He stroked his fingers gently along the tender skin of her thigh, advancing and retreating, never quite reaching the longing core of her, until she was almost mindless with need. Desperate, she put a hand over his and guided him to touch her hot, molten centre. She did not know why she wanted this so much. She did not understand anything that was happening to her. But she knew that she had to have his touch on her flesh. "Please, Jacques," she moaned into his mouth.
And then she understood, for he touched her and her world exploded.
It was a remarkably vivid dream. He had been kissing and caressing a beautiful woman who had come willingly into his arms. His dream was filled with light, but somehow he could not see her face. Her scent was strangely familiar, but elusive. A voice in his head was telling him he ought to recognise it, but he could not. The more he struggled to remember, the more fragile the thought became, like a cobweb ready to collapse at a touch. But he did understand one thing: she was an innocent in the ways of lovers. He must go slowly if she were not to dissolve into mist. He must feed her desire until the flames were white hot.
He was succeeding. His vision clung to him, and kissed him, and guided his hands to touch the secrets of her body. Yet he knew he was only dreaming, that he would wake soon and find himself alone. He did not want to wake. He did not want this glorious dream to end. He wanted to hold her, and caress her, and join his tormented body to hers so that they could both find release.
She was pleading with him, kissing his mouth, nipping at his lower lip with her teeth. She was whispering his name. And then he touched her, and she climaxed against him, with a long gasp of ecstasy.
That voice. Even in the throes of passion, he recognised the danger in that voice. It belonged to a woman who was forbidden.
Who was she? Was she real?
He did not know. The lights of his dream were fading and his vision was melting in the gathering darkness. She was forbidden. He could not reach her any more. She was forbidden.
Chapter Twenty
Jack awoke lying on his back, feeling much refreshed and almost free of pain. To his surprise, he found he was suffering no after-effects from all the brandy he had drunk. It must be a sovereign remedy after all.
The bells were tolling again. He listened a moment and then laughed up at the canopy of his bed. What else did he expect in the Pension de la Cathédrale? The bells of Rouen's cathedral were reminding him to rejoice; he was alive, and almost whole, and would soon be on his way back to England with his precious cargo of information. Life was very good, especially when spiced with a little adventure.
There was a tap at the door. Jack pushed himself up on to his elbows, marvelling that his head did not protest, and looked around the room. He was alone. Marguerite would have taken a separate bedchamber, naturally. Perhaps that had been her knock? She would be delighted to see how well her devoted nursing had succeeded. He cleared his throat and bade her enter.
"Morning, sir." It was the servant from the previous night, carrying a jug of steaming water. Jack felt a prick of disappointment that he could not share his amazing recovery with Marguerite. He owed her so much.
"Your wife bade me come to help you dress, sir."
Wife? Marguerite had claimed they were man and wife, rather than brother and sister?
Jack did not pause to wonder why. She would have had good reason for anything she did. She had dealt very cleverly with the aftermath of the shooting in Beauvais, had she not? He knew that he had been no help at all there. He remembered being unable to move without pain. He remembered lying in the dark, listening to that voice touched with laughter and calm reassurance. Unless he had dreamt it all? There was a strange muddle of memories jostling for position in his brain: images of pain, and danger, and of Marguerite, strong and resolute. There was another image, too, hiding in the shadows. He sensed it was a good memory, a memory to set in the scales against all the others, but he could not quite grasp it. When he tried to seize it, it dissolved.
He would speak to Marguerite as soon as he was presentable again. She would be able to tell him all that had happened. She would help him to separate truth from mirage.
"Now, sir, let me help you up. I'm sure you will feel much better for a wash and a shave."
Jack put a hand to his head. The bandage was gone. Had he dreamt that, too? No, it was lying on the pillow. It must have come loose in the night. Very gingerly, he touched his fingers to his temple and then to the back of his head. Under his hair, he had a number of blood-encrusted swellings which were still very tender, but there was no sign of fresh bleeding. He had certainly not imagined those egg-shaped lumps. It might be some time before he would be able to put a comb through his hair, or wear a hat, but at least he would not need the bandages any more. And he would no longer be courting even more danger by advertising that he had been wounded. For himself, that was of little account. But he had to take every precaution in order to protect Marguerite.
He owed her his life. If his mission finally succeeded, he would owe her that, too. Yet he was planning to leave her behind in France. Alone. Until now, he had been preoccupied with their day-to-day survival, but that was not good enough any longer. There must be something more he could do. Marguerite, his astonishing accomplice, must be kept safe. Far too many of the jumbled images in his brain were of Marguerite in danger.
Marguerite appeared as the servant left with the bowl of dirty water and the wet towels. She stood in the doorway, rather shyly, he thought. She was wearing the same dark green travelling gown that she had worn under her elegant pelisse for most of their journey from Lyons. But today, she had added a lace fichu to the neckline, so that it covered every last inch of her throat.
He grinned at her, but he waited until she had closed the door before saying, "Good morning, wife."
She blushed scarlet to the roots of her hair and turned to leave.
"Don't go, Marguerite. I need to talk to you."
She stopped, but she did not turn back.
