Irresistible

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  She must have made some small sound of discomfort, because Hugh looked at her with a questioning frown. Under that weighing gaze, she managed, heroically, not to rub any afflicted parts.

  “Are you all right?” Clearly he divined her trouble because, his verbal expression of concern to the contrary, his eyes twinkled. Claire eyed him narrowly.

  “Just fine, thanks.” She said it with a hint of a snap. The twinkle grew more pronounced.

  “I would be glad to take a look. . . .”

  She glared at him, and he grinned.

  Tinsley, having lit the candle, left the room.

  “Master Hugh . . .” As Tinsley exited, James stuck his head through the open doorway. Hugh looked around at him. “The general’s here.”

  “I’m coming.” He glanced back at Claire, the twinkle now entirely gone from his eyes. “Stay here until I come for you.”

  His tone was abrupt, and there was no doubt that the words were an order.

  Claire nodded. Without another word Hugh turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  For a moment Claire simply sat, the pain in her backside engendered by sitting being less, she calculated, than the pain it would cost her to move. She could hear nothing beyond the four walls of the bedchamber. If, as she guessed, the men were conferring below, not even the faintest echo of their voices reached her ears.

  She realized she was holding her breath, and slowly let it out. Hugh’s sudden change of demeanor had reminded her that she was caught up in a life-and-death situation, and the thought made her shiver. It was more than certain that she was one of the chief topics under discussion downstairs, and she wondered briefly what she would do if the newly arrived general sided with James rather than Hugh about her identity. The possibility was frightening, but then she thought of Hugh and felt the worst of her tension ease. Hugh would not let any harm come to her. She was as certain of that as she was of her own name. As for the rest, there was no point in worrying about it. The only thing to do was to stay in this room and wait on events, she realized, and so set about making herself as comfortable as she could.

  In this she was aided by James, who appeared not very many minutes later with a tray bearing food.

  “Master Hugh thought you might be hungry,” he said in answer to Claire’s questioning look as she answered the door. Claire discovered that she was, in fact, very hungry indeed. Thinking back, she remembered that her last meal had been the tea and bread and butter she had eaten in the inn just before she had been snatched from her coach. Since then her stomach had emptied itself so thoroughly that, now, the sides felt like they were touching. Eagerly she tucked into cold beef and bread and cheese, and drank the hot sweet tea.

  She was just polishing off the apple that served as her final course, and feeling very much better for the meal, when another knock sounded at the door.

  “Come in,” she called, not wanting to put herself through the pain involved in rising and walking to the door again unless she had to. James opened the door, and when she saw what he was carrying she was ready to fall on his neck. It was a copper hip bath, old and battered but definitely serviceable, and to her, in that moment, it was the most beautiful thing in the world. Her entire being, body and soul, cried out for a bath, and she thanked him with the kind of fervency normally reserved for the turning of water into wine.

  “Master Hugh’s compliments,” James said shortly. But despite his disapproval he filled it for her too, making several trips from downstairs with cans of hot water until there was enough for a proper bath. On his last trip, he nodded at the wardrobe. “Tinsley says you may make use of any of his wife’s things as you may need. He’s sent her away for the night to be safe, but he says she would bid you use them and welcome, did she know you were here. They are in that wardrobe.”

  Claire glanced at the wardrobe, then looked at James. His bearded face was unsmiling, and his gaze, when it chanced to meet hers, was guarded. But he had been kind to bring her food, and positively saintly to provide her with a bath even if it was at Hugh’s behest, and for that she was grateful.

  “Thank you, James,” she said, meaning it. Their gazes met, and he nodded acknowledgment at her.

  “You’re welcome, miss.” Then, abruptly, he added, “Master Hugh told me and—the rest of those belowstairs—that ’twas you that gave him the pistol he used to shoot that barrel of gunpowder. That means you saved our lives. However this turns out, I thank you for that.”

  “Is he arguing my case, then?” she asked with a small smile. “He is in the right of it, you know. I am Lady Claire Lynes. Is it so hard to believe?”

