Racing with the Wind (Agents of the Crown)

by Regan Walker

  “Yes, I have traveled to France before, and Germaine de Stael and I have met on several occasions.”

  She did not look at him as he guided her along a path deeper into beautifully landscaped gardens blooming with pink and red roses. The perfume of the flowers lingered faintly in the air, and Mary wondered what he wasn’t saying. The last time Germaine was in Paris, Napoleon was emperor. But Germaine had said he helped her leave France. What was a British lord doing in France while Napoleon reigned?

  “Your uncle has told me of your recent adventures involving Joseph Decazes,” he said, disrupting the silence. Mary thought there was an edge to his voice. “You must be very careful, Lady Mary. It would not go well for you if you are discovered…interfering.”

  So, they were back to that. She felt like a scolded child. And why would her uncle tell Ormond of the information she’d obtained?

  “I am well aware of the danger, my lord.” She knew she sounded irritated, but at the moment she didn’t care.

  Ormond pressed her gloved hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “I am concerned you might be harmed.”

  Her flesh quivered at the touch of his lips, and so she withdrew her hand. Even through her gloves she had felt the effect deep in the most intimate part of her body. His kiss had been a tender but possessive gesture, and her reaction to it unnerved her.

  She held her head high as she turned to face him. “I have been careful, and I will continue to be. You need not be concerned.”

  “But I am. You must know I am.”

  His eyes were dark glowing pools of heat in the low light of the garden, his deep voice as smooth as rich port. Their gazes locked for a long moment. Suddenly, they were like two powerful magnets brought so close that the force to pull them apart did not exist.

  In an instant so fast she did not see it coming, his lips were on hers. His tongue pressed for entrance to her mouth and she surrendered. Despite her good intentions, she kissed him back and reached her arms to his shoulders. The kiss grew fiercer still, as passion was loosed that had been long reined in. His lips were demanding, his tongue dueling with hers and fanning the now familiar flames of desire. His arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her into his body.

  His lips moved away from hers only to follow a hot trail down her neck to the pounding pulse at the base of her throat, to her collarbone where bare skin was exposed to his hunger. He nibbled there, making Mary shiver at his touch. She clung to him. Involuntarily her fingers moved into his thick locks of his hair as she held his head close. Her breath grew ragged, and her woman’s center throbbed. That longing returned, that pleasant yet painful ache she experienced each time he kissed her. She was alarmed at how her body recognized his touch and so readily responded, but his hand moved to her breast, gently cupping the fullness and causing her to tremble.

  A groan loosed from him just before he whispered her name. To Mary, that was a call to a place of secret retreat. She wanted to go with him wherever he led. Her heart was pounding so loud that she was sure he could hear. She was swimming in his masculine scent, overcome by the power of his tall, muscled body pressed to hers; his fingers rubbing her nipple were driving her mad.

  Alarms began to sound in her head at the unprecedented intimacy. “Ormond…Hugh…we must…stop,” she breathed in a ragged whisper, and with the last remnants of control she pulled his hand away from her breast.

  He drew close once more, kissed her softly and whispered, “You said my name. I like it on your lips.” He hesitated before adding, “I cannot stay away from you, Mary. And frankly, I don’t want to.”

  He held her close, her head just under his chin. Her breasts rose and fell against his muscled chest. Fear gripped her at what he might be contemplating and all she was feeling; she had to guard her heart, and at this moment that seemed an impossible task. After all, hearts could give themselves away.

  Suddenly, he stepped back, holding her out with his arms. Mary wanted to reach for him. Her whole body ached for him, yet she knew she should not.

  “I’ll take you back.” With those words, his face changed, as if he’d donned a mask. His dark eyes grew cold, and the longing and desire she had seen in them moments before vanished. Was he having the same difficulty controlling the passion as she was, or was there something else going on?

  “Thank you,” she replied, praying her own mask was as good. She took his arm and they walked back in silence, the coolness of the night air calming her still-racing heart.