"Look how much good your careful nursing has done. I declare, I am almost human again. Would you not agree?"
She turned then, and gave him a long, appraising look.
"No more bandages," he said, with a fleeting grin, touching the front of his hair, the only part he had been able to comb.
She ignored that. "I take it you slept well? You seem wonderfully recovered since yesterday." For some reason, she was unwilling to meet his gaze.
"Indeed. I swear it must all be thanks to the ministrations of my darling wife."
She blushed again, almost as much as before. But this time, he caught sight of a spark of anger in her eyes. "You choose to mock me, sir, but what else would you have had me do? You seemed to be at death's door. Only a wife could be expected to give you the constant care you needed."
He frowned, trying to think. Surely that was not true? Surely a sister—? And then he remembered his oath. Marguerite had changed their story without thought for his oath. What had he done these last two days? It would have been so easy to break that solemn oath, even unawares. He felt an icy knot settle in his gut and start to grow. It was the fear that he might be dishonoured.
Only she would know precisely what he had done. But he must not blame Marguerite for his own failings. They were his alone.
"You puzzle me a little, Marguerite. I thought we had agreed that we must travel as brother and sister, that it was the only safe and sensible course."
She shook her head. "Circumstances change. I had to do what I thought was best." She was beginning to look guilty. Was she hiding something?
"But surely a sister could have nursed a brother with quite as much propriety as a wife her husband?" he asked in the voice of sweet reason.
"What do you know of sisters, pray? You do not care a fig that I had to deal with the assumptions of the landlord and the surgeon. You care only for that stupid oath you think you swore." She stopped short. Her eyes widened. Then she stared down at her feet.
Jack took a
long deep breath. He had not misheard. He strode across to the door and leaned against it, effectively blocking her escape. "Now, Marguerite," he began, crossing his arms and frowning down at her, "perhaps you would be so good as to tell me precisely what you are implying? I swore on your mother's bible that I would treat you as an honoured sister, as long as we travelled together. I have done my utmost to keep my vow, though not always with a great deal of help from you." He let his voice drop until it was almost a whisper. "Are you suggesting that I am dishonoured?"
She raised her chin and started towards him. When he showed no sign of moving, she glared at him with narrowed eyes. There were spots of high colour on her cheeks, but her bearing was erect and proud. "You are obsessed with the idea of treating me as a sister."
"I swore—" he began, taking a step towards her.
"You swore to treat me with all honour while we travelled together. You did not swear to treat me as a sister. You imagined you had, because you were so intent on besting Guillaume. He behaved like a silly schoolboy. And so did you."
She caught hold of his shirt sleeve and pulled hard. Jack was so astonished by what she had said that he did not try to resist. He staggered a couple of steps.
"Now, sir, if you will excuse me, someone has to make the arrangements for the next part of our journey." With an angry toss of her head, she threw the door wide and strode out on to the landing.
Jack could not believe it. He had been so sure. She must be lying, or else mistaken. If he had been wrong about the oath, surely Marguerite would have told him the truth before now?
He had always known that he did not understand women. A man would have told him of his mistake, and laughed about it. But a woman's ways were unfathomable. Even a woman as apparently strong and logical as Marguerite Grolier.
What if it were true? What if he had been trying to hold to an oath he had not sworn, while neglecting the one he had? She said he had sworn to treat her with all honour. Surely he could not have failed in that?
Those jumbled memories were worrying at him again. And now a new one had forced its way to centre stage. When Ben had asked, Jack had been unable to relate the precise terms of his oath. He had said that it did not matter. But it clearly did, for there was a dark shadow lurking at the back of his mind, eating away at his conscience. He was beginning to fear that, somewhere along the way, with his mind fuddled by pain and brandy, he might have forfeited his honour.
The bells began again, in great cascading peals.
"Your pardon, sir, I did knock." It was the servant. "Your wife bade me fetch down your valises." He crossed the room to retrieve them.
Jack ignored the luggage. Those bells were beginning to drive him mad. "What on earth are all those bells for now, my good man? Do they never stop ringing in Rouen?"
The man grinned. "Today's is a special peal. There's about to be a grand wedding in the cathedral. Two of the greatest houses of Normandy are joining their honours this morning."
Honours? The ominous weight in Jack's gut grew another heavy layer of ice. His head had begun to pound all over again.
Marguerite had not relished the prospect of being cooped up in a chaise with Jacques, but she consoled herself with the thought that it was less than fifteen miles to Father Bertrand's house. She would pass the journey in dignified silence, she decided.
Jacques appeared to have reached the same decision, for he spent the first part of the journey staring straight ahead, with an unreadable look on his face. Was he angry, or embarrassed, or concerned? Marguerite had no way of knowing. She had thought, these last few days, that she understood him, because she loved him. But love and understanding were miles apart. He blamed her, unfairly, for his own muddle over that stupid oath. She would not be able to stop loving him—she knew that—but that did not mean she had to approve of everything he did. Most certainly not.
To her surprise, he turned to her and smiled. "I presume that is Barentin?" He pointed to the small town ahead of them. "Then our destination cannot be far," he added. "Let us hope that the good Father Bertrand is at home to receive us."
