me. You know what a hard time you have resisting my body.”

  “No, but I do know what a hard time I have resisting putting a few dents in it.” Pushing him away, she sat up and shook her hair back. “Oh, God!”

  His reflexes were quick. He had her under him again in a move swift enough to knock her breathless. Though neither of them realized it, he’d made one of the few purely unselfish gestures in his life. He’d shielded her body with his without a second thought to his own safety, or to profit. “What?”

  “Christ, must you habitually manhandle me?” Resigned, she sighed and pointed straight up. Cautiously, he followed the line of her finger.

  Above their heads dozens of lemurs stood in the tops of the trees. Their slim arching bodies were upright, their long, thin arms reaching up and up toward the sky. With their bodies stretched, lining the branches, they resembled a row of ecstatic pagans at sacrifice.

  Doug let out an oath and relaxed. “You’re going to be seeing a lot of those little fellas,” he told her as he rolled aside. “Do me a favor and don’t shout every time we run into one.”

  “I didn’t shout.” She was much too charmed to be annoyed as she pulled up her knees and circled them with her arms. “It looks as though they’re praying, or worshiping the sunrise.”

  “So the legend goes,” Doug agreed as he began to strike camp. Sooner or later, Dimitri’s men would double back. Doug wasn’t going to leave them a sign. “Actually, they’re just warming themselves.”

  “I prefer the mystique.”

  “Good. You’ll have plenty of mystique in your new dress.” He tossed it to her. “Put it on, there’s one more thing I want to get from below.”

  “While you’re shopping, why don’t you look for something a bit more attractive. I’m fond of silk, raw or refined. Something in blue with a bit of drape at the hips.”

  “Just put it on,” he ordered and disappeared.

  Huffing, and far from pleased, Whitney stripped off the soft, expensive, and ruined clothes she’d bought in Washington and pulled the shapeless tunic over her head. It fell lifelessly to her knees.

  “Maybe with a nice wide leather belt,” she muttered. “Something in scarlet with a really flashy buckle.” She ran a hand down the nubby cotton and scowled.

  The hemline was all wrong and the color was simply hopeless. She absolutely refused to look like a dowd, whether she was attending the ballet or running from bullets. Sitting on the ground, she dug out her makeup case. At least she could do something about her face.

  When Doug returned, she was trying and rejecting several different styles of wrapping the lamba over her shoulders. “Nothing,” she said in disgust, “absolutely nothing works with this sack. I think I’d rather wear your shirt and pants. At least …” She broke off as she turned around. “Good God, what’s that?”

  “A pig,” he said precisely as he struggled with the squirming bundle.

  “Of course it’s a pig. What’s it for?”

  “More cover.” He fastened the rope he’d slipped around the pig’s neck to a tree. With a few indignant squeaks, it subsided in the grass. “The packs’ll go in those baskets I lifted, so it looks like we’re carrying our wares to market. The pig’s a little more insurance. Lots of farmers in this region take livestock to market.” He stripped off his shirt as he spoke. “What’d you put that stuff on your face for? The important thing is for nobody to see any more of it than absolutely necessary.”

  “I might have to wear this shroud, but I refuse to look like a hag.”

  “You’ve got a real problem with vanity,” he told her as he pulled on his newly acquired shirt.

  “I don’t see vanity as a problem,” she countered. “When it’s justified.”

  “Pile your hair under that hat—all of it.”

  She did, turning slightly away while he peeled off his jeans and replaced them with the cotton pants. To make up for the wide gap of inches, he cinched them with another piece of rope. When she turned, they studied each other.

  The pants gathered generously at his waist, billowing down over his hips and riding to several inches above his ankles. The lamba he’d draped over his shoulders and back hid his build. The hat shadowed his face and covered most of his hair.

  He might get away with it, as long as no one looked too closely, Whitney decided.

  The long wide dress concealed every dip and curve of her body. It left her feet and ankles exposed. Much too elegant ankles, Doug observed, and decided they’d have to be coated with dust and dirt. The lamba, draped around her throat, over her shoulders, and down her arms, was a good touch. For the most part, her hands would be hidden.

  The straw hat had none of the style and flash of the white fedora she’d once worn, yet despite the fact that it thoroughly covered her head and hair, it did nothing to disguise the classic and very Western beauty of her face.

  “You won’t get a mile,” he muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your face. Christ, do you have to look like something that just stepped off the cover of Vogue?”

