by Darcy Burke
The water in the pitcher on the basin stand was cold, but she found a pot over the grate in which to heat it. While the water warmed, she removed her bonnet, took down the braid she had tucked up beneath it, and unplaited her hair. Once she finished brushing out the wavy strands, she checked the water and found the temperature to her satisfaction. She poured it back into the pitcher and carried it to the basin stand, then removed her boots and stripped off her dress, laying it over the back of one of the two wooden chairs. After scooting the second chair closer to the basin stand, she removed her stays and chemise, baring herself to the waist, and laid them on top of the dress. Then she poured some water into the basin and began the process of washing.
She might have heard the key turn in the lock if there had not been such a racket in the courtyard below the window. A carriage had just come into the yard, and between the rain pelting the glass and the shouts of people trying to direct the horses and coach to the stable, the snick of the key was indistinguishable from the other noises.
And thus she found herself, naked but for her drawers and stockings, staring into Monsieur Pearce’s very brown and very…hungry eyes. He stopped in the doorway, his gaze fixed on her in the way a cat might fix on a mouse hole—focused, intent, ready to pounce.
Her nipples, already hard as a result of being damp in the none-too-warm room, drew to almost painful peaks, and the flesh between her thighs seemed to swell and grow warmer, wetter. Any sensation of being cold fled. She should get up, should grab something to cover herself, but she couldn’t seem to move, pinned by his stare.
Instead, she said, “You had better close the door.”
He could have turned and walked back out the door again, shutting it after he left, but instead, he pushed it closed behind him. “I should have knocked,” he said in a gravelly tone that seemed to her half apology, half explanation.
“I should have heard the key and called out,” she answered.
He took two steps in her direction. “I did not know you were back yet.”
She stood, dropping the cloth she had been using to wash herself on the basin. “I see that.”
His hands were fisted at his sides, his shoulders high and taut. “I should leave and let you finish.” But he didn’t make any move to go.
“I was as good as done anyway.”
She wasn’t sure how it happened, because she had no recollection of either of them having moved, but they stood within arm’s reach of one another now, as though gravity had somehow drawn them together without any effort on their parts. Her skin was damp but aflame with the heat radiating from his gaze. The air crackled with pent-up emotion, with barely leashed restraint. She forced herself not to reach out, not to be the first to touch. Not this time. This time, the choice had to be his.
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. She could see the pulse beating there—fast but steady. With a shudder, he reached out with one hand…and grabbed a towel from the rack beside the basin stand. Pressing the dry cloth against her torso, he used it to create the thinnest of barriers between them as he stepped in closer to her. So close she could feel the warmth of his body and smell him—mint and cloves and man.
“I am not leaving because I want to,” he told her, his voice low and so rough, it vibrated her bones. “I am leaving because I want to not leave more than I have ever wanted anything in my life, and that makes me certain that I am not in control of myself.”
She clutched the towel to herself as he pulled away. “I think I would prefer you not in control.” Her voice trembled a little. Pleading, perhaps.
He shook his head. “No, you would not. Because you have no idea of the things I am imagining doing to you and with you, and that is a side of me you are not prepared to see. Or perhaps it is a side I am not yet prepared to let you see.” His eyes closed, and he seemed to regain a thread of his composure, for he said in a nearly emotionless tone, “I will go and order our dinner now.”
They ate dinner that night in near silence, and Sabine was unsure whether the chicken stew tasted like sand because she was so overwhelmed by the undercurrent of tension roiling between them that she couldn’t perceive anything else or because the stew really was that awful. Or it might have been a combination of the two. Whatever the case, the food was filling if not flavorful, and she pushed away the bowl before she had emptied it.
“It is not very good, is it?” Pearce asked.
She gave him a tentative smile. “So it was not just me?”
He shook his head. “I suspect this chicken might have been born before the Reformation.”
A slightly unladylike snort of amusement escaped her. “Oh, surely it was not that old. I would have guessed the Restoration.”
That brought a grin to his face. “I don’t know. Perhaps it is a Roundhead chicken.”
The image of a chicken wearing one of the helmets characteristic of Cromwell’s army during the Thirty Years’ War popped into Sabine’s mind, and she started to laugh. Pearce joined her a few seconds later.
The laughter burned off some of the tension, but it made Sabine even more conscious of how well-suited they seemed to be. They enjoyed each other’s company, seemed to share many of the same values and, of course, they were wildly attracted to one another. All this…resistance to what was happening between them seemed pointless when she considered it.
As the laughter died away, she eyed him more seriously. “Would it really be the end of the world if we were forced to marry?”
Mr. Pearce set down his spoon and swallowed audibly. “The end of the world? No. I am sure it would not be nearly so dire as all that. But it is not what I want. For either of us.”
Sabine lifted her serviette from her lap and began to fold and unfold it in an effort to occupy her trembling hands. “You do not think there is any chance that it might be…wonderful?”
