“Gerard,” she called. The name felt foreign, awkward, on her tongue. Calling him by any name at all made things more concrete, but she wanted to taunt him. He was staring at her, his expression a question. “Would you…assist me?”
For a moment he didn’t move, and then in one nimble motion he was on his feet, divesting himself of his clothes. Shocked, she looked away, then looked back. He had looked at her body dispassionately. She would view his much the same. After all, she had seen men nude before. Sculptures and drawings of men, at least. Real men were never as perfect as the imaginings of artists.
Except…this man was.
His clothes concealed a body that was tall, lithe and strong. Muscles cleanly defined and yet not the bulky strength of the peasants in the field, or of the men who frequented Gentleman Jackson’s. He left his drawers on but as he stepped into the water, her gaze was drawn to the rest of his body, to the puckering of his nipples, the goose bumps on his skin.
She tensed in embarrassment. She was naked and he was practically so. As he stepped closer, the plan no longer seemed like a good idea. Breath came with more difficulty and she was all too aware that he was going to touch her, and touching her this time would be different. For her, but not for him. She clung to that, repeated it in her mind. It was only Jane with these wayward thoughts. Perhaps it was the danger that made him more fascinating to her, to this new version of her that was so susceptible to emotion.
“I wished to give you some privacy but I should have realized you would need help,” he said, moving behind her, placing one warm palm on the damp curve of her head. He threaded his fingers through her hair and her scalp tingled with the sensation.
Then the scent of caraway and lemon. She was inordinately grateful that this strange man had an item of such luxury.
“Have you done this before?”
“Whenever I take a bath.”
She let out a soft huff. “You know very well that isn’t what I mean.”
“This is another of your questions. Have I ever been in love? Have I ever washed a woman’s hair? No. You are the first.”
She liked the way he cared for her, the way he touched her so gently. There had never been anyone in her life to treat her this way and it was…beguiling.
“You are doing quite well for a beginner,” she managed to say. His fingers kneaded her head, her neck, and she fell into that touch, into that and the water, her eyes drifting shut, warm pleasure radiating down her body.
Her legs started to buckle and then she was in his arms. She let him take over. He leaned her back over one of his arms so that her hair was under water, and as he raked his fingers through the strands, washing the soap away, she opened her eyes again.
His face was inches from hers and her breath caught in her throat as she admired him, admired the different textures of his skin, the jaw roughened by a day’s growth, the neck smooth, his shoulders—
Her fingers itched and she lifted her arm a half inch to feel that juxtaposition of rough and smooth before the acute pain of her injuries stopped her. He must have shaved at some point. The soap, the shaving, the clean scent of him… He was a man who attended to details.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked as he straightened her. She stumbled on the rocky bottom of the stream and he caught her against him. Their bodies were both wet and cold, and hers was now screaming with renewed agony, and yet she wanted to stay there, pressed against him, nakedness to nakedness, as if they were Adam and Eve.
If only this were a dream. If only she could enjoy this fantasy and know that it would be gone come morning. But each time she woke, despite this world apart, despite saying that here she had been born anew, somewhere Lady Jane Langley waited.
He had bathed her body before, with a cloth, stripped away her torn and bloodstained clothes, both for access to her wounds and to make an escape impossible for her before he had decided on a course of action. He had felt nothing but curiosity and frustration at the compulsion to let her live. This, bathing the soap from her hair, supporting her naked body against his naked chest—it had seemed an intelligent idea at first to peel away the majority of his clothes so that he did not soak them. But skin against skin, even if wet and slippery—in the fresh air of a post rain autumn day—was an unexpected aphrodisiac.
He should not have been surprised by his desire. She was a female and he a male. Attraction was natural. And danger tantalizingly tinged their encounter with that of the forbidden. But there was dangerous and then there was stupid. Never before had Gerard been stupid. He would not be now.
And she was injured, her body mottled in bruises turned purple. Still…warmth unfurled within him, as did a growing tightness, a need. But her hair was clean, as was her body. He could stop touching her, and with that thought he lifted her up, carried her out of the water to the blanket, which was hardly clean, but better to ruin this one than the other blanket he had procured.
He wrapped her up, rubbed her down, and her eyes fluttered open. She watched him and he struggled to ignore that gaze. He was all too aware of her now. The body he had assessed dispassionately was achingly feminine, covered only by his blanket. In the past twenty-four hours he had been drawn in by the suspicion of a sharp intellect, by a certain quality about this woman that was irresistible. It was inevitable that attraction to the physical would follow.
He had not missed her glances, the expression of pleasure on her face. Whether she would acknowledge it or not, she was as affected by him as he was by her. Not only in the ineffable way that made them say things to each other no stranger would ever say to another, but physically.
He helped her into the spare shirt he kept in his saddlebag, watched as the snowy cloth obscured her form. He knew what lay beneath, but he did not know what lay beneath her skin.
