STOLEN CHARMS

by Adele Ashworth

  "By Sir Guy."

  "Yes, and my other two benefactors. I'm paid with private funds, not money from the public treasury." He paused, his eyes growing dark as they pierced hers. Then leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together in front of him, he lowered his voice to a deep whisper. "I invented the Black Knight six years ago, Natalie, and although my work has made me wealthy, what I do as the thief is for the betterment of society and my own personal satisfaction. Not for money. It's each of these accomplishments that makes me who I am as a man, and even if I were never paid again, I don't know that I could give it up completely. I enjoy what I do and I hope to continue working in this capacity, to some degree, for the rest of my life." Very cautiously, he added, "Do you think you can accept this?"

  She had no idea what to say, or what specifically he wanted from her with such a direct question. He was profoundly serious in manner and tone, his eyes locked with hers, waiting for a response. And then she understood.

  A strong gust of cool, ocean wind swept through the open window behind him, making the curtains billow around him in a dazzle of sea green against the blackness of his hair. But he didn't appear to notice the intrusion, concentrating as he was on only her and the importance of her reply.

  With total depth of her own honesty, knowing just how much this mattered to him, she murmured, "If you're asking me to remain silent about this and your identity, Jonathan, of course I will. I swear to you I will never tell a soul." Then she purposely twisted her mouth into a knowing grin in an attempt to brighten the mood and return to the most immediate issue. "Besides, I couldn't expose you now even if I wanted to. I have my own agenda."

  He stared hard at her, calculating her motives, searching her face for answers he couldn't yet perceive, or perhaps just weighing the challenge to come. Then slowly he sat back again, placing his elbows on the arm of the chair, chin resting on the tops of his fingers, studying her.

  "It appears you also have my emeralds."

  Eyes sparkling, she swallowed a giggle of triumph. "Yes, I do. And before you get any ideas about stealing them from me, let me assure you now that you will never find them."

  He lowered his eyes blatantly, first to her breasts, then to her hips and legs, outlined for his view by a modest white blouse and a skirt without stays. "I don't suppose you'll allow me the pleasure of a search through your personal items."

  Never had a man made her so thoroughly uncomfortable from a look, a simple phrase, as Jonathan did, and did continuously. Embarrassment returned, but she ignored the feeling as she ignored his brazen comment, pulling her knees up, bare feet flat on the cushion, wrapping her arms around her legs to hug them against her protectively.

  "When did you steal them?" she asked a little too harshly.

  He looked back into her eyes. "Wednesday."

  "Wednesday?"

  "Actually it was probably Thursday morning," he amended with a shrug. "While you slept, anyway."

  She shook her head in amazement. "You left me here alone in the middle of the night, walked into the count of Arles's home, then his private study, broke into his safe, stole priceless emeralds, then returned here and climbed back into bed?"

  "That's … a fairly accurate description of events."

  She didn't know whether to be shocked at his daring or proud of his accomplishment, but the intrigue was certainly building. "How did you do that?"

  "Quietly."

  She grinned in spite of herself, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

  He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing one ankle over the other. "I didn't break into his safe, though, I unlocked it. And I didn't steal the emeralds, I exchanged them."

  "For forgeries."

  "Yes."

  "How on earth did you learn to unlock a safe you'd never seen before?"

  "With practice."

  "You're being evasive."

  His brows rose in innocence. "I'm being truthful."

  She rested her chin on her knees. "What if I woke up and found you gone?"

  That made him laugh. "You'd sleep through a chariot race, Natalie."

  The statement shook her a little, making her feel both offended by his vigorous rebuttal and oddly warmed by the fact that he'd actually paid attention to how she slept.

  She moved on without response. "Why did you bother going to the ball if you already had them in your possession?"

  Mischievously he challenged, "Why do you think?"

  She shouldn't have asked that. He knew she would know. He understood how well she'd studied the thief, admired him, wanted to be a part of his life. It was unnerving, mortifying when she thought about all the things she'd said to him, disclosed in confidence. But what kept her from cowering in that mortification, or running from it, was her determination to even the score.

  "It's his style," she said levelly, though dropping her gaze to study the fine, silk weave of his shirt. "The Black Knight is not a conventional thief. He does things to make a point, wanting to be a part of the action, to be acknowledged in a different way from all the others." She looked back to his charming, beautiful, arrogant face. "Quite frankly, Jonathan, I'm surprised he didn't leave a calling card."

  "I didn't need to. The rumors will spread on their own." Her comment was meant to be a subtle insult, but he didn't seem to take it that way.

  "You're rather pompous about the whole thing," she said brusquely.

  He shook his head very slowly. "It's neither pompous nor foolish for one to work the way he works best. That is, instead, the smart and very cautious thing to do."