  “You’ve convinced Master Hugh of it right enough.” James hesitated. “The problem is, no one of us—not even the general—has any notion of what you—Miss Towbridge—looks like. And you were at the rendezvous point, which looks bad for you, miss, there’s no denying that. Still, Master Hugh insists that a mistake has been made, and in the normal way of things he’s somethin’ considerably less than a flat. Though with the way you look and all . . . Still, ’tis possible I’ve been wrong. If so, I’m sorry for it.”

  “You’re forgiven.” Claire’s smile widened and warmed. “Especially since you were kind enough to bring me that bath. It is what I wished for above all things.”

  James didn’t exactly smile back, but the hard suspicion had left his eyes and she thought that some of the disapproving stiffness was absent from his posture as, with a nod, he turned and went out of the room.

  Though she could not help but be slightly nervous about what was happening downstairs, she decided, again, that her best course of action was to trust in Hugh and not worry about it. Meanwhile, the tub beckoned. Hastily she undressed, shaking out her clothes and laying them carefully across the back of the chair for wear on the morrow. Then she stepped into the steaming water, and promptly forgot everything else. The bath was pure bliss. Sitting scrunched up with her knees beneath her chin, Claire endured the agony of sore muscles without flinching as she soaped herself from her hairline to her toes. The thought of washing her hair was tempting, but given its length and thickness it was a time-consuming process that was best tackled on a sunny afternoon. So with regret she left it alone, tying it in a knot on top of her head to keep it from getting wet. By the time she stepped from the bath, her skin was pink and glowing and the hot water had done much to ease the ache in her posterior and legs. Drying herself, she investigated the wardrobe, finding two gowns, one gray and one black, both with long sleeves, high necks, and not the smallest claim to fashion. There were undergarments of various descriptions folded on shelves, a pair of pattens, and a nightdress. Discovering the nightdress, she felt like an adventurer coming across gold. It was of white linen, coarser than she was used to, and loosely styled with a plain round neck secured by a quartet of tiny buttons, its only ornamentation a flounce edging each sleeve. Donning it, she realized that the woman it belonged to was easily twice as big around as she. But it was comfortable, and, what was more important to her at the moment, clean and dry. Pushing up the sleeves so that her hands were visible, she picked up the tortoiseshell comb that had been left on the washstand and crossed to the bed. Climbing in between the sheets, she propped the single feather pillow against the headboard and leaned back against it, luxuriating in the softness that cradled her backside and legs, more comfortable than she had been since beginning the journey to Hayleigh Castle. Then she let down her hair and, starting at the ends, began to work the tangles from it.

  She was still engaged in this homely but comforting task when a soft knock sounded at the door. A nervous flutter in her stomach reminded her that she was not as calm as she might perhaps have wished. Telling herself stoutly that it was James come to remove the bath, or on another errand perhaps, she put down the comb, pulled the bedclothes high around her neck, and bade him come in.

  When Hugh opened the door instead, a spontaneous smile of welcome curved her lips. He was wearing only his shirt, breeches and boots
, and his hair was loose. It was slightly disordered as if he’d been running his hands through it, and hung in deep waves almost to his shoulders. Even without the added bulk of a coat his shoulders were broad enough that they almost filled the doorway, she saw as he entered, and he was tall enough that he had to duck his head to clear the jamb. His boots still had traces of mud on them, although it was obvious that some attempt at least had been made to rid them of the worst of the mire that had caked them earlier. His breeches were flecked with mud as well, but they clung to his muscular thighs and narrow hips in a fashion that made Claire quite forget that they were dirty. His shirt had been spared the worst of the mud; it looked very white in the flickering candlelight, and its loose fit emphasized the width of his shoulders and chest. Above it, his strong neck was deeply bronzed. He needed a shave; his lean cheeks were once again shadowed with stubble, and she, who had always preferred clean-shaven men, found that prickly darkness unbelievably attractive.

  His eyes narrowed as they ran over her, sitting up in bed as she was with her black hair hanging around her like a silken cape and the bedclothes clutched modestly to her neck. The sudden gleam in them as they met hers told her more clearly than words could have done that he found her most attractive, too. Heat shimmered in the air between them, tangible as mist after a rain. Then the sound of a door slamming downstairs caused Claire to remember the debate he had been engaged in, and her smile disappeared.

