They ate dinner that night in near silence, and Sabine was unsure whether the chicken stew tasted like sand because she was so overwhelmed by the undercurrent of tension roiling between them that she couldn’t perceive anything else or because the stew really was that awful. Or it might have been a combination of the two. Whatever the case, the food was filling if not flavorful, and she pushed away the bowl before she had emptied it.
“It is not very good, is it?” Pearce asked.
She gave him a tentative smile. “So it was not just me?”
He shook his head. “I suspect this chicken might have been born before the Reformation.”
A slightly unladylike snort of amusement escaped her. “Oh, surely it was not that old. I would have guessed the Restoration.”
That brought a grin to his face. “I don’t know. Perhaps it is a Roundhead chicken.”
The image of a chicken wearing one of the helmets characteristic of Cromwell’s army during the Thirty Years’ War popped into Sabine’s mind, and she started to laugh. Pearce joined her a few seconds later.
The laughter burned off some of the tension, but it made Sabine even more conscious of how well-suited they seemed to be. They enjoyed each other’s company, seemed to share many of the same values and, of course, they were wildly attracted to one another. All this…resistance to what was happening between them seemed pointless when she considered it.
As the laughter died away, she eyed him more seriously. “Would it really be the end of the world if we were forced to marry?”
Mr. Pearce set down his spoon and swallowed audibly. “The end of the world? No. I am sure it would not be nearly so dire as all that. But it is not what I want. For either of us.”
Sabine lifted her serviette from her lap and began to fold and unfold it in an effort to occupy her trembling hands. “You do not think there is any chance that it might be…wonderful?”
An expression of such…desolation crossed his face that Sabine felt a stab of pain in her midsection. With a low groan, he pushed his chair away from the table, rose to his feet, and strode to the fireplace grate, his back to her. Picking up the poker, he stirred the fire, causing the flames to flare and subside in turns. “Why are you bringing your horses to England, Sabine?” he asked, his voice gentle.
The question seemed so irrelevant that it took her several seconds to respond. “So that I can establish my business there. You know that.”
He hung the poker back on its stand and turned to face her again. “Exactly. And how do you imagine you would do that if you were the wife of a British diplomat whose career means he is posted to whatever country his superiors desire for however long they choose?”
“Oh.” Well, now she felt terribly foolish and self-centered. He had told her, of course, that he had trained as a diplomat, but she had given very little thought to what that would mean once he had managed to get her to England. England was the country of his birth, after all. His home. The fact that he would have to leave that home to take up the post for which he had actually been hired had simply never crossed her mind.
“Yes. And since we are going to a great deal of effort to make sure that you can continue your business, it would be stupid of us to do anything that would put that outcome at risk.”
He strode across the few feet of space that separated them and crouched in front of her chair so their eyes were level. She nearly gasped at the depth of passion banked in that gaze. He desired her, fiercely. That was a fact she could no more deny than she could deny that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. Any notion that his rejection was based on some fear that he could not come to love her vanished, replaced by a burgeoning certainty that the opposite was true. Only a man who cared for her very deeply, very strongly, would refuse what she was so carelessly willing to offer. Perhaps it was not love—it was too soon for that, surely—but it was most assuredly a close cousin of that emotion.
Possibly taking her silence as disagreement, he rested his palms on her knees and said, “Do you remember when I told you about my parents’ marriage?”
Her lips twitched despite the solemnity of the moment. That had been the day before yesterday. Surely he did not think her mental faculties were that poor! “Yes, of course.”
“Well, while it is true that I have no idea what happened to cause such animus between my parents, what I did not tell you is that my brother was born a mere seven months after their wedding. I suspect they are not even aware that Conrad and I have noticed this fact, but we both know it means they were forced to marry because my mother was with child. And even though they were swept away by passion and likely believed themselves in love, in the end, whatever feelings they had for one another were not enough to sustain a happy, or even a polite, marriage.
“When I figured out why they married—and believe me, they despise each other so openly that it was a reasonable question for even a young boy to ask, though I did not figure out the answer until I was nearly an adult—I promised myself I would never put a woman in a position where she would be forced to marry me because I was so incautious as to get her with child.” He raised a hand and stroked her cheek with such tenderness, she wanted to weep. “And I especially do not want to break my promise with you, Sabine. I do not want you to have to make the kinds of choices my mother, and yours, were forced to. You have plans, dreams. If marrying me ended them, your resentment would crush whatever feelings you might have for me, and I could not bear that.”
Sabine had to blink her eyes against the swelling of tears. They might have known each other only four days, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Thomas Pearce already loved her as few men had ever loved a woman. So much that he was willing to put her desires before his own. She had to be both the luckiest and unluckiest woman alive, all at the same time.
Pressing her hand over the one he had laid against her cheek, she gave him a watery smile. “And I could not bear to hurt you like that.”
Returning her smile, he extracted his hand from under hers and got back to his feet. “Also,” he said, his tone more jocular, “I promised Joubert he could speak with you alone tomorrow to assure himself I am not a vile despoiler of maidens, and I would hate for you to have to lie to him.”
