That made perfect sense, and yet it was the most difficult part of all. For months she’d thought about how she would disclose this to the Black Knight—a man she assumed would be impartial, unknowing, rational, and concerned for payment. Never had she remotely considered that the matter would involve a friend, and one for whom her feelings ran the gamut and yet were so difficult to define.
“It’s extremely important to me, Jonathan,” she confided faintly, “and highly personal.”
“I gathered that, or you wouldn’t have risked so much.”
His words were totally sincere, touching her because she knew he meant them. She grasped her elbows in front of her, rubbing them with her fingertips. “The situation could result in serious social consequences.”
He warmed from her troubled expression, the graveness in her tone. “Just tell me, Natalie,” he pushed soothingly. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The time had arrived, and she had no idea where to start. Pulse racing, she looked directly into his eyes. “My mother has not always been so . . . honest with my father.”
“Really,” he said blankly. Seconds later he added, “I imagine that’s common in many marriages.”
She fidgeted, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, leaning against the windowsill for support, hugging herself. “You don’t understand.”
His eyes widened, but he said nothing more.
Keenly embarrassed, she finally whispered, “I mean faithful—honest in the marriage bed. My mother has . . . been with someone else.”
She hadn’t felt so disconcerted in ages, standing five feet away from the man of her desire, exposing family secrets of an intimate nature. But he didn’t appear shocked; his expression remained neutral.
“I see,” he murmured at last.
She glanced at the wall, her eyes grazing over paintings, large and small, each an artistic mastery of color and charm, her gaze finally settling on a luscious landscape, expertly painted in watercolors of teal green and chocolate brown. “I’m not sure when this indiscretion began,” she continued, “but I do know it took place several years ago and went on for some months. I-I think it was a love affair.”
“Perhaps your information is inaccurate,” he said very quietly after a moment of consideration, “or nothing but a rumor overstating an innocent flirtation.”
She knew he was trying to be delicate with her sensibilities; how she wished very much that he were right.
“It’s not inaccurate, Jonathan,” she corrected, turning back to him. “Nor was it just an innocent flirtation. If I wasn’t so absolutely certain about this I never would have come to France to engage you.”
The wicker beneath him creaked as he placed his palms on his knees and pushed himself up from the chair. But he didn’t move toward her. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest, standing erect, regarding her thoughtfully. “Engage me for what?”
She inhaled deeply, raising her chin in a measure of obstinacy.
“The man of her improper affection was Paul Simard, a Parisian and an officer in the National Guard. My mother met him during the social season, on one of her many visits to the Continent, and they became enamored of each other. Eventually they . . . carried on.”
She didn’t know how else to describe it, and he was probably laughing inside. But she couldn’t think about that. The moment of truth had arrived. She had nothing to lose now.
“As I said, the affair went on for some time, after which my mother returned to England—and my unknowing father. But the problem, Jonathan, is that it didn’t end there. If it had, there would be no proof. As it was, there was.”
Now he looked confused. “There was what?”
“Proof.”
“Proof of . . . ?”
Her lips thinned irritably. “Proof of the”—she flicked her wrist—“liaison, the romance. That she was his willing mistress.”
He stared hard at her. “Natalie, what are you saying to me?”
She dropped her hands to her sides, forcing the calm within her. “Paul Simard died three years ago, in Paris. Roughly two months later my mother began receiving requests for money. It seems she and her French . . . lover had corresponded with each other for a while after her return to England, and now Paul Simard’s son, Robert, has the love letters in his possession and is blackmailing her with the threat of exposure. These letters are of an explicit nature, and she is in great distress over this, paying when she can, unsure what to do next, afraid to confront my father. I think you know, Jonathan, that this could be ruinous for her, scandalous to my family, and devastating for my father if the letters are read by others, or her indecent behavior is ever made known within society.”
She took a step toward him, lowering her voice to an impassioned whisper. “I need you to escort me to Paris, find Robert Simard, and steal my mother’s letters from him. Six of them in all. When that is accomplished, I will return the emeralds to you.”
Jonathan gaped at her, utterly incredulous. If he had been with any other woman he would have laughed himself silly at such a command. What had his life become that he now found himself in a situation so ridiculous, a farce of such unbelievable proportions? He was Europe’s most famous thief. Legends had been built around his cleverness, his unique style, his successes. He’d held priceless Chinese artifacts in his hands, smuggled thousands of pounds worth of diamonds from one country to another, helped right social wrongs, hunted and found political criminals, was even indirectly responsible for saving national governments from possible collapse. Yet she stood before him, elegantly poised, shiny, sun-warmed hair spilling over her shoulders, her exquisitely curved body tense with determination, demanding he take her to Paris to steal love letters? He’d underestimated her. She was devious in approach, beautiful of face and form, and most assuredly insane of mind. She was also deadly serious, and he was in trouble.