An expression of such…desolation crossed his face that Sabine felt a stab of pain in her midsection. With a low groan, he pushed his chair away from the table, rose to his feet, and strode to the fireplace grate, his back to her. Picking up the poker, he stirred the fire, causing the flames to flare and subside in turns. “Why are you bringing your horses to England, Sabine?” he asked, his voice gentle.
The question seemed so irrelevant that it took her several seconds to respond. “So that I can establish my business there. You know that.”
He hung the poker back on its stand and turned to face her again. “Exactly. And how do you imagine you would do that if you were the wife of a British diplomat whose career means he is posted to whatever country his superiors desire for however long they choose?”
“Oh.” Well, now she felt terribly foolish and self-centered. He had told her, of course, that he had trained as a diplomat, but she had given very little thought to what that would mean once he had managed to get her to England. England was the country of his birth, after all. His home. The fact that he would have to leave that home to take up the post for which he had actually been hired had simply never crossed her mind.
“Yes. And since we are going to a great deal of effort to make sure that you can continue your business, it would be stupid of us to do anything that would put that outcome at risk.”
He strode across the few feet of space that separated them and crouched in front of her chair so their eyes were level. She nearly gasped at the depth of passion banked in that gaze. He desired her, fiercely. That was a fact she could no more deny than she could deny that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. Any notion that his rejection was based on some fear that he could not come to love her vanished, replaced by a burgeoning certainty that the opposite was true. Only a man who cared for her very deeply, very strongly, would refuse what she was so carelessly willing to offer. Perhaps it was not love—it was too soon for that, surely—but it was most assuredly a close cousin of that emotion.
Possibly taking her silence as disagreement, he rested his palms on her knees and said, “Do you remember when
I told you about my parents’ marriage?”
Her lips twitched despite the solemnity of the moment. That had been the day before yesterday. Surely he did not think her mental faculties were that poor! “Yes, of course.”
“Well, while it is true that I have no idea what happened to cause such animus between my parents, what I did not tell you is that my brother was born a mere seven months after their wedding. I suspect they are not even aware that Conrad and I have noticed this fact, but we both know it means they were forced to marry because my mother was with child. And even though they were swept away by passion and likely believed themselves in love, in the end, whatever feelings they had for one another were not enough to sustain a happy, or even a polite, marriage.
“When I figured out why they married—and believe me, they despise each other so openly that it was a reasonable question for even a young boy to ask, though I did not figure out the answer until I was nearly an adult—I promised myself I would never put a woman in a position where she would be forced to marry me because I was so incautious as to get her with child.” He raised a hand and stroked her cheek with such tenderness, she wanted to weep. “And I especially do not want to break my promise with you, Sabine. I do not want you to have to make the kinds of choices my mother, and yours, were forced to. You have plans, dreams. If marrying me ended them, your resentment would crush whatever feelings you might have for me, and I could not bear that.”
Sabine had to blink her eyes against the swelling of tears. They might have known each other only four days, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Thomas Pearce already loved her as few men had ever loved a woman. So much that he was willing to put her desires before his own. She had to be both the luckiest and unluckiest woman alive, all at the same time.
Pressing her hand over the one he had laid against her cheek, she gave him a watery smile. “And I could not bear to hurt you like that.”
Returning her smile, he extracted his hand from under hers and got back to his feet. “Also,” he said, his tone more jocular, “I promised Joubert he could speak with you alone tomorrow to assure himself I am not a vile despoiler of maidens, and I would hate for you to have to lie to him.”
Sabine rolled her eyes. “Oh, God. Please tell me you did not.” Joubert was the last person she wanted to be alone with, if she could help it. Oh, she did not believe he would behave in an ungentlemanly manner. It was more that he looked at her with such unfettered devotion, she did not believe he saw her as a real person, but more as a heavenly figure to be worshipped. God forbid that she should fall off the pedestal on which he’d placed her. Which was undoubtedly the reason he was so interested in protecting her virtue.
To be fair, Thomas was equally determined to protect her in exactly the same way, but for exactly the opposite reason. He saw her as a real, flesh-and-blood human being with wants, needs, and dreams of her own. Aspirations that were worth guarding.
Thomas raised his eyebrows at her words. “Are you afraid to be alone with him? Has he tried to press his attentions on you?”
“Not at all,” she said with a shake of her head. “On the contrary, he is just so…adoring that I am afraid he will throw himself at my feet and beg to serve me like a faithful hound forever and ever. It worries me, to be honest. He worries me.”
Thomas grimaced and nodded. “He worries me, too, but I cannot believe he would do anything to endanger you. On the contrary, his zeal when it comes to your safety is the reason I have been willing to overlook his youth and inexperience. That and the fact that I cannot believe we would be better off if we sent him packing and hired a coachman off the street. As Duval pointed out to me when he recommended Joubert for the job, we can hardly ask someone we have hired at random to kindly warn us if we are approached by the gendarme or military officers because we are running from your uncle and the secret police.”
Sabine heaved a sigh of resignation. “I will speak to him tomorrow and assure him that I am yet as pure as the driven snow. But in exchange, I expect you to teach me some naughty English words. I suspect I am going to need them in the privacy of my own mind, if nowhere else.”