Sabine rolled her eyes. “Oh, God. Please tell me you did not.” Joubert was the last person she wanted to be alone with, if she could help it. Oh, she did not believe he would behave in an ungentlemanly manner. It was more that he looked at her with such unfettered devotion, she did not believe he saw her as a real person, but more as a heavenly figure to be worshipped. God forbid that she should fall off the pedestal on which he’d placed her. Which was undoubtedly the reason he was so interested in protecting her virtue.
To be fair, Thomas was equally determined to protect her in exactly the same way, but for exactly the opposite reason. He saw her as a real, flesh-and-blood human being with wants, needs, and dreams of her own. Aspirations that were worth guarding.
Thomas raised his eyebrows at her words. “Are you afraid to be alone with him? Has he tried to press his attentions on you?”
“Not at all,” she said with a shake of her head. “On the contrary, he is just so…adoring that I am afraid he will throw himself at my feet and beg to serve me like a faithful hound forever and ever. It worries me, to be honest. He worries me.”
Thomas grimaced and nodded. “He worries me, too, but I cannot believe he would do anything to endanger you. On the contrary, his zeal when it comes to your safety is the reason I have been willing to overlook his youth and inexperience. That and the fact that I cannot believe we would be better off if we sent him packing and hired a coachman off the street. As Duval pointed out to me when he recommended Joubert for the job, we can hardly ask someone we have hired at random to kindly warn us if we are approached by the gendarme or military officers because we are running from your uncle and the secret police.”
Sabine heaved a sigh of resignation. “I will speak to him tomorrow and assure him
that I am yet as pure as the driven snow. But in exchange, I expect you to teach me some naughty English words. I suspect I am going to need them in the privacy of my own mind, if nowhere else.”
“And you are sure you would tell me if he were…taking liberties?” Bernard Joubert asked earnestly. For the third time since he had clambered into the coach for their promised private conversation. “I swear upon my mother’s grave that I will think no less of you if he is.”
Good Lord, if only he would think less of her, Sabine thought. Or think of her less. She really did not care which. “I assure you, Monsieur Pearce has never touched me in any unwelcome manner.” True. “He has behaved in a completely respectful and honorable fashion throughout our entire acquaintance.” Also true, as much as she might wish otherwise. “And if he were doing anything I considered untoward or offensive, I would not simply tell you about it, I would shout it from the damn rooftop.”
Bernard’s far too thick-lashed brown eyes widened at her use of the word foutu. “You should not say such things, mademoiselle. Someone might overhear you and think you are of easy virtue.”
Sabine planted her hands on her hips. She was done with this maddening conversation.
Having eschewed wine with last night’s dinner for fear of experiencing another bout of unpleasant reprisals, she had slept fitfully, constantly aware of Thomas’s strong, warm body next to hers. Although he had slept fully clothed in his shirt and breeches atop all but one of the blankets so there was no chance of skin-to-skin contact, his proximity had made her restless and achy with unfulfilled longing. To make matters worse, he had seemed to have no trouble sleeping at all. But then, he had gone down to the public house and consumed at least one brandy before retiring. As cranky and out of sorts as she felt this morning, she was reconsidering the wisdom of skipping the wine. Maybe the reprisals were worth it.
“If I were a woman of easy virtue, Monsieur Joubert, we would not be having this private conversation, because you would not be worried about my reputation. But as we are having it—privately, inside this carriage where no one can hear us!—my choice of words need not concern you beyond the fact that it indicates how impatient with you I have become. How many times must I assure you that all is well before you accept what I am saying?”
His cheeks colored at the reprimand, but he straightened himself to his full height—which was several inches taller than Thomas—and gave her a stern look. “I would better believe it if I did not see how he looks at you. He has designs on you. No matter how honorably he has behaved thus far, he will give into his baser nature at some point, and you will suffer the consequences.”
Sabine closed her eyes and massaged her temples. The problem was that Bernard was not wrong. At least not about the way Thomas looked at her…or she at Thomas, though she noticed Bernard had missed her side of things entirely. But there was no way she was going to explain to him why nothing would ever come of those looks.
With a sigh, she concluded there might be no way to end this discussion without hurting his feelings. “And if that happens, it is my concern, not yours. Your uncle sent you with us to help get me out of England, not to protect me from Monsieur Pearce’s designs, as you put it. That is my job, and I am perfectly capable of doing it. If I need your help on this matter or any other, I will ask you for it. But please do me the courtesy of trusting that I am not completely incompetent, because it is insulting.”
Emotion flashed across his features, but too quickly for her to accurately read. It might have been anger but it might also have been embarrassment. Perhaps both. But then he hung his head and said, his tone penitent, “I am sorry. I did not mean to give insult, but I can see I have. Just, please…” He raised his head and met her eyes, his gaze surprisingly steady and adult. “Do me the courtesy of taking my concerns seriously and asking for my help if you need it.”
She smiled and patted the back of his hand gently. “I will. I promise.”
