He now had to admit he was becoming anxious to court her affections, but doing so would be very tricky, indeed. He knew he could probably seduce her but only at the risk of his freedom. Until just recently, he'd considered marriage far off into the distant future, if at all. He had female companionship when he wanted, on his terms, and he'd never been interested in being tied to one lady for the rest of his hopefully long life, however beautiful and charming she might be. But now, for a reason unclear to him, he'd begun to give it serious consideration, knowing that if he chose to succumb to that choking estate for the sake of fulfilling his need to stay his growing loneliness, he could choose from any number of women in love with him at the time. If he bedded Natalie he would have to marry her, and she was the only woman he'd ever known who desired him physically but didn't want him for the person he was. And that was so irritating and confusing he didn't even know how to digest it. It was true he was probably just as arrogant as the next man, assuming he'd be able to select any woman he pleased, especially with his wealth, excellent breeding, and high social standing. But he also had enough honest pride to realize he didn't want to marry someone who didn't enjoy him, someone indifferent to his personality, no matter how passionate she became in his arms.
Part of him wanted to give up, tell her who he was, and ship her back to her parents so he could forget the entire bit of nonsense. But he couldn't, partly because he was growing increasingly curious about her intentions, and partly because he just plain liked being with her. He found her amusing and clever, warm and comforting in bed, and respectful of his individuality; she was a breath of fresh air.
So this morning, after days of ceaseless contemplation, he drew some conclusions. He was a better thief than a spy, but he could be as deceitful as she. He would learn her secrets. Where that would take them personally, he couldn't guess, but he wouldn't push her sexually until she was ready, if ever, and he wouldn't bed her at all until he was absolutely certain he could trust her. He wanted her very badly, more desperately each time she sashayed by him, smelling of bubble bath and flowers, or in bed when she so sweetly stuck her feet between his legs and pressed her bottom against his rigid erection with little or no understanding. Eventually, if he wasn't careful, she would realize her power over him and she would use it. Women always did, and he could never let that happen. He wanted her to want him first, to desire him for the man he was, to beg him to make love to her. And that, he was beginning to fear, might remain his greatest unfulfilled fantasy. Still, he had to try.
With a clear sense of at least where he stood on the matter, he'd planned an intimate twilight picnic for them on the cliffs above the shore—in a cove, actually—just inside the count's private estate. He was hidden well enough not to be noticed by anyone at the house, but close enough to watch the premises above and study the structure from the outside, which appeared to follow Madeleine's description accurately. He'd purchased them an excellent, outrageously priced dinner of white wine, goat cheese on toast, sole mousse, veal cutlets in mushroom sauce, fresh oranges, and a surprise he had yet to give her: strawberries dipped in chocolate. If Natalie did nothing else for him while they were in France, she would drive him to the poorhouse.
She sat across from him now, atop a blanket, in a pale lavender skirt and white muslin blouse that reflected a glowing setting sun off her shoulders. She'd finally managed the courage to blend in a little with the locals, working with the hot summer weather instead of against it, foregoing her binding stays and layers of material for a simple, almost peasant look. And she'd pulled her hair from the tight, menacing plaits she usually coiled around her ears and head so that the reddish-gold curls fell loose and free behind her, secured easily with just a simple ribbon at her nape. It was a look he liked immeasurably on her, only to be surpassed, he was sure, by her naked form writhing beneath him.
Jonathan shifted his body and stretched his legs out fully, one ankle crossed over the other, sipping from his glass as he attempted to concentrate on the conversation. They'd finished their meal, she her only glass of wine, and she'd been talking without interruption for ten minutes. He couldn't for the life of him remember a word she'd said but decided her choice of topic—a recent trip to Brighton for a poetry reading by one of England's finest—was altogether boring; silly withdrawing room conversation that had no place on such a gorgeous summer evening by the sea. Finally she paused, smiling at him, and he took the opportunity to change the subject.
"I'm having trouble with something, Natalie," he broached with an intentional air of seriousness.
Her brows arched delicately. "Trouble with what?"
He focused intently on her face. "Trouble believing your story about wanting to meet the Black Knight."
He noticed her eyes widen negligibly, her cheeks pale, and those slight indications of surprise and concern about the comment told him much. She was hiding something, and he had acted foolishly by not being more astute from the beginning.
Looking out over the shimmering water to his left, disgusted at his own inner blindness, he added with daring, "I've been paying attention, sweetheart, and you're very calculating. You're not in love with him, have no idea who he is, and yet you leave everything you know to come to France with a perfect stranger to meet him." He stole a glance back at her. "Why?"
"You're not a perfect stranger."
Her words were husky and cautious, and Jonathan almost offered his congratulations on the decent attempt at evasion. But they also had meaning behind them. He could tell that as she watched him, expression guarded. Suddenly he wanted to dig deeply.
Smiling, he challenged, "Not strangers because we have a past?"
She hesitated, then sat back and dropped her lashes. "We don't have a past."
That irritated him, too, her refusal to discuss their little rendezvous in the garden years ago. Eventually she would talk about that night, about the unusual if not enlightening encounter between them, because he'd force her to. But for now he was content to wait, searching instead for answers to a situation more immediate.