“And you are sure you would tell me if he were…taking liberties?” Bernard Joubert asked earnestly. For the third time since he had clambered into the coach for their promised private conversation. “I swear upon my mother’s grave that I will think no less of you if he is.”
Good Lord, if only he would think less of her, Sabine thought. Or think of her less. She really did not care which. “I assure you, Monsieur Pearce has never touched me in any unwelcome manner.” True. “He has behaved in a completely respectful and honorable fashion throughout our entire acquaintance.” Also true, as much as she might wish otherwise. “And if he were doing anything I considered untoward or offensive, I would not simply tell you about it, I would shout it from the damn rooftop.”
Bernard’s far too thick-lashed brown eyes widened at her use of the word foutu. “You should not say such things, mademoiselle. Someone might overhear you and think you are of easy virtue.”
Sabine planted her hands on her hips. She was done with this maddening conversation.
Having eschewed wine with last night’s dinner for fear of experiencing another bout of unpleasant reprisals, she had slept fitfully, constantly aware of Thomas’s strong, warm body next to hers. Although he had slept fully clothed in his shirt and breeches atop all but one of the blankets so there was no chance of skin-to-skin contact, his proximity had made her restless and achy with unfulfilled longing. To make matters worse, he had seemed to have no trouble sleeping at all. But then, he had gone down to the public house and consumed at least one brandy before retiring. As cranky and out of sorts as she felt this morning, she was reconsidering the wisdom of skipping the wine. Maybe the reprisals were worth it.
“If I were a woman of easy virtue, Monsieur Joubert, we would not be having this private conversation, because you would not be worried about my reputation. But as we are having it—privately, inside this carriage where no one can hear us!—my choice of words need not concern you beyond the fact that it indicates how impatient with you I have become. How many times must I assure you that all is well before you accept what I am saying?”
His cheeks colored at the reprimand, but he straightened himself to his full height—which was several inches taller than Thomas—and gave her a stern look. “I would better believe it if I did not see how he looks at you. He has designs on you. No matter how honorably he has behaved thus far, he will give into his baser nature at some point, and you will suffer the consequences.”
Sabine closed her eyes and massaged her temples. The problem was that Bernard was not wrong. At least not about the way Thomas looked at her…or she at Thomas, though she noticed Bernard had missed her side of things entirely. But there was no way she was going to explain to him why nothing would ever come of those looks.
With a sigh, she concluded there might be no way to end this discussion without hurting his feelings. “And if that happens, it is my concern, not yours. Your uncle sent you with us to help get me out of France, not to protect me from Monsieur Pearce’s designs, as you put it. That is my job, and I am perfectly capable of doing it. If I need your help on this matter or any other, I will ask you for it. But please do me the courtesy of trusting that I am not completely incompetent, because it is insulting.”
Emotion flashed across his features, but too quickly for her to accurately read. It might have been anger but it might also have been embarrassment. Perhaps both. But then he hung his head and said, his tone penitent, “I am sorry. I did not mean to give insult, but I can see I have. Just, please…” He raised his head and met her eyes, his gaze surprisingly steady and adult. “Do me the courtesy of taking my concerns seriously and asking for my help if you need it.”
She smiled and patted the back of his hand gently. “I will. I promise.”
As he rose and exited the carriage, she leaned back against the seat and prayed that he
would mind his own business from now on.
Chapter 15
Sabine’s laughter was captivating. Full-throated and joyful, the sound almost made Thomas forget that once he delivered her safely to England, he would never hear it again.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling the rollicking laughter down to a giggle. “No wonder the French do not teach English to their children. How will I ever remember which word to use when? I live in fear of mistakenly asking someone to pass the chicken ‘breast’ during dinner, because I shall certainly never remember to call it a ‘bosom.’”
As promised, Thomas had begun the English lesson that morning by introducing her to a few relatively tame curse words: “dashed” or “deuced” to replace the coarser French foutu, “crap” for merde, and so on. Somehow, the conversation had meandered into words that, while technically not swear words, were not used in polite company and their acceptable replacements. This had included “the necessary” in place of “the privy,” “unmentionables” as opposed to “pants,” and the aforementioned “bosom” for “breast.”
Sabine was still shaking her head with amusement when the carriage began to slow to a lurching halt. As they had left the inn less than an hour before, they could not possibly have reached their next watering stop; something had to be amiss. Thomas peered out the window but saw nothing to indicate the cause of the delay.
He exchanged a glance with Sabine, whose expression mirrored his own concern, and waited for one of the agreed-upon signals from Joubert. When the message came, it was two distinct raps on the roof of the coach.
Sabine, as aware of the meaning of the signal as Thomas, scrambled for her bonnet and jammed in on her head without a word.
Come on, Joubert. How many?
The delay between signals seemed eternal, but was probably no longer than they had rehearsed before leaving Vornay. The interval between the signals had to be long enough to ensure there was no confusion.