It seemed he was able to change his mood from moment to moment, like the sun appearing from behind a thunder cloud. And he had done it again. Oh, he could be very charming when he tried. She supposed that was part of the reason she loved him. But his charm could be exasperating, too. Especially that smile. That smile was haunting her. Her moment of ecstasy last night had been too glorious for words. But for him, it had been some kind of threat, for only moments later he was moaning and thrashing around, as if he were trying to fend off an attacker. She had been too frightened to remain. She had slipped out of the bed, dressed herself once more, and curled up in the chair in the far corner. This morning, he had still been fast asleep when she awoke. And when she crossed to the bed to check on him, she had found him lying peacefully on his back, smiling up at nothing at all.
No, she would never understand men.
"Marguerite?"
"I beg your pardon," she said automatically. "I'm afraid I was wool-gathering."
He repeated his question without a hint of impatience. He had impeccable manners. Most of the time.
"I am sure there will be someone to receive us. His housekeeper will be there, even if he is not." She put her hands to her throat and began to rearrange the fichu. The lace was starting to scratch at her nape, but she did not dare to remove it. Jacques's enthusiastic kisses had left a small but very obvious bruise at the base of her neck.
The horses were beginning to slow. Ahead of them was a sizable village, built around a church with a tall spire. Jacques would be safe soon. A few moments later, the chaise drew up outside the church. The curé's house was right alongside, modest but welcoming. Jacques reached for the door handle.
"Pray allow me to alight alone," Marguerite said quickly. "The good father is not expecting us, and he has not seen me for some years. It would be best, I believe, if I spoke to him by myself."
"Are you afraid that he might not welcome you?"
She hesitated. "No. But there are things—private things—that I must explain to him."
Jacques's face was expressionless. "You will allow me to help you down, Marguerite, even if I may not escort you to the door?"
She was afraid of the effects of touching him again, but she had no choice. She let him hand her down, but immediately hurried across to the curé's door to pull the bell.
It was the priest himself who opened it. He was much shorter, and rounder, than Marguerite remembered. He seemed surprised, but he smiled at her. "Yes, my child? How may I help you?"
"Father Bertrand, you may not remember me. I have travelled from Lyons to seek refuge in your house. My name is Marguerite Grolier de Jer—"
"Marguerite. My dear, dear child." He embraced her warmly. "Come in, come in. You are most welcome." He glanced over her shoulder to the waiting chaise. Jacques was standing motionless by the open door. "But what of your escort? Should we not invite him also?"
Marguerite tucked her arm through the curé's and urged him into the hallway. "My escort, Father, is the reason I am here."
Jack watched the door close and turned back to the chaise. He could not dismiss the post boys until he was sure that the curé was prepared to accept both of his unexpected guests. It was more than possible that Marguerite would remain, while Jack would be forced to return to Rouen alone.
He glanced at the sparse interior of the chaise. He would not wait there. He had spent far too much time doing nothing, these last two days. He needed exercise, to recover his strength. He began to pace.
The postilion touched his hat. "Shall I bring the valises out of the chaise, sir?"
Why not? Marguerite's valise was bound to be needed, even if Jack's had to be carried back to Rouen. "Yes. Pray do so." He continued to pace up and down, trying to fathom what Marguerite might be about. What was she telling the curé that she refused to share with Jack? Something about her family perhaps? If the curé had left Lyons so many
years before, he would not know of her father's death, and might not be aware of Madame Grolier's illness, either. But that made no sense. Jack already knew about those. There must be something more.
He turned again. He had to move a little to one side to avoid the two valises which the post boy had placed at some distance from the chaise. Two valises? The icy knot tightened once more in Jack's gut. Why had Marguerite's valise been in Jack's bedchamber?
The curé bustled about in his small study. There was barely room to sit down, for there were books and papers everywhere. The chair alongside Marguerite's was stacked with papers which he swept on to the floor, before waving Jack to take the seat. "You will join me in a glass of wine, my son?"
Jack accepted politely. His head had not suffered from the brandy he had drunk; an extra glass of wine would do no harm.
The curé poured two large measures and one smaller one, which he placed in front of Marguerite. He raised his own glass. "To the restoration."
Jack glanced sideways at Marguerite, but she was showing no concern about the priest's ambiguous words. All three drank the toast. "Father Bertrand, I have to speak to—"
"My son, there is no need to worry. Marguerite has explained everything. You will remain here, as my guests, until you are well enough to travel. Tomorrow, I myself shall drive to Dieppe to discover what I can about a passage to England."
The little curé was no spy. What if he drew suspicion onto himself by his well-intentioned questions? "You must not take any risks for me, Father," Jack said firmly. "The longer I remain here, the greater the dangers to you and Marguerite. My wounds have healed well enough. I shall travel to Dieppe tomorrow. Alone."
"No!" Marguerite exclaimed. Jack began to explain his reasoning, but she would not listen. She appealed to the curé. "Father, he is in much more danger travelling alone. Bonaparte's agents will always suspect a lone man, especially one who has recently been wounded. And there are bound to be many agents at Dieppe. If I go with him, as his sister, no one will look at us twice."
His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3) Page 22