You fool, she could love you again.
But had she ever cared deeply? Certainly not enough to take the risk of leaving with him. Only enough to give him empty promises.
The bitterness rose in him like a poison. He ached to trust her. And still the voice whispered to him. She made her choice—you know what she values, and it's not you.
He searched her eyes for answers.
But he could not see what would be different in London now. His relatives would want him gone. Hers would look on him with scorn. And she would make a choice for respectability—she still had a son, after all, to consider. And she would not want a lover who would make her truly into Lady Scandal. He could see that in her.
His heart tightened, and so did his hand on her hair. The words barely more than a harsh, raspy whisper, he muttered, "Why did you not come with me?"
Before she could answer, before she could tell him any more truths, he kissed her. A touch of his lips to hers, as sweet as their love once had been—bittersweet now with memories of parting, of the empty ache for her, of what they had lost.
Letting go of her hair, he put his arms around her. Her hands crept up to touch his face, to stroke his cheek. She tilted her head and parted her lips.
Ah, he had what he wanted—her in his arms. His Lady Scandal.
Leaning away from her, he stared at her eyes. Liquid and dark now. He searched her face for some hint that she would deny him tonight, that she would pull away.
But she only smiled.
What was it he had planned for her? To leave? To send her away? He could not think. Not with her smiling at him just so, as if ten years did not lay between them.
He ran his hand over her shoulder, pushing down the sleeve of her gown. She had such white skin. So perfectly pale. He kissed her shoulder, and she shivered with pleasure. His other hand found the ties at the back of her gown and pulled them so the dress sagged.
How could he ever have enough of her?
His mouth found its own path to the shadows between her breasts, to the hollow of her throat, and his hands found their way under her satin and lace to trace soft curves and tender skin.
Pulling in a deep breath, he smiled. "I could drink you up—as if you were wine. Deep, rich wine. Ma chére. Ma bellot."
She shuddered again under his touch. So soft. Warm, wet velvet. She turned liquid for him and he smiled to know he could do this to her. When her lips parted in a soft moan, he covered her mouth with his.
God, she tasted better than wine. His senses swirled, and his blood raced faster, pounding through him with need for her.
With one hand he managed to loosen his cravat before it choked him. Her clever fingers fumbled with the buttons to his waistcoat, popping them open, and tugging free his shirt. Her hands smoothed across his chest, her fingers splayed wide.
She paused and pulled away, her breath as quick and shallow as his, and her fingers tracing the line of his bandage. "I had forgotten this—can you still...?"
With a chuckle he caught her hands and bore them down. "Ma chére, they would have had to hit lower than that to keep me from giving you my full attention."
Her lips curved in a smile, and his hands found her breasts. As he stroked her, her head fell back and her eyes closed.
He forgot everything except the desire beating through him in waves. His skin burned for her. For her touch. For the feel of her legs wrapped around him. Her fingers struggled again with his buttons, this time lower than on his shirt, and she put her hands on him and stroked softly.
He moaned this time.
And the world became nothing but the sensation of her touch, and lightness, and soaring ecstasy.
"Not here," he muttered. "Voici...."
He lost the rest of the words. With a low growl he pulled up her skirts and plunged into the heat he ached for. She arched to him, crying out softly, and that drove him harder, faster.
His throat dried, and his breath quickened.
Now, now, now.
Only he wanted that now to be forever. To go on and on with no stopping.
He no longer knew where his body stopped and hers began, only that her skin pressed hot against his and her body fit perfectly to him. As it always had.
She shuddered and her hands fisted on his jacket, pulling him closer to her, dragging him nearer. He held out against her demands, but she arched again.
Sweet oblivion swept over him, racking him, taking him. Endless. Heart stopping. Her cries mingled with his, impossible to tell apart and he kissed her again, deeply, only easing away from her as his muscles loosened utterly.
Her lips seemed softer now—warm, wet velvet.
With a sigh, he rested his forehead against hers.
