"Sir? You wanted something?"
Jack quickly turned his unfinished sentence into a request for a bottle of good red and carried it slowly back to his table. It was not simply that he had a mission to fulfil. It was Marguerite, and only Marguerite, he wanted to bed, not some small-town whore. Why hadn't he realised that before? Marguerite was eminently desirable. Each move she made, each tiny touch made her more so. If only she knew how much she was torturing him. When she had removed her gloves and bonnet, she had looked so alluring, so incredibly beddable, that he had begun to think he would soon explode. She, poor innocent Marguerite, the lady with no brothers, had not the least idea of what she was doing to him.
Or did she?
Jack took a large swig of his wine and concentrated on allowing its medley of flavours to fill his senses. He had never visited Mâcon before, but he knew its reputation for fine Burgundy. One day, if he survived long enough, he would have the estate that his brother Dominic had promised him, and a cellar full of wines as good as this. He took another mouthful and let the flavours tease and tempt his taste buds. Truly remarkable.
Marguerite Grolier was truly remarkable, too. He knew that. He had admired her courage and daring from the first time he had set eyes on her. She was strong, and quick-witted, and prepared to risk her life for the cause she believed in. But was she also a flirt? Could her teasing actions today have been deliberate?
He tried to remember exactly what she had done, and how. That was a mistake, for even the thought of her was enough to arouse him. Thankfully, he was sitting at a table, in a gloomy corner. No one could see. But Jack could feel. It was infuriating to think that she might have done it all on purpose, teasing him into agonies of frustration with the skill of a practised courtesan. And all the while knowing that he would never dream of touching her, for that would break his oath.
He finished his wine and stood up. That final surge of anger had doused his lust. There was nothing at all to be done about Marguerite tonight, but tomorrow, he would watch her much more carefully, and he would not be gullible enough to assume that her actions were innocent. If he became sure she was doing it deliberately, he would challenge her, and tell her precisely what he thought of her.
The one thing he would not do, tonight or ever, would be to allow her to best him. No matter whether her teasing was innocent or deliberate, he would not visit a brothel or give in to his frustrations in any way. If he did that, Marguerite Grolier would have beaten him. That he was not prepared to allow.
He would spend the rest of the night doing something useful, he decided. This posting inn was frequented only by people of means. He needed to try some low taverns, the kind of places where old soldiers gathered. He would shell out some of his silver there and discover whether tongues could be loosened by a few bottles of the local red. His masters in London would expect him to report on the morale and disposition of the army, and on the level of loyalty to the King in the towns they passed through. He had garnered precious little of that since they left Lyons. It was high time he started.
"Did you sleep well, brother?" Marguerite was calmly spreading cherry preserve on a slice of bread.
"Well enough, thank you," Jack lied. He had trawled the taverns for hours, but at least he had managed to resist the lure of the local gambling. Although the stakes were low, for Jack it was a point of honour not to play any more. He owed it to his brothers. He had relied on the local red to get men talking, but he had discovered only that in Mâcon there were both royalist factions and Bonapartist factions. The royalists were cowed, and truculent. Their victory had been short-lived and they now faced defeat all over again. One or two of the Bonapartists were cock-a-hoop, boasting of what they would do when their hero resumed the throne, as he surely would. Most were uncertain about the future, and were much more circumspect, even fearful. Jack supposed he would discover much the same shades of opinion wherever they went, as long as they stayed ahead of Bonaparte's advance. In Lyons, royalist sentiment had melted away once Bonaparte appeared. Jack imagined it would be the same almost everywhere.
Neither the wine nor the exercise had helped Jack to sleep. In spite of all his endeavours to concentrate on the information he had gleaned, he had spent too many hours debating whether Marguerite Grolier was a deliberate tease.
She glanced up at him and smiled innocently. Then she lifted the bread to her lips and took a dainty bite, her small white teeth cutting easily through the layers. Some of the preserve dripped on to her fingers. Instead of wiping them on a napkin, she put them to her lips, one by one, and slowly licked them clean. The look on Jack's face could not have escaped her, for she reddened noticeably. "Forgive me, brother," she said quickly, "but these preserves are so good that it would be a crime to waste even a drop. Will you not try some?" She pushed the bowl across the table towards him.
"No," he replied abruptly and rose to his feet. "I shall check whether our chaise is ready to leave. I pray you, sister, do not delay us. We have a long way to travel today." He marched out of the coffee room before his temper got the better of him. He could not berate her where others might overhear, but once they were alone in the chaise, with doors and windows closely fastened, he would make her sorry she was ever born. How dare she act so, running the tip of her tongue along the length of her finger, curling it back into her mouth with such obvious, sensual relish? And then doing the same thing all over again with the next finger? That was not the action of an innocent. He had been a fool to think so for a second.
Marguerite had fully intended to continue Jacques's torment today, but his reaction over breakfast give her pause. Her tactics could be working too well. She had not expected him to react with such passion so early in the morning. She had assumed that, at such an hour, a man was more intent on breaking his fast than on slaking his lust. Could she be mistaken there? Quite possibly. It might be unwise for an unschooled girl to make assumptions about what a man might do when desire was driving him. She resolved to behave as demurely as a sister, at least until she had the measure of him once more.