  Apparently the vicomte had been looking for her. He came down the corridor toward them, and as Mary and Hugh drew near, the Frenchman called, “Lord Ormond, dinner is about to be served, and I was hoping I could see Lady Mary to her seat.”

  “By all means,” said Hugh. “I was merely escorting her through the gardens at her uncle’s request. She wanted some air.”

  Decazes seemed relieved, and he reached for her hand. “Bon. I’ll be happy to escort you from here, Lady Mary.”

  She went with him, but as she did she turned back to Hugh. “Thank you, Lord Ormond. I trust you will have a good evening.”

  His face betrayed no sorrow for their interrupted passion. “You as well, Lady Mary.”

  Chapter 15

  “I can hardly wait to see!”

  The vicomte, too, was obviously enjoying himself. His face sported a grin as he said, “C’est bon. We will soon be there.”

  Mary had been thrilled at the chance to see the paintings of the celebrated artist she had heard so much about, but Theresa had not said a word on the journey, so Mary was startled when her friend suddenly spoke. “I am anxious to see David’s paintings of Napoleon.”

  “There will certainly be some of those,” agreed Decazes. “David was a favorite of his.” He gave the brown-haired girl a curious look.

  The gallery was in a part of Paris housing shops nestled along narrow winding streets that were dirty and crowded with horse and cart traffic. Though new streets were being constructed to accommodate the growing population, none were new in this part of town. The added burden of horse droppings only made the situation worse, making it difficult for the carriage to move along with any speed.

  They had traveled for some time when the carriage pulled up at a corner and a footman opened the door. Decazes helped Theresa and Mary down, explaining that they would need to walk a bit to the narrow street that held the gallery, but both Mary and Theresa had been prepared, wearing dresses suitable for day travel and hooded cloaks to shield them from the damp afternoon. Though there was occasional sun, it had turned cold again in Paris.

  Mary wore a blue gown with a warm, dark blue woolen cloak. Theresa wore a dark green garment that complemented her rich brown hair. The vicomte stayed the prominent French aristocrat, dressed in a gray waistcoat and trousers with a black frock coat and hat.

  The first thing Mary noticed as they stepped into the gallery was the rainbow of colors. “Oh my.”

  The richness of the oils on canvas was a welcome assault upon her senses. All around her, a striking display of reds, browns, yellows and oranges pulled her attention in various directions. Large paintings hung on cream-colored walls. They were glorious to her thinking, the figures life-size, the colors vibrant and the scenes inspiring. The gallery had a high ceiling, and the light from the windows above illuminated each of the works of art. Many of the paintings were as tall as she was, displaying historic and mythic subjects.

  Theresa seemed to recognize all those that had been a part of Napoleon’s France, and she patiently explained them to Mary. It was wonderful to walk among the paintings, for David, she recognized, was truly a master.

  One painting in particular drew Mary. It was very large, taking up nearly the entire wall. Entitled Leonidas at Thermopylae, it told the story of brave Leonidas, who led three hundred Spartans to sacrifice themselves, defending Greece against Persian invaders.

  The vicomte stepped to her side as she admired the painting. “Has this one captured your interest, Lady Mary?”


  “Yes, it has.” She read the title plate. “He only completed this painting a few years ago.”

  Her eyes examined the beauty of the human form as only a master could call it forth on canvas. But while she found the noble cause uplifting, what drew her most was the sensuality of the men of battle. Instead of the bold warrior before her, she saw Hugh Redgrave and his masculine earthiness, the muscles of his naked chest.

  Was the man she now thought of as “Hugh” never far from her thoughts? She hoped Decazes standing beside her did not notice the flush in her cheeks.

  Mary continued to admire the painting while listening to Decazes describe its complexities. Theresa joined them to comment as well, pointing out that the painting represented a change in David’s style. At this point the vicomte left, however, and out of the corner of her eye Mary watched.

  He stood off to one side, several feet away as a man dressed like a tradesman approached. She could only hear snippets of their conversation, but it sounded as if they were speaking German.