"Do you imagine yourself in love with the Black Knight, Natalie?" he asked more sternly than intended.
She played with the soft wool at her fingertips, quiet for so long his patience began to thin. Finally, through the off-shore breeze, she whispered, "Have you ever been in love, Jonathan?"
He was completely taken aback by that, as she knew he would be. She looked up again, staring frankly into his eyes. She was honestly asking, and he relaxed a little.
"Yes," he admitted, grinning sheepishly. "Her name was Miss Featherstone, my governess of two years. I was madly in love with her for seven full months until she left for Brunswick, right before my thirteenth birthday. She was the first woman to break my heart."
Natalie smiled. "The first?"
"The only," he amended quickly. "And I don't imagine it will happen again."
Her lips tightened, not in anger, but to keep from laughing. "Because of age and experience, Jonathan? Or because you think you're so completely irresistible?"
He lifted his shoulders lightly in innocence. "Because I understand women."
"Do you, now?" She tilted her head, eyeing him wryly, and Jonathan knew it was on the tip of her tongue to ask how many hearts he'd broken, which, now that he thought about it, weren't nearly as many as his ridiculous reputation implied.
"So you've never been in love with one of your many mistresses?"
That wasn't at all what he expected, and now he was uncomfortable. He tipped his wine to his lips and finished it off, then began placing items back into the picnic basket. "Why are you so curious?"
She sat forward and curled her legs up under her skirt, hugging her knees with her arms wrapped around them. "Your life and loves interest me."
He fully doubted it. He was now starting to believe she found him rather dull—a tiresome, pompous trader of silly, useless things. She was purposely being sneaky, though to what end he couldn't fathom.
"I've act
ually had very few mistresses, and never more than one at a time," he defended at last, closing the top of the picnic basket and pushing it from between them to his side.
She looked at him skeptically, but since his explanation was something he couldn't possibly prove, he ignored it and went on.
"I enjoy the company of women, I will admit, but I've been careful not to fall for any of them. So, no, I don't think I've ever truly loved one, at least not as my brother seems to love his wife, or my father seemed to love my mother. But what does my past have to do with you and the Black Knight?"
"If you don't know what love is," she replied instantly, "how can you understand my desire to meet this man?"
It all became clear to him. "Are you saying you love him in a way I wouldn't understand?"
She grinned beautifully. "Exactly. Women often love in ways men don't understand."
That was ludicrous, and now he was totally suspicious. All this shallow talk of love was her way of hiding real motives. He was sure of it.
With his free hand he reached into the basket's side pocket and pulled out the small jar containing four chocolate-covered strawberries. Gingerly he removed one and held it out to her.
She gasped with surprise and resounding pleasure. Chocolate always had a way of succeeding to gratify and delight a woman where a man could not, Jonathan mused. Most of the time that was disheartening, but once in a while an occasion arose where the knowledge could be used to manipulate. As right now.
She cupped the strawberry in one hand, gliding her other palm along her cheek to push aside breeze-blown hair. Then she took one bite and gazed at him tentatively.
"Are you trying to seduce me, Jonathan?"
He almost laughed, attempting in vain to imagine what her idea of seduction might be—or what it led to. "No," he answered easily. Again he sat back a little. "I just want you to like me, Natalie."
She sighed and consumed the rest in record speed, then licked chocolate off her fingertips—a motion he found particularly sensual.
"I like you very much," she admitted shyly.
His body sprang to life from those innocently spoken words, and with that discomfort the intoxicating image of licking chocolate from her breasts came to mind. He felt like a child who had been given a new toy. "Very much?"
She shrugged and averted her gaze. "You've been generous and gracious, respectful of me and my privacy. And you've kindly brought me to France without argument to meet the man of my dreams."
His face fell. Sexual images vanished. But with dismay came hope—and wariness anew. She hadn't been dreaming, she'd been planning. Her explanation was a flagrant lie.
"I have another strawberry for you if you answer my next question."
She smiled mischievously. "What would you like to know?"
"I want to know exactly why you're so interested in a womanizing thief," he demanded coolly. "And I want the truth. No more talk of love and marriage, because I don't believe it for a second."
She faltered, blinking quickly, sinking into herself and wrapping her arms around her body again in a measure of comfort. Minutes passed, it seemed, with not one word spoken. And he waited, refusing to back down, staring openly into lustrous eyes of indecision and evaluation.
Then at last, in a breath above the sound of lapping waves, she lowered her lashes and began a disclosure of honesty. "I came to France to engage him."
"Engage him?" he repeated, nonplussed.
Now it was she who was plainly uncomfortable. "His services," she clarified huskily. "I need his help."
Jonathan was absolutely astonished. At first he wasn't certain he'd heard her correctly. But after several seconds of consideration, the entire precarious adventure demanded by a cunning but properly bred English maiden began to make sense. This didn't involve her wild infatuation with a myth; it involved something very real and far deeper. At that moment he knew he'd never been more obtuse about anything so obvious in his life.
"But please don't ask me to discuss it with you," she continued quickly, glancing out over the water. "It's—highly personal."