Her breath, so sweet and quick, brushed across the sweat on his face, cooling him.
His mouth lifted. "That is not what I planned." Pulling back from her, he stared into her eyes. "Stay with me. Lay with me. I want you in my arms tonight, my Lady Scandal."
For once, she did not stiffen at the name. Instead, she smiled—a small, contented smile. Lifting a hand, she brushed the hair from his forehead. "Oui, s'il vous plaît."
He tried to pull straight her dress, and to button his breeches. He gave up hope for any more propriety than that, but took her hand. "Your French is so utterly awful."
"I thought that a perfectly good 'yes, please,'" she said, following him up the dark stairs without hesitation, lifting her skirt as he took her to his room at the top of the inn.
Moonlight streamed into his room from a small, square window that overlooked the front of the inn and the Channel. The tang of salt air came in through the open window, stirring the lace curtains. Silver light fell across the floor and the wide, sagging bed. The room smelled of ocean, and of herbs used to keep the linens fresh and the wool blankets safe from moths.
He did not stop to strike a flint, but pulled her into the room and shut the door. She had tugged her dress up over her shoulders, so he tugged it down again and pulled her into his arms. He wanted warm, naked skin against him. "Shall you cry pax with me tonight?"
She smiled. He felt her mouth lift as she brushed her lips across his cheek. "A pax...a peace? Can there ever really be peace between us?"
"Let us find out," he muttered, his lips already pressed to her throat. "Only this time without so much between us." And he began to strip them both bare.
#
Burrowing deeper into the warmth of the man next to her, Alexandria smiled. His shirt now wrapped around her as well as him—they had not managed to rid themselves of all their garments. Her shift tangled about her middle, pulled low on her shoulders and the front ties now undone utterly.
Undone, as am I.
Lady Scandal indeed, she thought, her mind still drifting, and somehow unable to stop turning. Paxten snored. A light sound that both pleased and annoyed her—pleased for she had so missed that sound, and annoyed for it kept her awake.
She ought to sleep. She had not yet tonight. Only she wanted to rise and dance around the room, or to swim out in the cold, dark sea and let the waters hold her. Instead, she turned and told herself to sleep, to listen to the distance rhythm of the tides.
Paxten shifted and gathered her to him again.
"I thought you were asleep," she said.
"I am, ma chére. Asleep and having the most wonderful of dreams."
She bit her lower lip, but she had to ask, "Is this only a dream for us?"
His arms tightened. "No, ma chére. This is real. Real and honest. More so than anything else between us."
With a sigh, she wrapped her bare leg over his. "I do not want to lose you again—to lose this."
Propping himself up on an elbow, he smoothed a hand over her hair. "Are you so certain? I am what my family would call a wastrel—and probably rightly so. I've no fortune, no lands, nothing to give you. Would you take nothing?"
She brushed her fingertips across his lips. "Nothing but this."
Catching her hand, h
e held it still. "I've lied to you, ma chére. Lied to you and been ready to use you as badly as I felt you had once used me. This night—this was not meant to be like this. But I am caught in my own trap."
"What do you mean?"
He lay back, an arm thrown over his head. The moon had set and in the dark room she saw him as a darker shadow, only the white of his billowing shirt visible.
"I—when I heard your husband had died, I did remember my promise to come back to you. That was not just my speaking of divorce—I lied about that to you. I wanted to punish you. For breaking your vow to me. I could not forgive you."
"Oh, Paxten—"
His fingers pressed against her lips.
"No, don't tell me again how sorry you are. I don't want to hear that. I'm the one who ought to beg forgiveness. For that stupid anger. I robbed us of this as much as you did, if not more. I should have come back—but I left it too late. Ah, ma chére, do you not see. It is not I who will leave you—not ever. But you will leave me again. Back in London, you will have your life waiting, and I have no place in it, and you will leave again to go back to your life. As you must."
She parted her lips to protest, to deny this. A tight band wrapped around her chest and her hands clenched on the bedding.