  Her lips curved ever so slightly. “Yes.”

  Dissatisfied, Doug rearranged her lamba. With a bit of ingenuity, he brought it farther up on her throat so that her chin was nearly buried in the folds, then pulled her hat down farther on her head, tilting down the front brim.

  “Just how the hell am I supposed to see?” She blew at the lamba. “And breathe?”

  “You can fold the brim back when nobody’s around.” With his hands on his hips, he stood back to take a long, critical look. She looked shapeless, sexless, and overwhelmed by the circling shawl … until she looked up and shot him a glare.

  There was nothing sexless about those eyes, he thought. They reminded him that there was indeed a shape under all that cotton. He shoved the packs into the baskets and covered them with the handfuls of fruit and food they had left. “When we get out on the road, you keep your head down and walk behind me, like a properly disciplined wife.”

  “Shows what you know about wives.”

  “Let’s get moving before they decide to backtrack this part of the forest.” He hefted a basket on each shoulder and started back down the steep, uncertain path.

  “Didn’t you forget something?”

  “You get the pig, lover.”

  Deciding her choices were limited, Whitney untied the rope from the tree and began to tug the uncooperative pig behind her. Eventually, she found it simpler to bundle him up in her arms like a recalcitrant child. He squirmed, oinked, and subsided.

  “Come along, Little Douglas, Daddy’s taking us to market.”

  “Smartass,” Doug grumbled, but grinned as they cleared the trees.

  “There is a bit of a resemblance,” she said as she skidded to a stop at the bottom. “Around the snout.”

  “We’ll take this road east,” he said, ignoring her. “With any luck, we’ll make it to the coast by nightfall.”

  Struggling with the pig, Whitney navigated down the steep dirt steps.

  “For Chrissake, Whitney, put the damn pig down. He can walk.”

  “I don’t think you should swear in front of the baby.” Gently, she set him down, tugging on the rope so that he swayed along beside them. Mountain, brush, and cover were left behind. From a helicopter, she mused, they’d probably look enough like farmers to get away with it. Up close … “What if we run into our hosts?” she began, casting a quick look at the huts behind them. “They might recognize this designer original.”

  “We’ll take our chances.” Doug started down the narrow road and decided Whitney’s feet would be dirty enough within a mile. “They’d be a lot easier to deal with than Dimitri’s ape patrol.�
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  Because the road ahead looked endless and the day was only beginning, Whitney decided to take his word for it.

  C H A P T E R

  9

  After thirty minutes, Whitney knew the lamba was going to smother her. It was the kind of day where she felt it best to wear as little as possible while doing as little as possible. Instead, she was trapped inside a long-sleeved, long-skirted sack, wound inside yards of lamba, and assigned to a thirty-mile hike.

  This one would be great for her memoirs, she decided. Travels with My Pig.

  In any case, she was becoming rather fond of the little fellow. He had a princely kind of waddle, trooping along with his head swiveling from side to side now and again, as though he were leading a procession. She wondered how he’d like an overripe mango.

  “You know,” Whitney decided, “he’s rather sweet.”

  Doug glanced down at the pig. “He’d be sweeter barbecued.”

  “That’s revolting.” She shot him a long, critical look. “You wouldn’t.”

  No, he wouldn’t, only because he didn’t have the stomach for it. But there was no reason to let Whitney know he had a certain delicacy. If he was going to eat ham, he wanted it all nicely cured and packaged first.

  “I’ve got this recipe for sweet-and-sour pork. Worth its weight in gold.”

  “Just keep it filed,” she said smartly. “This little piggy’s under my protection.”

  “I did three weeks in a Chinese restaurant in San Francisco. Before I left town, I had the classiest ruby necklace outside of a museum, a black pearl tiepin as big as a robin’s egg, and a pad full of great recipes.” All he had left were the recipes. They satisfied him. “You marinate the pork overnight. It’s so tender, it practically dissolves on the plate.”

  “Stuff it.”

  “Herb sausage in a very thin casing. Grilled.”

  “Your IQ’s all in your stomach.”

  The road became more even, smoother, and wider as they left the hills behind. The eastern plane was lush and green and humid. And much too open for Doug’s thinking. He glanced overhead at power lines. A disadvantage. Dimitri could issue orders quickly over the phone. From where? Was he south, following the trail Doug so desperately tried to cover? Behind, just behind and closing in?