He had trouble finding his voice, or perhaps just the right response to a revelation so staggering. But somewhere inside he was already basking in possibilities laid before him—before them. What fun this could turn out to be.
Attempting with difficulty to hide his enjoyment at the turn of events, Jonathan cleared his throat and sat up a little on the blanket. "I think, Natalie, to be fair, I need to understand." He thrust the knife of guilt home. "You've lied to me from the beginning—about everything—and I've willingly trusted you. Tell me something."
She bent her head down. "I can't."
He pushed for detail. "Is this about you?"
"No," was her fast reply.
"Someone you care about?"
She touched her palm to her forehead in frustration. "Someone I love very much. But please don't ask me anything else, Jonathan. I can only talk to him."
That bothered him, though for what reason he wasn't sure. "You're here to help a man you're in love with?"
She stood abruptly, but he grabbed her wrist before she could consider fleeing. "Answer me that, Natalie," he demanded quietly.
A sudden gust of wind blew her lightweight skirt against her legs, making it billow out behind her, and she swatted at it irritably. "If it's any of your business, I'm not in love with anyone."
"I've never met a woman who so totally confused me," he admitted, taking full advantage of the marvelous exposure of her curves from breasts to ankles now outlined for his view. He felt a familiar raw heat as his mind briefly considered running his palm along her leg, swathed in soft fabric. "Explain yourself, and I'll refrain from asking any more personal questions."
"I can't," she whispered fiercely. Seconds later she softened her stance. "At least not yet."
He inhaled deeply, calculating his options. She wouldn't talk to him, and that troubled him because … why? Because she either didn't trust him or she had something to hide. He knew her desperate attempt to involve the Black Knight couldn't have anything to do with delicate female issues, whatever those might be, because the legend was also a man, and everyone knew it. But more importantly he was a thief, which in itself meant she most certainly wanted him to steal something for her. For the life of him, Jonathan couldn't imagine what that might be—something so incriminating, or revolting, something so personal, which was the word she'd used, or priceless, that she would jeopardize everything for it. Or for the person she loved.
He had to ponder that one. He knew she had no siblings, and if he could believe her insistence of not being in love with a man, it could only mean her mother or father. He didn't think anyone would go to this much trouble, this kind of wild pursuit, for a cousin or other distant relation, and probably not even for a very close friend. The only consolation he had, he supposed, was that she would eventually tell him when she learned who he was. Unless, of course, she was so thoroughly appalled and enraged at his lie she refused to speak to him forevermore. But he wouldn't even consider that.
Jonathan pulled gently on her wrist until she consented to again sit beside him on the blanket. Then he released her and leaned forward, elbows on his raised knees, fingertips touching in front of him as he stared out across the expansive blue sea.
"Why did you lie to me?" he pursued with some dejection in his voice.
She stared out at the water as well. "Why do you think, Jonathan? What would an average gentleman believe of a lady in my position? That she desperately wanted to marry or desperately needed something stolen? That she daydreamed of a handsome man's arms around her whispering passionate words of love or that she cleverly needed to manipulate and buy the services of a thief to help an anxious loved one?"
"They're both romantic pursuits," he said cautiously.
She turned to face him. "I didn't know you at all, and consider this absurdity. If I had told you my real motives, you would have laughed me out of your home—any gentleman would
have—perhaps even threatened to tell my father of my utter disregard for decency. I'm nearly twenty-three years old; after another season I'll certainly be considered on the shelf. In our world nothing could be worse, and you believed it because you think like any other man. An innocent disclosure of romantic dreams into your realm of circumscribed thought bought me a ticket to France."
He'd never heard anything so ridiculous and at the same time so logical in his life. Yet he had to admire her sagacity. What she said was very sadly true. Still, he didn't for a moment believe someone so refreshing and physically beautiful as Natalie Haislett would have trouble finding a husband, regardless of age, unless, of course, her virtue were in question. Her dowry certainly had to be adequate if not substantial.
He regarded her, now sitting closely beside him without fear or suspicion. "Do you think about marriage, Natalie, or would you prefer to avoid it altogether?"
That caught her a little by surprise, probably because she really had no choice in the matter. If she didn't choose a husband soon, her father would no doubt force the issue to someone suitable.
"I think about marriage," she replied quietly after a moment of thought. "But not to a fool, or a reserved gentleman who won't allow me to be who I am. I'd rather be a spinster than marry someone just in fear of never finding a husband." The air was still quite warm, and yet she shivered and grasped her elbows with her palms. "I didn't lie to you, either. Everything I said to you on the ship is true, Jonathan. I've studied the Black Knight for years and I find him fascinating." Almost inaudibly, she admitted, "If he finds me at all appealing, I'm hoping he'll consider me."
His brows knitted. "Consider you … for marriage?"
She looked down to the blanket, studying the soft plaid intently. "Consider me for a companion, a friend, and a wife."
He just didn't know whether to believe her guarded explanations. In English society a wife was rarely her husband's friend, and most people didn't think twice about it. It wasn't desirable or undesirable, it was just a fact of one's station of existence. What she said she wanted from the thief was extraordinary.
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