As he rose and exited the carriage, she leaned back against the seat and prayed that he would mind his own business from now on.
15
Sabine’s laughter was captivating. Full-throated and joyful, the sound almost made Thomas forget that once he delivered her safely to England, he would never hear it again.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling the rollicking laughter down to a giggle. “No wonder the French do not teach English to their children. How will I ever remember which word to use when? I live in fear of mistakenly asking someone to pass the chicken ‘breast’ during dinner, because I shall certainly never remember to call it a ‘bosom.’”
As promised, Thomas had begun the English lesson that morning by introducing her to a few relatively tame curse words: “dashed” or “deuced” to replace the coarser French foutu, “crap” for merde, and so on. Somehow, the conversation had meandered into words that, while technically not swear words, were not used in polite company and their acceptable replacements. This had included “the necessary” in place of “the privy,” “unmentionables” as opposed to “pants,” and the aforementioned “bosom” for “breast.”
Sabine was still shaking her head with amusement when the carriage began to slow to a lurching halt. As they had left the inn less than an hour before, they could not possibly have reached their next watering stop; something had to be amiss. Thomas peered out the window but saw nothing to indicate the cause of the delay.
He exchanged a glance with Sabine, whose expression mirrored his own concern, and waited for one of the agreed-upon signals from Joubert. When the message came, it was two distinct raps on the roof of the coach.
Sabine, as aware of the meaning of the signal as Thomas, scrambled for her bonnet and jammed in on her head without a word.
Come on, Joubert. How many?
The delay between signals seemed eternal, but was probably no longer than they had rehearsed before leaving Vornay. The interval between the signals had to be long enough to ensure there was no confusion.
One rap meant something non-threatening: a blockage of the road, a problem with one of the horses or the carriage itself, and so on. Two raps meant military or gendarme. Three meant anyone else Joubert judged to be a possible threat—whether highwaymen or private retainers Etienne might have hired to search out Sabine. Four meant people who represented no threat. For options two and three, Joubert would wait several beats before tapping out the number of people, thereby ensuring that the signal for one military man could not be confused with the signal for two highwayman or private retainers.
One rap.
Shit.
Thomas waited a beat to be sure Joubert did not amend the signal, but silence ensued.
He breathed a small sigh of relief. There was almost no chance that a single officer was actively looking for Sabine. This was mostly likely a random encounter with someone who would have no idea who they were.
But that didn’t mean it was safe for that officer to get too good a look at Sabine’s face or for the encounter to last any longer than strictly necessary. Thomas had to think of some way to prevent either from happening. The idea that came to his mind in those precious seconds before the officer reached the carriage door was unspeakably wrong, but he had no time to conjure a better one.
As Sabine secured the bonnet beneath her chin, he told her, “Get on your knees in front of me, between the seats.”
“What? Why?”
“You will have your back to the carriage door so he can’t see your face. And you are going to pretend to be sucking my—” He broke off, searching for the right word to use in French when the word in his head was cock and he had no French equivalent for it and was not even sure Sabine would know if it he did. He finally settled on verge, which he thought was both reasonably clinical and common enough for her to understand.
Her eyes widened. “Why would—?”
He cut her off. “No time for questions now. Just work with me. With any luck, the officer will be so embarrassed at what he thinks he has interru
pted that he won’t linger or wonder what you look like beneath that enormous bonnet.”
She pressed her lips together, her features etched with confusion, but she scrambled off the bench and into position between his legs, which he spread to foster the illusion. Undoing the placket of his breeches, he freed his shaft, which was, thanks to nothing more than the thought that she was going to be pretending to suck him off, already half-erect. And his arousal made him feel even more of a cad for exposing himself to her like this, but if anything happened that caused the officer to notice that Thomas was still completely buttoned up, the ruse would be for naught and suspicion would ensue.
“Bend over me and bob your head up and down,” he told her, his voice low and hoarse. “That should be enough to give him the idea.”
If she was shocked by the sight of his penis, she hid it well, though he could see her rolling over the idea of taking him in her mouth with a combination of curiosity and skepticism. This did nothing to relieve his excitement; if anything, it exacerbated his problem. With a quick nod, she did as he asked, the brim of her bonnet shielding the side of her face and his exposed penis from the carriage door.
He was expecting the knock, but he twitched anyway at the sound. “Rather busy in here,” he called out in a gruff tone. If they were lucky, that might be enough to send the man packing.
They weren’t lucky.
“Sorry, sir, but your coachman insisted I consult you,” a slightly high-pitched but unquestionably male voice replied. The handle jiggled, and then the door flew open. Into the opening poked the head of a man wearing the tall black hat characteristic of the Gendarmerie Nationale. He looked to be just out his teens, with a smooth, pale complexion and thick, dark eyebrows that almost met in the center of his forehead. His youth was, Thomas hoped, to their advantage, and indeed, when the officer took in the tableau he and Sabine had staged for his benefit, the young man’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment.
A Matter of Indiscretion Page 11