  “So have you come to deliver the verdict?” she asked, lifting her chin at him challengingly.

  His mouth twisted into a wry smile as he moved to stand beside the bed and survey her from that vantage point.

  “You look about sixteen, you know,” he said by way of reply. “Like a schoolroom miss. Are you sure you’re a married woman of twenty-one?”

  She met his gaze, her own softening. “No more Sophy Towbridge?”

  He shook his head. “Only Claire. Beautiful Claire.”

  Her smile returned, an elusive thing that just touched the corners of her mouth. “Do you really think I’m beautiful?”

  “Don’t flirt, puss. You know you are. So beautiful you outshine the sun.”

  She lowered her lashes and looked up at him through them, her smile deepening. “Now that’s the kind of flattery I like to hear. And I am not flirting.”

  He gave a grunt of laughter. “I’ve come to the conclusion that you flirt as naturally as you breathe.” His arms crossed over his chest, and the smile faded from his eyes as he added, “I’ve good news: You’re going home tomorrow.”

  He didn’t look like it was such good news. Indeed, he suddenly looked almost grim.

  “I am?” she asked cautiously.

  He nodded. “It’ll mean crossing the Channel again, but the weather’s improved a great deal, so you shouldn’t have too much difficulty. Tinsley will take you in his boat. He’s posing as a fisherman, so the boat isn’t large. But Tinsley will do his best to see that you’re comfortable.”

  At the thought of her previous sufferings at sea, Claire shuddered inwardly. But she was in France now, and there was no help for it if she ever wanted to get home again, so, she told herself, she must endure. In an effort to give her thoughts a more cheerful direction, Claire focused on the rest of what Hugh had said, and frowned. “Tinsley is English, isn’t he? If he’s posing as a French fisherman, does that mean he’s a spy?”

  “ ‘Intelligence officer’ is the preferred term. And yes, he is.”

  She looked at him consideringly. “Does that make you an intelligence officer too, Colonel?”

  His smile was a touch rueful. “Caught that, did you? I thought you did. Yes, I’m an officer with British intelligence. Colonel Hugh Battancourt, at your service, milady.” His hand over his heart, he made her a mock bow. “There’s a network of us throughout France. And a network of them throughout England, for that matter. Though that’s confidential, of course. That means, when you get home, don’t go tattling about it all over England.”

  “As if I would.” Affronted, she crossed her arms over her chest, quite forgetting about the quilts she’d been holding to her neck. When she released them, they puddled around her waist. His gaze swept her and he grinned, reaching down to tug a lock of her hair teasingly. She pulled her hair from his hold, then forgot to be huffy as she sought additional clarification. “So now you may as well admit the whole truth: Somehow one of your network mistook me for a traitor named Sophy Towbridge and snatched me out of my own carriage. Did I happen to mention, the other night when you denied knowing anything about my carriage being attacked, that my coachman was shot when I was kidnapped? And my maid too, for all I know. They may very well both be dead now, and all because of a mistake.” Her tone was stern.

  He shook his head. “We truly had nothing to do with that. I was sent to intercept Sophy Towbridge on the beach between Hayleigh Castle and Hayleigh’s Point. Their operatives in England were to bring her to that spot and a French ship was to pick her up there and convey her to France. My job was to beat the French contingent to the rendezvous point, which I did. But in a coincidence that I find almost unbelievable, you were on the beach instead of Sophy Towbridge. I stole you away before, as I thought, the French could arrive to do so. But I—none of us, so far as I know, and I would know—had anything to do with kidnapping you from your carriage. There would be no reason for British intelligence to be interested in Lady Claire Lynes, who was on an innocent visit to her family at Hayleigh Castle, after all. Someone else was responsible for that.”

  “But who?” While she had thought the attack on her carriage was attributable to her being mistaken for Sophy Towbridge, it had been just barely comprehensible. But if that wasn’t the reason—and Hugh said it wasn’t, and she had come to a point where she believed Hugh implicitly—then who would commit such an atrocity? And why?