  When the tradesman left the room, Decazes returned to Mary and Theresa. “Please excuse me, Lady Mary, Mademoiselle Koller,” he said, “but I must attend to a small issue. I will return shortly.” Theresa just shrugged, gave him an odd look and turned back to the painting.

  Mary followed Decazes with her eyes, watching as he passed through the crowd and then stepped around a wall dividing the front of the gallery from the rear. As soon as she could, Mary left Theresa pondering another painting to follow. She peeked around the corner of the wall to see the vicomte talking with two men only a few feet away, his back to her. They were speaking German in harsh whispers. Again, she heard only snippets of the conversation, but enough to know the Prussians were demanding some promised information. Mary was reminded of the hidden note she’d taken from the cathedral the day before.

  Concerned she would be noticed, she returned to Theresa. Soon Decazes rejoined them, but his face bore an anxious look that quickly became a forced smile.

  “Would you ladies enjoy some coffee? I know of a place not far from here. We can walk.”

  “That would be very nice,” Mary said. She had seen enough for one afternoon, and the coffee served in Paris would be a welcome change from tea.

  “Yes, let us do have coffee,” agreed Theresa. “A cup of something warm would be most welcome.”

  They left the gallery and plunged into a cold wind. Mary drew her cloak more tightly around her, glad for its warmth, but they had traveled only a short distance before they heard shouting behind them. Turning back, she saw two groups of men, their faces twisted in anger. The men shouted taunts at each other, and from the exchange it was clear the altercation was between ultra royalists and liberals.

  The shouts became more heated. Suddenly, a group broke off and began to run toward them. “He has a gun!” came the shout in French of one of the men, a liberal dressed like a dockworker and wearing a dark knit cap on his head.

  Decazes attempted to move them away, but before he could, several of the well-dressed royalists drew pistols and fired shots at the retreating group. A few liberals came running toward them, and Mary stood frozen in horror. More shots exploded around them. Bullets whooshed by, and Mary ducked, fearful of being shot.

  “Henri’s been hit!” cried a man with a knife.

  What was happening? Oh my God.

  Still frozen, Mary saw a man fall to the ground not far away. He was holding his chest, blood oozing over his hands. Another shot was fired, and another man fell. Liberals and royalists both yelled; confusion reigned all around. Mary was knocked to the ground as a man pushed roughly by her trying to escape. Bodies were scattered on the paving stones. Men lay everywhere groaning.

  The vicomte lay on the ground a few feet away holding his left arm to his chest. Blood spilled over his dark coat sleeve and onto his light gray trousers. Mary searched frantically for Theresa, found her several feet away pressed up against a building, a horrified look on her face. The conflict was still erupting around them, but now it had devolved into several fist and knife fights.

  Still lying on the ground, Mary jerked to one side to avoid a falling man. As she did, strong arms suddenly lifted her. She whipped around to see her captor, but the sight was entirely a surprise as she stared into the face of Hugh, his stern dark eyes mere inches from her own.

  “Hugh…?”

  “Are you hurt, Mary?” His eyes roved over her body.

  “No, I’m…fine.” She was simply stunned.

  Hugh looked past her and shouted, “Decazes, can you walk?”

  “Yes.” The vicomte’s voice was weak, though, and she saw him wince as he struggled to his feet.

  “Where is your carriage?” Hugh called, still holding Mary to his chest. She felt like a child in his strong arms.

  “Just around the next corner and down another street.”

  By this time, the combat was moving away, leaving only the bodies of the dead or wounded strewn about the narrow street. Hugh lifted Mary and set her on her feet, but he kept his arm tightly around her. He called to Theresa, and she came eagerly. With the vicomte following, Hugh escorted the women to the waiting carriage.

  The footmen, who had not realized their charges had been caught in the fighting they’d heard at a distance, gave cries of alarm when they saw them approach.

  “Vicomte, you are wounded!” one of them exclaimed, reaching for his injured master who still bled profusely.

  “Vicomte,” his coachman urged, “we must see you to a doctor.”