Is he right?
No, it could not be. She shook her head, but she tried to picture him in London with her and could not. Her throat tightened.
"But can we not—?"
Heavy pounding interrupted her words this time.
Sitting up, she glanced to the window. The pounding had stopped, replaced by rapid French that faded again.
Paxten rolled out of bed, grabbing for his breeches in the darkness. He pulled them on. Sweeping up the gray satin gown from the floor, he thrust it at Alexandria. "Dress, quickly."
"What is it?" she asked, her voice hushed as she struggled into the gown.
"We do not want to stay to discover. Get Diana down the back stairs."
"I did not know there were any."
"Ah, why do you think I chose this inn. Hurry!"
His sharp tone told her all she needed—this boded no good for them. Opening the door, she hurried down the hall and let herself into Diana's room. She shook the girl's shoulder, and moved to find her niece's gown, which lay across the back of a chair, the white stripes visible even in the gloom.
"Diana—do wake up."
Yawning, struggling upright, Diana muttered, "It is time to go?"
"Past time—hurry. Someone has just been pounding on the door loud enough to wake everyone."
Pushing off her blankets, Diana pulled her gown on over her head. "Really? Well, tallyho for us then, I suppose. Do we go out the window with knotted sheets?"
Alexandria smiled. Thank heavens for the girl's bold spirit. "Only the back stairs, I'm afraid."
Paxten met them outside Diana's door. Voices drifted up the stairs, as did the loud thump of booted feet. Waving them ahead of him, Paxten hurried them to the back of the inn and to a narrow set of stairs meant for servants. Steep and wooden, the stairs creaked under their weight. Alexandria winced, but Paxten's hand at her back urged her faster. At least their bare feet made no sound.
Using the walls to guide her, Alexandria found her way down the stairs, and then they were in an empty kitchen. Coals lay banked in the fireplace, waiting for morning kindling to light a fire. She glanced behind her, but saw only Paxten.
"Where is Diana?" she whispered.
A breathless answer replied, "I'm here. I had to go back for—"
"No time. Vite, ma fille!" Moving to the door, Paxten opened it, glanced out, and again waved them ahead of him.
They stepped out into a dark ally, and Alexandria wrinkled her nose against the stench of refuse. Paxten glanced both ways and started towards the glimmer of sea visible from their left.
Following him, Alexandria winced as she stubbed her toe on a loose cobblestone. Wet chilled her feet. She wished now for shoes. Her dress hung loose on her, and she struggled to pull the laces at the back tighter and tie them. Diana had managed to get hers done, but her black hair streamed out behind her, tangled as a Gypsy child's.
At the end of the alley, Paxten hesitated. He glanced both ways along the street that fronted the inn before leaning close to Alexandria. "No matter what, keep walking to the quay. We're to sail on the Mouiller."
Mouth dry, Alexandria nodded. Her legs seemed not to have any strength, as if made from soggy pastry. And her body ached in odd places. Had it been only moments ago that she lay in Paxten's arms, satisfied and warm?
She shivered now, the damp mist from the sea wrapping around her.
Paxten's hand rested on the small of her back. He stepped into the street, urging her and Diana forward. They had taken only a few steps when the words thundered out.
"Arrêter-les!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Next to her, Paxten tensed, and he whispered, "Run—now!"
He shoved her forward and whirled, his shirt loose and billowing around him. Boot heels clattered on cobblestones, men shouted, and dark forms loomed in the shadowed night.
Alexandria glanced at Diana. "Run for the quay. Hurry!"
The girl shook her head, as unwilling to leave as Alexandria.
There was no further time to hesitate—or to flee.
Paxten lunged at the first soldier who reached them. Alexandria choked back a cry, but Paxten grabbed hold of the man's musket with one hand, jerked hard, and caught the man a blow with his other arm. The solider went down with a grunt, and Paxten swung the musket up and around like a club at the others.