  “I’ve been asking myself that ever since you told me what happened, and I don’t have an answer for you. That’s one reason I’m sending James with you. He’ll convey you from Tinsley’s boat to your home in safety and make sure everything’s all right before he leaves you. And I’ll be in touch with some people I know in England, who’ll look into what happened. They’ll find out who attacked your carriage, and why, and in the meantime you’ll be protected. You need have no fear of its happening again.”

  One part of that speech caught Claire’s attention. Everything that came after could have been in Sanskrit for all she understood of it, or cared.

  “Did you say you’re sending James with me?” Her eyes were wide and questioning. “Are you not coming as well?”

  His jaw tightened, and he shook his head. “Hildebrand is already gone, and I must leave soon as well. James and Tinsley are down at the harbor now, getting Tinsley’s boat ready so you can sail undetected on it when it leaves with the rest of the fishermen at dawn. I’ll wait to see you safely aboard. Then I must ride for Paris. Sophy Towbridge is still at large, and the information she carries with her will put a great many lives in jeopardy if it falls into the wrong hands. I must still try to stop that if I can, and if not, then there are people who will die if they’re not warned of what’s happened in time to escape to England.”

  Claire stared at him in dawning dismay. “But—those soldiers are looking for you. Even if they don’t catch you on the way to Paris, the Nadine’s crew knows your name; at least, the captain called you “colonel,” so I assume they do. How difficult could it be to track you down? You must leave France.”

  Hugh’s eyes darkened as they met hers. They suddenly looked almost black in the candlelight, Claire noticed. As black as the raven’s-wing shade of his hair.

  “Never say you’re worried about me, puss.” His mouth twisted almost tenderly.

  If there was a deliberately light note to that, she didn’t respond lightly.

  “Yes,” she said, and reached out and caught his hand, hoping to somehow convey the intensity of her distress. “Yes, I am. If they catch you, they’ll kill you.” She took a d
eep breath, and her eyes beseeched him. “Please, Hugh. Please come back to England with me.”

  His fingers tightened around hers. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, bringing her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of her knuckles. Claire’s breath caught as she looked at that head bent over her hand. As that long, hard mouth caressed her fingers, her heart began to pound. His lips were warm, and firm, and she felt his breath against her skin. She watched, mesmerized, as, lifting his head, he turned her hand over, staring down at it as if he would memorize the pale curve of her palm, the slender length of her fingers. His thumb stroked her palm, and her throat went dry. Then he looked up suddenly, meeting her gaze, catching her unaware.

  Claire had the feeling that her heart shone from her eyes.

  “I’m a soldier, puss, and this is a war we’re fighting. I have to go. But you’ve no need to upset yourself over me. I’m remarkably hard to kill.”

  She had to deliberately take a steadying breath before she could speak.

  “So you’ll put me on a boat at dawn and then you’ll ride away. Just like that.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he lifted her hand, pressing it against his cheek. She felt the warmth of his skin and the prickly abrasion of his unshaven cheeks with every fiber of her being.

  “It will cause me some regret, I must admit.”

  He kissed her palm, warm lips moving against soft skin, then abruptly stood up. He would have released her hand, but her fingers tightened, clung.

  “Hugh . . .”

  “It’s still some five hours till dawn. You should get what sleep you can.”

  “I don’t want to sleep.” She said it swiftly, instinctively, but even as the words left her mouth she knew they were true.

  She looked up at him, looming above her now, the candlelight casting shifting shadows over the chiseled planes and angles of his face, seeking out the red highlights in his black hair, emphasizing the hard masculinity of his mouth and chin. His eyes were narrowed and dark as he looked down at her, and his thumb stroked almost unconsciously over the fingers he still held. Her gaze traveled down the whole long length of him, over the broad shoulders and wide chest, the strong arms, the narrow waist and hips, the powerful thighs. Just looking at him took her breath away. Remembering how it had felt to lie in his arms, her heart skipped a beat. The thought of how his hands had felt on her breasts caused her body to quake somewhere deep inside. When her gaze touched his mouth, curved now by a twisting smile, and she remembered how he had kissed her, her bones seemed to melt. Shaken, she tore her eyes away—and accidentally met his gaze. His eyes were black as onyx now, but in their depths she thought she saw tiny leaping flames a thousand times hotter than the candle they should have been reflecting. Her knees began to tremble. She registered the sensation with amazement.