But it was Natalie herself, not her laughable request, that gave him pause. Jonathan could not recall a time in his life when he’d gazed upon anything so incredibly sweet as this innocent woman divulging her mother’s infidelity to a man she knew had been with many women. Her cheeks flushed pink from a shame she couldn’t even verbalize, her eyes vibrant with trepidation as she tried to put the action of sexual misconduct into words like “carried on.” She possessed a great bearing, an honesty of will he didn’t think he’d ever seen in another, a devotion to goodness and faithfulness in marriage rarely witnessed. And it moved him in a manner he didn’t exactly understand. He wanted to reach for her suddenly, to pull her against the hardness of his body, to comfort, to draw the warmth and sweetness from her lips in a breathless pursuit of passion. To feel her.
“What are you thinking, Jonathan?” she murmured with only the slightest hint of apprehension.
For a long, silent moment he looked into her eyes. Then he smiled faintly, acknowledging defeat, and raked his fingers through his hair. “That I really don’t want to go to Paris.”
She bristled, fisting her hands at her sides, her eyes flashing with hot anger. “I thought certainly you’d do it for the emeralds,” she charged, “but I was also prepared for the fact that you’d find my situation foolish and unimportant—”
“I don’t think it’s foolish or unimportant,” he cut in frankly. “I think this is just another form of blackmail.”
That stopped her for a second or two. Then her lids thinned with deliberation anew, her mouth twisting in a smile of ultimate triumph, and she began to saunter toward him. “If you take me to Paris, I’ll give you something more, Jonathan.”
She’d misunderstood him. He hadn’t exactly said he wouldn’t go. But now he found himself intrigued, which in turn compelled him to keep his intentions silent.
“More?” he prodded.
She stood directly in front of him now, her breasts nearly touching his chest, her expression exuding shrewdness with the thought of her objectives.
“If you take me to Paris and
retrieve my mother’s letters,” she intimated guardedly, “I will give you something you can use. Something you want. Something priceless to you and your . . . convictions.”
It wasn’t her manner but her unusual words that dazed him. “What could you possibly have that would be more valuable to me than the priceless emerald necklace?”
Her brows pinched negligibly, whether in speculation or confusion he wasn’t sure. Then her entire countenance became grave. “I think that’s for you to discover,” she said in a most sensual whisper. “But I won’t disappoint you, Jonathan.”
Perhaps it was her tone of absolute certainty, perhaps just the expectation in the air, the anticipation of things to come, but with a raw surge of an indescribable physical hunger, he understood her at last, dared to imagine the possibilities. He knew, and it shook him deeply.
“These letters are that important to you?”
“They mean everything to me,” she replied resolutely.
His eyes skimmed over every feature of her face—from her long, thick lashes and arched brows, to her forehead, temples and high cheekbones, to her perfect lips and the gently carved line of her chin and jaw. Then he reached out and touched her hair, running his fingers through the silky strands, marveling in the softness, the texture of it, longing to feel it against his cheek, his neck, and chest. Taking her at her will, cradling himself inside her warmth, holding her against him in the heat of rapture would mean everything to him. She knew this, too.
“How can I trust you to keep your end of the deal?” he asked in a raspy, quiet voice.
Her eyes melded with his. “Because you said you already do, and I believe you.”
It was the cleverness within her that enchanted him, he realized now, her quickness to take matters into her hands, to experience the adventure that was life.
Smiling vaguely, Jonathan dropped his arms to his sides. “Maybe I can’t accept that, Natalie. Maybe I’d rather just search you for the emeralds.”
She knew he was teasing her, and still it wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. She pulled back from him a little, unsure.
“You’ll never find them in my trunks—”
“I’ve no doubt,” he cut in pleasantly. “It would take me weeks to go through them all anyway.”
Stiffening, ignoring that, she asserted, “And naturally you wouldn’t dream of searching my person. I think, then, Jonathan, you really have no choice.”
Her confidence thoroughly amused him. But he didn’t have to comment verbally. The look he gave her implied most certainly that he would indeed search her person, slowly, caressingly, enjoying every second of it with indescribable pleasure.
“I will take you to Paris,” he whispered richly, “and once there you will give me everything of value you’ve promised me.”
It was a demand, and she understood the significance of it, wavering a little as relief visibly flooded her, as she stared into his unyielding eyes so expressively conveying his desires.
“I agree to your terms, Jonathan,” she said in a sudden rush of eagerness. “We’ll leave this afternoon—”
“No, we’ll leave tomorrow.”
That stumped her. “Why?”
He took note of the defiance in her stance, the subtle swell of her breasts and hips. She would give him all in Paris, but he wasn’t ready to let go of the innocence so quickly, of their time alone in their intimate bungalow on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.
“Because I am still in charge, Natalie, regardless of the power you have over me. Remember that.”
She glared at him, a firm rebuttal on the tip of her tongue. He disregarded that entirely, turning away from her at last and striding once again to the table where their lunch, probably now cold, awaited them. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
Fuming, and without another word, she gracefully walked to his side and sat again.
Chapter 12
Natalie ran her brush through her hair one final time, placed it on the dressing table, and stood. She pulled her robe tightly around her, clasping it at the neck with her fingers, at last turning toward the bed.