  Hugh guided Theresa toward the carriage. “Take Theresa, too.”

  “I don’t think the wound is deep,” Decazes was saying, gazing down at his arm. “It all happened so fast.” But Mary could see his bloodstained jacket and wondered just how badly he was hurt.

  The coachman agreed. Grave concern in his eyes, he said, “We should leave.”

  Mary stared Decazes’s wound. “I should go and help.”

  “No,” Hugh said sternly. “You’re coming with me.”

  She started to move toward the carriage anyway. He took firm hold of her arm and drew her back to his side.

  Indignant, she pulled on her arm. “What if I don’t wish to come with you?”

  “Madam, what you want just now is of little concern.” His dark eyes were full of anger, at least until he turned to the Austrian girl who regarded him with huge brown eyes of her own. “Theresa can go with him. Are you in agreement, Theresa? You will make sure that he is seen by a doctor?”

  “Of…of course,” she replied in a halting tone.

  “I will see her safely home,” said the vicomte, looking at Theresa and still clutching his arm. He was obviously eager to return to the role of protector.

  The coachman was happy to be moving away from the scene of the violence, and he rushed to help Theresa into the carriage. Decazes followed, using his good arm to lift himself in. Once inside, he peered out the window to where Mary stood at Hugh’s side.

  “Lady Mary, I’m so sorry.”

  Mary was only concerned for his wound. “This wasn’t your fault. Just take care of yourself.”

  “May I call upon you tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yes, if you’re well enough,” she said, surprised he would ask such a thing given his condition.

  Hugh scowled and began to pull her toward him, and Decazes’s carriage sped away even as the British lord continued to drag Mary in the opposite direction. The street was still littered with bodies, and curious people had begun to check who was left alive.

  “You don’t have to pull me so. I can walk!” Mary was cross and becoming more annoyed by the second.

  Hugh was brusque. “I want to get you out of here.”

  Mary didn’t reply.

  She allowed him to pull her down the street and struggled to keep up with his long strides. At last they reached a broader avenue where he hailed a carriage. He quickly assisted Mary into the vehicle that stopped.

  Her hair had fa
llen out of its pins and her clothes were covered in dirt on one side from her fall to the ground. Hugh climbed in behind her and directed the coachman to an address she didn’t know as he watched Mary brush the dirt from her cloak. Then, without warning, he grasped the top of Mary’s arms and shook her once.

  “You must not take such chances!”

  Shocked and angry, Mary spat fire at him. “Take your hands off me!”

  He yanked her into his lap and his lips crushed hers. It was a kiss of fierce possession, as if he could bind her to him. As if he were afraid—

  As she began to respond to his kiss, he withdrew and buried his face in her hair, pulling her tightly to his chest. She stilled in his arms. She’d never seen such a rush of fierce emotion from him. He held her tightly for a few moments, breathing heavily. Eventually she felt him relax; his breath returned to normal. Mary moved to sit next to him, but he kept his arm around her. She began to feel a sense of wonder as he looked down at her.

  The carriage slowed, and Hugh got out. Mary watched through the window as he retrieved a horse—his own, she assumed; he must have left it here earlier—and tied it to the back of the carriage. When he returned, his anger had, too.

  “This is not a safe part of town, Mary, not that any place in Paris is entirely safe right now. Thieves and pickpockets roam the streets.”

  Mary scoffed. “Those were not thieves or pickpockets. They were yelling about revenge.”

  “Even worse. You could have been killed. Such men would not think twice to take your life…or your virtue.”

  Mary had seen the pain in his eyes as he let her go. Her concern for him had calmed her, but now his words were making her feel like a scolded child again. “It was a gallery!” she nearly shouted. “Artists don’t always live in the best part of town.”

  His face twisted in anger. “That is why it was not the best choice for an outing.” He added, “For which I blame Decazes.”

  Mary’s lips stung from his kiss, and his body so close to hers was unsettling. Suddenly a thought occurred to her, and in an unsteady voice she asked, “How did you know where we were?”