He glanced at Alexandria again and shouted in English. "Go on!"
Swallowing hard, Alexandria grabbed Diana's hand. Fear pounded in her, urging her to escape. She stood, trembling, heart pounding, Diana's cold hand gripped in her own. But she could not do it—she could not leave Paxten to face this alone. She could not put herself, or even Diana, before all else. She stood, watching, shaking, her pulse pounding.
More soldiers poured from the inn, their boots also pounding on the cobblestones. There had to be a half-dozen of them at the least. Light glinted off a raised musket. Letting go of Diana, Alexandria threw herself at Paxten, knocking him down as something rushed past them and the sharp echo of a report filled the night. A musket ball. A near miss. Too near.
Before she could think, someone had hold of her arms. Struggling, she was dragged to her feet.
Two other soldiers had hold of Diana and the rest crowded over Paxten their muskets pointed at him as he lay on the cobblestones. The soldier whom Paxten had struck rose. With a snarl, he slammed a booted foot into Paxten's side.
Teeth and eyes clenched, Paxten rolled and clutched at his side.
Alexandria let out a cry and struggled to go to him. "Stop that—you, you ruffian!" She realized she had spoken in English. They would not understand. She tugged on her arms, but strong hands held her. What was the French for ruffian? Or to let go?
Frustration welled in her and she kicked at one man, her bare foot slapping against boot leather and doing nothing more.
Sharp words in French from someone—someone in command it sounded—made her twist. In the darkness, she could see nothing more than another dark silhouette, this one taller than the others, and starlight glinting on gold braid.
The soldiers pulled Paxten to his feet and started to drag them all back to the inn.
Fear tight inside, Alexandria glanced at Paxten. He hung slumped between the two burly soldiers who held him, his steps stumbling. His shirt fluttered open and she glimpsed the dark stain spreading across the white bandages. That vicious kick had started him bleeding again.
She twisted again, trying to free herself. Rough hands pushed her into the inn. She tried to turn, to protest, but found herself thrust into the taproom. She staggered, and found herself freed. Rubbing her wrists, she glanced around, her heart beating too fast and the sweat cold on her skin.
A lantern sat on the mantle abov
e the unlit fireplace. The room had but one small window, set high. A moment later, two more soldiers pushed Diana into the room. The girl spun on her heel, spitting out a vicious flow of words in French.
The soldiers grinned at her, and stepped back.
Diana pulled in a breath, and Alexandria stiffened, as the captain who had stopped them on the road strode into the room. Captain Taliaris. Alexandria remembered the name now. He said something to his men; they nodded and shut the door behind him.
Wetting her lips, Alexandria asked in her basic French, "Where is our friend?"
He glanced from her to Diana, and strode forward. Reaching out, he touched a hand to Diana's black hair. She lifted her chin and glared at him.
With his English heavily accented, he said, "No wonder we could not find la belle mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Edgcot is it not? And you—" He turned toward Alexandria. "Lady Sandal? You pick a bad companion for traveling, milady."
Alexandria lifted her eyebrows and replied, her tone icy, "How do you come by our names?" It flashed into her mind how he might have, and her hands clenched into fists. "Marie-Jeanne—what did you do to her?"
His mouth thinned. "Your maid? Do you think the army has also the methods Fouche's police once used to sniff out aristos trying to flee justice? She and your footmen and coachman have been detained. But, after this, I see no reason to keep them any longer under arrest."
Alexandria stepped closer to Diana. "And what is to become of us? And...and our traveling companion?"
His eyes darkened. "Marsett? To recognize that cur is a little more easy than mademoiselle here. But it is a pity the shot at him in Paris did not hit more accurate and save us all this trouble."
His stare traveled over them then, and awareness of her disheveled state washed over Alexandria. Her gown must be rumpled, and her bare toes showed from under her limp skirts. Her hair hung down in a tangle, and she had neither gloves nor shawl nor bonnet to make her respectable.
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