She hurried out to the chaise and allowed one of the postilions to help her in. Then she took her accustomed place, folded her gloved hands in her lap, and sat motionless, watching the bustle of the inn yard.
Jacques appeared by the door. "Ah, there you are." He sounded surprised to find her waiting in the chaise.
"I hope I have not delayed you, Jacques," she said kindly.
"You know you have not," he grunted. "You have everything?"
"Of course." She smiled sweetly down at him.
"Good. I must pay the landlord, and then we can be off. I shall be five minutes, no more."
Marguerite wriggled her bottom into the back of the seat until she was perfectly comfortable. She was more than content to wait. As a sister should.
In less than the promised five minutes, Jacques was back and the postboys were urging the new team out of the yard and on to the main road north to Tournus. For some distance, it followed the river, which was high and flowing fast through the town, its waters swollen by the first melt water from the distant mountains. The river was a strange, cloudy grey colour. It seemed to absorb the spring sunlight totally, so that there was not a trace of sparkle, not even a passing shimmer, to be seen. Like the icy River Styx, the River of the Dead, Marguerite thought, with a shudder of foreboding. She preferred to look up at the bold blue of the sky. That, at least, seemed to offer no hint of shadow.
"How far do you mean to travel today, Jacques?" she asked, when the tense silence had become more than she could bear.
"To Autun, if the weather holds. But it will be a long journey. I doubt we shall arrive before nightfall."
She risked a flirtatious sideways glance from under her lashes. He did not seem to be looking at her. "Are you proposing that we should be alone together, in the dark?" Her voice was unusually low, and breathy. This time, it was not deliberate. She could not help it. It was the result of thinking about being so close to him, in a
dark carriage, where not even the postilions could see what they did. He would do nothing indiscreet, nothing at all, and yet she sorely wished he would. She would settle for a single kiss, if it would carry her back to paradise.
"I am proposing, Marguerite, that we should make our way to Paris with all possible speed, so that we may fulfil our mission," he said brusquely.
Clearly, he did not share her longings. Her tactics seemed to be failing. She resolved to try a different tack. "And what, pray, is our mission?" she asked coolly. She had discovered that Herr Benn was an English spy, and that Jacques was his French accomplice, but she had never been told what they planned to do. Since she might be risking her life, she believed she was entitled to share in the secret. Especially as he had called it "our mission", not merely "his".
"I am not at liberty to tell you." He turned to her then. His expression was quite blank, impossible to read.
"And if you should be injured, or killed, who would fulfil our mission then, may I ask?"
"Keep your voice down, Marguerite," he urged, gesturing towards the bobbing postilions. "There is only a single sheet of glass between us and them. We must not take any risks."
"Say you so?" she hissed. "And yet you risk your own life, and our mission, because you are not prepared to trust me."
"No, I—"
"You swore to honour me as long as we were together. You, sir, have a very strange concept of honour."
Jacques flushed to his hairline. His exaggerated sense of honour made him vulnerable, Marguerite realised. She must press home her advantage. "We embarked on this mission together, Jacques. We both know the dangers we may encounter. I am more than prepared to face them, but you must not treat me like a… like a piece of troublesome baggage." His bare hand lay along his thigh, his fist clenching and unclenching rhythmically. He seemed quite unaware of what he did. Marguerite laid her gloved fingers reassuringly on top of his and squeezed.
She might as well have sliced a dagger through his flesh.
He snatched his hand away as if it had touched a naked flame. "No!" The word seemed to be torn from him. "No," he repeated in a low voice.
Marguerite raised her chin. "That was uncalled for, Jacques. As your loving sister, I was only offering a little comfort. You appeared troubled."
He narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
"I imagine your conscience is troubling you. As it should be," she added, with a touch of quiet venom. "For we are partners in this enterprise, yet you would treat me like an underling."
"I am trying to protect you, Marguerite. Can you not see that?"
"Your protection will follow me all the way to the guillotine, I dare say. I find it ironic that I might mount the steps to the scaffold, condemned, but still unaware of the true nature of my crime." She reached out again and, with sudden daring, laid her fingers on his thigh. He could not pull away this time. The chaise was too cramped. But she felt his flesh contract, even through the fine leather of her glove. He would do almost anything to avoid her touch.
"Marguerite," he hissed warningly.
"Do not concern yourself," she answered blithely. "The postilions are not looking in our direction. And, even if they were, they would not be able to see anything, for the panel obscures the lower part of our bodies." It was only after the words were out that she understood what could be read into them. And into her rash move to touch him.
"You forget yourself, madam." He lifted her fingers and dropped them back into her lap as if they were unclean. "Remember, pray, that we are travelling as brother and sister and that I, at least, have sworn to behave with honour. Sadly, your actions lead me to believe that you are ready to forget your own. You have spent the last twenty-four hours trying to tease, and tempt, and tantalise me away from my sworn word. You will not succeed in that, I can assure you. Marguerite, your outrageous behaviour must cease. You will only succeed in making this journey intolerable, for both of us."