“What was your relationship to Powell?” The question was abrupt, designed to remind him of the seriousness of this endeavor. Remind himself that the job was not complete until he had received the second half of his payment, that he could not indulge in frivolous thoughts such as desire. It was time for answers. There were other threats to her life and to his.
“Ah, I see now. You soften me with a bath, with a clean garment, and then you interrogate me. Is this some new method to ensure that information is true? I have heard that those who are tortured will often say anything to make the agony end.”
He shook his head. She had laid out a good strategy but it had not been his aim. It should have been.
He waited for her answer. The silence between them grew, turned uncomfortable.
“Acquaintances traveling to the same destination. I thought to gain a few hours of amusement by joining him and his wife for the day.”
He laughed again, though there was little of humor in it.
Her sidelong gaze was full of irony. “This was not exactly the entertainment I imagined.”
“And who were your original companions?” He lifted her up, started the short walk back to their shelter. She smelled clean against him, and beneath the edge of the shirt, her bare legs hung over his arm.
“So you can establish my identity?” He liked the way she looked, eyes glittering, face animated. “I am increasingly confident that my presence was not in your plans. Why should you know any more about me than I know about you?”
Because it was his job to know everything. He should have known who she was, and that she had switched carriages. Knowledge in his line of work was power. Withholding knowledge was also power, but he had admitted enough to let her know that she was right. She had been a surprise and continued to be one.
“You know my name,” he said. “What is yours?”
“Your Christian name, if that is actually yours,” she returned quickly. He said nothing. Better that she thought it untrue. But Gerard was the one thing he had been given at birth that he retained.
Her silence bothered him. It would be easy enough to discover who she was; surely by now people were searching for her, her name dropped at every loc
al inn. However, an insidious part of him wanted her to offer up the information of her own free will. As if that would mean something.
She rested against his chest and with the gentle pressure of her head on his skin, the energetic tension turned to something else, something intimate and overwhelming. His chest ached with an unfamiliar protectiveness.
“Jane,” she said softly.
His arms tightened about her, triumph surging inside, which he tamped down as quickly as it came. Jane. Quite common in England. A sensible, economical name, one that fit her. A name that gained a sensual appeal by simply being hers. She imbued everything about her with that appeal. He had to resist burying his nose against her skin to breathe in that scent that was distinctly hers beneath the lemon and grass.
He carried her back to the bed, laid her down and stood, at a loss, hands empty. He had pressed his body against hers for warmth all through the night. Yet now, now that he was acutely aware of her, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Despite the fact that one wall of this structure was nearly gone and half the roof missing, he felt trapped.
There were things he should be doing. He needed to secure the area and they needed food. He also needed to listen to the local gossip, discover what talk about the carriage “accident” might be circulating. He had traveled with Jane as far away from the site as he could with her injuries, but every minute that they lingered here increased the risk of being discovered. Before first light they would move on. She was strong enough.
After that…at some point he would need to decide what to do with her.
“Rest. I will return soon.”
“You don’t worry that I’ll flee now that I have this voluminous garment?”
She was not a small woman and yet his shirt swamped her. Everywhere but the long legs it revealed. Shapely legs. Legs he could part with his hands as he ran them over her silken skin.
“And no shoes. You won’t get far.”
“I am quite inventive if need be.”
He studied her. She was healing, but she was in no condition to travel on her own. Even with shoes. He suspected her of trying to rile him, to argue for the sake of arguing, but…
“Do you intend to flee?”
She smiled. “Will I have to? I can’t imagine you would want to keep me here forever.”
Of course not. The idea was ridiculous. At least, the part that included staying in their present location. He was used to planning far in advance and for every eventuality, so that usually his spontaneous actions were in truth merely the execution of a back-up plan.
There was little of the usual about this situation, and he had no answer for her. Instead, he laughed and settled for the only truth he could give. “I’ll be back.”
Chapter Five
Tension thrummed through him as Gerard dismounted his horse. He had made the necessary excursion primarily for food and to send a letter to his servant in Paris.
The sleepy town that had been briefly thrilled by the excitement of the carriage accident: an Englishman dead, a lady injured and another missing. There had been a hue and cry for several days when their friends discovered the tragedy. All was quiet now, but that did not mean no one was searching for Jane. Or would return to do so once news of her disappearance reached Vienna or England. Every day that he stayed in this mountain hideaway increased the danger of discovery. Thus he’d purchased other goods as well, all the items necessary for travel, and sent another letter to his office in Berlin, where, as Friedrich Amsel, he owned a store dealing in rare books.
There was an alias for each alias, a facade for a facade. If someone suspected and were diligent enough—if there were another man as skilled as Gerard pursuing him—he could indeed be tracked. But there were few who focused to that detail, who assured they knew the entire story of any job before taking action. It was a risk, in fact, to send letters to both Paris and Berlin from the same town. A risk he did not take. It was a small matter to travel another dozen miles to another town, and another posting house.