  She smirked disgustedly. "Waiting around to be suspected hardly seems the best way to work, or the cautious thing to do."

  He pulled a face of genuine surprise. "Why would they suspect me?"

  "You're English," she said, exasperated.

  "With an impenetrable false identity."

  She straightened. "Arranged by Madeleine—"

  "Who has never been, is not now, nor will ever be my mistress."

  That bold statement absolutely startled her. It had come from nowhere; an explanation certainly wasn't required at her request this time. He had thought of it, and for reasons of his own, had stressed it of his own accord with the firm intention of making this perfectly clear to her. What she wasn't sure of exactly was why he bothered to do this.

  Irritated, she ran the fingers of both hands through her hair. "I don't care."

  "I think you care a great deal," he replied softly.

  It was a lightness of the assertion coupled with the huskiness of his tone that flustered her. But he wasn't being at all careless with his choice of words. They were evaluated; she could see the determination in his features, in his eyes as they once again bore into hers.

  Voice quavering with sharp anger, she whispered, "I hate you, Jonathan. I despise you to the center of your soul."

  He grinned wryly. "I don't think so. If you hated me that much you would have murdered me. Or left."

  "You're so arrogant."

  "No, I'm positive," he countered.

  "You made me a fool."

  "You are no fool, Natalie. You're one of the smartest women I've ever known."

  That hardly registered as she pounded her fists once on the armrests, refusing to give in. "You lied to me, humiliated me—"

  "I had a job to do."

  "You could have told me," she said fiercely.

  He sighed, rubbing his jaw with his fingers. "If I had, you either wouldn't have believed me or you wouldn't be here with me now. I didn't like the thought of either scenario." He dropped his arm and lowered his voice. "I like to look at you, Natalie, to talk to you every day, to feel you in my arms." He hesitated for seconds, then whispered huskily, "I like the thought of you beside me."

  Natalie actually had to sort through and purposely contain her emotions, careful not to expose her confusion to his watchful eyes. She wanted to hate him passionately; she wanted to lean over and kiss his lips with all the softness and des
ire she possessed. She wanted a magnificent revenge; but with a melting of her soul, she also realized she wanted him more. To look at, talk to, feel. Beside her.

  Quite unexpectedly he reached for her toes as they peeked out from the hem of her gown. Tenderly he caressed them with his thumb and fingers, sending a marvelous jolt of tension through her body. He knew perfectly well just how much she didn't hate him, even after everything he'd done, but she wasn't ready for him to stray from the all-important conversation of the emeralds so easily. He could probably seduce her right now; he probably knew it, too, and that infuriated her. She needed to get to her point of attack.

  Abruptly she pulled her feet from his grasp and stood, walking to the window and resting her hands palm down on the sill as she stared out at a cloudless, silver-blue sky. "Fecteau was in on it, too."

  "Of course," he acknowledged quietly. "The comte d'Arles, or more precisely someone working for him, stole the necklace from the duke of Newark several months ago, Natalie. It's priceless, once belonging to Maria Theresa of Austria, and he and other members of the French gentry believe it should have gone to her daughter when she married their king. The English purchased it legally—this is documented to the best of my knowledge—but there were several in this country who wanted it back for selfish reasons. They stole it from us; I stole it back." He cleared his throat. "Now it appears you've stolen it from me."

  It was an open-ended statement. He wanted her explanation but was unwilling to ask outright, or perhaps pry into what he now began to perceive as a very private matter.

  A deafening silence enveloped the room, the disquiet in the air invaded only by the sound of crashing waves on the distant cliffs, the whistling of a bird. The rich aroma of food made her stomach growl, but she didn't feel like eating. She was too anxious, sensing his eyes on her back, her nerves prickling with the thought that she was about to reveal to him exactly why she'd come to France.

  Finally she turned to face him squarely. He continued to regard her, cautiously, sitting comfortably in the wicker chair, chin in palm, one leg crossed over the other, waiting.

  "I'll give the necklace back, Jonathan."

  "I never doubted that, Natalie," he returned almost at once.

  Her skin felt hot, her mouth dry, and she clasped her hands in front of her, wringing them tightly in anticipation. It was time for truth.

  "I-I suppose you'll recall that I mentioned needing the Black Knight's help."

  "Yes, I believe I recall that."

  His casual tone and flat expression made it excruciatingly difficult for her to get to the point. He wasn't helping her along, either, by asking questions or showing even the slightest trace of curiosity.

  "I need him to steal something for me," she revealed through a shaky breath.

  He never altered his features. "I think you mean you want me to steal something for you."

  She knew she blushed fully with that but she kept her eyes locked with his. "Yes, I do."

  He waited, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Are you going to tell me what it is?"

  "Will you steal it?"

  He looked at her strangely. "How can I answer that if I don't know what it is?"

  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 emer
alds 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—"