"Sir, I must protest. I—"
"Let me remind you, Marguerite, that you agreed to obey my orders."
"Only in times of danger," she shot back, desperate to concede no advantage to him.
"You agreed to obey my orders when we were in danger. True. And I may tell you, my dear sister, that we are in danger every step of the way."
Marguerite did not think so, not for a moment. It was his way of trying to exert his authority over her. She would not have it.
He gave her a long, meaningful look. There was exasperation in his face, and a hint of weariness in his eyes. Had he not slept at all?
"Marguerite, I think it is time you stopped arguing. It is dangerous. We may easily be overheard." He dropped his voice a little more. "Now, the last time I had to silence you, I kissed you."
She felt herself blushing. And longing for it to happen again.
"Such a remedy is out of the question now, since I swore an oath to your mother. That means I might have to resort to other, more disreputable methods."
"You would not dare."
He smiled. He knew he had the upper hand at last. "My dear girl, I would hazard much to protect the reputation of my innocent sister. I would not …er… chastise you in public, but I warn you, Marguerite, if you continue with these ridiculous starts, I will certainly take steps to put a stop to them." He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief which he proceeded to spread out and then refold across the diagonal into a long band. "I have some experience of gags. I have no doubt that this would be quite adequate."
"You could not. The postilions would think you a monster."
"I do not care what they think me, Marguerite, as long as they make good time along these infernal roads. Besides, I shall tell them that my sister is an insufferable gabblemonger and that, driven almost to distraction, I decided to gag her for a stage, in order to get a little peace. I'm sure each of them will be able to think of a chattering woman he would like to silence. They will sympathise with a fellow man, suffering from a woman's unstoppable tongue. Provided they see that I have done you no harm—no permanent harm—they will not intervene."
Marguerite fancied that was all too likely. The more she came to understand about the ways of the male sex, the less she understood, and the less comfortable she felt.
"However, I think that must wait," he said, with a quiver of excitement in his voice. "Look."
One of the postilions was waving his whip and pointing. Ahead of them, at the approach to Tournus, the road was barred.
"Soldiers," Jacques exclaimed. "They are guarding the road. We must be very, very careful here, Marguerite. This is real danger, for we do not know whose side they are on. Follow my lead, and say nothing more than you have to. You promised, remember?"
He smiled at her then, almost the first genuine smile since they had left Lyons, Marguerite thought. Her first impulse was to melt in response. But a sterner mood prevailed. She nodded at him, her face serious. She had promised to obey his orders in times of danger. She would fulfil it. Like Jacques, she would keep her word. To the letter.
Chapter Fifteen
The chaise slowed as it approached the party of soldiers. A sergeant stepped forward to exchange a few words with the first postilion. Probably asking who we are and whither we are bound, Marguerite thought, but she said nothing. At her side, Jacques was idly playing with his shirt cuffs and looking extremely bored.
The sergeant marched up to the door and pulled it open. He nodded to Jacques but, on seeing Marguerite beside him, saluted with exaggerated courtesy. "I must ask you your destination, sir, madam," he said curtly.
"We are travelling to Paris, sergeant," Jacques replied. "On business."
"Oh, and what business might that be?"
"The tiresome business of selling silk, I'm afraid." Jacques stifled a yawn. "Unfortunately, our father has a broken leg and remains in Lyons. He would normally have made the journey himself, with my sister here." He waved a dismissive hand in Marguerite's direction. "She has excellent skills when it comes to displaying our
wares and encouraging the great ladies to buy, but obviously she cannot possibly travel alone. In any case, it needs a man's head to deal with financial matters. Sadly for me, I am the only son and obliged to take my father's place. Believe me, sergeant, I'd much rather be doing almost anything else."
"Fie, brother," Marguerite exclaimed. "It is the first time you have been called upon to take our father's place. You are a good-for-nothing, I do declare. I wonder you could tear yourself away from the low taverns of Lyons to make such a journey. It may seem arduous to a man as idle as you, but Papa and I have made it together many times, and without complaint. We secured good business, too. I despair of your ability to do even half as well. And—"
"That is enough, sister," Jacques hissed. He turned to the sergeant and shrugged his shoulders. "You will appreciate, I think, why I find this journey tedious. Five days shut up alone with my sister is something of a trial. I have even had to threaten to gag her." He lifted the folded handkerchief and waved it from side to side.
"You have my sympathies, sir. And such a pretty lady, too."
"Well!" Marguerite judged it appropriate to look indignant and to turn her shoulder on the sergeant.
"Quite," Jacques said with apparent fellow-feeling. "I think you have the measure of her. Pretty, but with a venomous tongue. Now, was there anything else you needed to know, sergeant?"
The rapport had been established. The sergeant was already well disposed towards them. He listened very carefully, though, to Jacques's explanation of the kind of wares they carried and the customers they were seeking. "M'father is right about one thing. He says he don't care whose money he takes for our cloth. If the money's good, he'll sell to anyone. How else are we to earn enough to keep body and soul together? Politics is a luxury we poor weavers cannot afford."
His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3) Page 16