It was a risk as well to even send the Berlin letter at all. His client would not be pleased to be refused, not at such a late date. Gerard, or in this case, his pseudonym, had made his fortune on being dependable and accurate. He was no longer either.
He did not bother to stable his horse far away. Instead, he led the animal inside. At first glance the rough shelter was empty. Sharply alert, he scanned the room. A shifting of the shadows behind the bed caught his eye a moment before she stood, stepped forward. Her face was pale and tight with pain.
“I was worried it would be…someone else,” she said.
Of course, she had been afraid. Injured, she was nearly defenseless. He had left her alone in a country that had not fully healed from war. This would be the last time he left her in harm’s way, although that promise was ridiculous.
“You need to rest,” he said gruffly, frustrated at his own weak emotions.
“I’m fine. I’ve been in that bed for days and it looks as if you had a much more eventful day than I,” she said with a laugh.
He wanted to force her back into the bed; instead, he nodded in acknowledgment of her words and turned to unload the packages, aware she watched his every move. He heard her light footstep, smelled the citrus of his soap on her skin as she neared, wanted her with an acute need.
“We will leave here in the morning. We need supplies.”
“Where are we going?” She laughed again. “For that matter, where are we now? The last place I know for certain being is on the road to Vienna.”
He glanced at her and she met his gaze, sliced deep into him with a painful sort of pleasure. Clear, pale blue eyes opened fully to him, hiding nothing, demanding everything.
“You were bored.”
“Out of my mind!” Her exclamation made him laugh too. “I know you will tell me nothing. It doesn’t matter, as I will know soon enough.”
There was no rancor in her voice, no fear of him anymore. That pleased him though it was a danger. As dangerous as the way she swayed toward him, unconsciously, he would wager. He liked her this way, flirtatious and forward, as if she could accept this strange new life. What if she could?
“So what supplies? Clothes for me? Or do I get to ride as Lady Godiva?”
“Lady Godiva did not have my shirt.”
“Details.”
“An important detail, I assure you.” His gaze raked over her and it was all too easy to envision what she looked like beneath. Warm desire settled low in his body. Knowing her form well was an unusual aphrodisiac. Usually the discovery and the exploration was part of arousal and seduction.
Seduction. Was that what this was? Was she attempting to use flirtation as a way to control him? He did not think so but he was trusting too much to his instinct. A man could die that way. He pushed the parcel that was her clothes toward her and she descended upon it eagerly.
“Do you know I’ve purchased dresses from the finest dressmakers in London and yet I have never been more eager to see a frock than now? Please say it is a dress and not some boy’s pants.”
But even as she finished speaking she shook a petticoat out, and then reached for another length of cloth. She pulled the brown dress up against her and fitted it to her frame.
“So I am to be a farmer’s daughter or some such. But it looks to fit. Thank you.”
The outfit itself presented a risk that Jane would flee, not that he thought she would try. Not yet. She knew she would not get far in her condition. More than that, there was something that had grown between them in the last few days, something to be explored.
“Come, I’ve brought supper. We can sit outside before day ends.”
The air was brisk, stung his lungs a bit when he breathed in deep, but it matched the stark beauty of the mountains, the wasteland of this small valley with its burnt-out trees and outbuildings. Beautiful land. Perhaps its owners had fled or died. At some point, someone would reclaim this land, but for now, for this last night, it was his.
His and Jane’s.
There were people missing her and searching for her, people who knew and loved her. Yet, here, with empty hemp bags making a carpet for them to sit on over the cold earth, she was the woman who pierced through the barrier of his loneliness.
Loneliness. How odd that what he had thought was independence and strength turned to weakness when placed in contrast with companionship. He pulled her close to him, offered her his warmth, his strength, reveled secretly in the softness of her body against his, the need that lingered almost uncomfortably full. As they sat there in the twilight, the knowledge of their mutual lust hung between them. But beyond desire, he wanted to penetrate her defenses, know who this woman was beneath her collected exterior.
“Tell me something about your life before.”
She laughed. “You won’t allow me my fantasies.”
That she had been born in the wreckage of the carriage. He would accept the metaphor, but it was not everything. “Rebirth is a metaphor.”
“I do not believe the church would agree.”
Impatiently, he grabbed her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. “Jane, don’t hide from me.”
“Jane.” She shivered. “No names,” she said, blinking.
“Names are part of our identity.” He intended to have hers in its entirety, before ignorance could do more harm than he had already let it.
“Identity?” She turned her head sharply and he let his hand fall. “Before this week I would not have considered it, but it is such a malleable thing,” she scoffed with a laugh. “You cannot tell me you do not take them on and discard them with ease. Not in your profession.”
“And what profession is that?”
“Assassin.”
The word was burning cold, like a knife slicing through muscle.
“I am not.”
“You are a murderer then? Or perhaps a lunatic?”
“My only choices?”
“What other reason for killing a man in cold blood?”
“Perhaps I acted the assassin that day, but that is not my profession. Death is merely one tool to reach an end.”
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