Jonathan already lay under the coverlet, facedown, head buried in his pillow, arms beneath it, probably asleep, which was the way she liked it when she finally rested her body beside him. The room was dark save for a small lamp next to the bed and a strong full moon reflecting off the distant water to shine through the windows.
They’d spent their last day in Marseilles together, relaxing on the shore, talking of trivial things as well as some of Jonathan’s Black Knight escapades about which she’d always been especially curious. She had laughed with him over several of his stories, enjoyed his company with a growing respect and admiration for his various accomplishments, many of them incredible to her, and now she was thoroughly glad they hadn’t run off to Paris immediately. Aside from her initial anger when she’d confronted him about his identity, the moment when deception and secrets had given way to openness between them, the day had been, well . . . perfect.
Natalie walked to the edge of the bed, removed her robe, which she placed across the foot of it, dimmed the lamp, and crawled in between the sheets. There was hardly enough room for both of them, and each night it took every effort on her part not to touch him somewhere. Usually, though, she woke up at some point to discover her feet against his legs or her arm against his bare chest, but thankfully he didn’t seen to notice this, or care, anyway. He wore no sleeping attire beyond a pair of old trousers, which she considered odd, but that was really none of her business. She, of course, was always decently covered.
Jonathan stirred and turned on his side, facing her. She lay flat on her back, arms folded neatly across her stomach, knowing intuitively he wasn’t sleeping after all but looking at her in the moonlight.
“What do you do with your dog?” she whispered, staring at the blackened ceiling.
“What?” he replied in a gruff, low voice.
“Your dog,” she repeated. “When you go on your little Black Knight journeys, what do you do with him?”
He inhaled deeply and readjusted his body to lie more comfortably. “If I’m only leaving the city for a few days, my housekeeper and butler look after him. If I actually go abroad, as on this trip, my housekeeper and butler are dismissed with pay, and I leave my dog with my brother at his estate near Bournemouth.”
She turned her head to look at what she could see of his face. “You take your dog all the way to the coast?”
He smiled faintly in the shadows. “Every time.” Sheepishly, he added, “I love my dog.”
That made her smile, which she was sure he could see as moonglow cast a strong light on her features. “Why do you call him Thorn?”
“He’s a thorn in my side.”
“But yet you love him enough to take him nearly a hundred miles away from home, when you already have household employees who can feed and walk him?”
“It isn’t the same,” he returned quietly. “Vivian and Simon love him, too; their son loves to play with him. It also gives me a chance to visit them.”
She paused for a moment, then her voice became serious as realization washed over her. “Vivian and Simon know who you are.”
It was a statement made in sudden awareness, and he actually laughed a little, softly. “Of course they do. I like my brother to know where I am and what I’m doing. I trust him and his wife. They’re the only people aside from those I work for—and now you—who know about me, though. And they’d never tell anyone.”
That made her absolutely furious. Vivian was the one to suggest she talk to Jonathan in the first place, the one who confided in her that Jonathan knew the Black Knight. Vivian also knew of Natalie’s infatuations with both the myth and the man, and had still sent her on a wild adventure of uncertainty, with full understanding of what embarrassment it could eventually cause.
Her lips thinned as she turned her eyes once more to the darkened ceiling. “I’ll kill her for lying to me and sending me to y
ou like this.”
Jonathan sighed. “I think she knew what she was doing.”
His whispered words were meant to soothe, but instead Natalie’s mind succumbed to the most devastating notion of all. Voice flowing with hesitancy, she murmured, “Did Vivian tell you about me?”
He was quiet for a moment, a moment so long, in fact, that she finally turned to him again. He watched her pensively, but even that was more perceived than obvious, as the expression on his face, only a foot away from hers, was no more than dimly noticeable.
Finally he sat up a little, resting his elbow on his pillow, his chin and cheek in his right palm, his left hand flat on the sheet next to her shoulder.
“I’ve inquired about you once or twice during the last few years, Natalie. That’s how I knew who was courting you from time to time.” He started to rub the sheet with his fingertips. “But Vivian didn’t really tell me much about you, and no, before you ask, I didn’t know she’d be sending you to me.”
His acknowledgment made her grin in more than mild relief and with a certain satisfaction to learn he’d actually asked about her.
“Then I’ll still consider her my friend,” she said somewhat deviously. For clarification, she added, “And nobody courted me, either. I’ve never been the least interested in any of the stuffy gentlemen acquaintances to walk into my parlor.”
“Except me,” he countered in a deep voice.
“You’ve never walked into my parlor,” she innocently reminded him.
He knew she was sidestepping the issue and he smiled again. “No, and I think it would also be accurate to say I’m more than an acquaintance.”
“We are certainly nothing more than acquaintances, Jonathan,” she corrected, gazing back to the ceiling.
He leaned so close to her she thought for a second he might actually kiss her temple. With lips nearly skimming her ear, he whispered, “Acquaintances of opposite sexes never sleep together, Natalie.”
The warmth of his face touched hers; she could smell the lingering traces of soap on his skin, and as much as she trusted him to be a gentleman, nervousness crept in of its own accord. “But this is all by chance—a business arrangement, if it must be named something.”
Adele Ashworth Page 20