The Scoundrel’s Seduction Page 10

  He was so damn debauched. He tried to thrust the images back, but her warm body was so close. Her sweet smell, like violets, permeated the small space. Her upper arm brushed over his. Her thigh pressed against his. He knew, from when she’d worn the breeches, how feminine that thigh was. What would it look like when she was naked? Pale and shapely …

  The coach came to a sudden halt, jolting Sam from his thoughts. They had left London behind and were now on the London Road heading north. Toward Lancashire and Lake Windermere, where the safe house was located.

  “Stay here,” he told Élise. They needed to change out the horses, and he needed to give Laurent a rest.

  She glared at him. “You cannot expect me to remain inside this very small space until time comes to an end.”

  “I can expect you to remain here until we arrive at our destination. You cannot leave the carriage. You’re not dressed appropriately, and you’ll arouse suspicion.”

  “And if I require … a private moment?”

  He sighed. “I don’t intend to torture you. Of course we will stop if you require it.”

  She made a disgruntled noise.

  “Do you need one now?”

  “Well. Yes. I do. However, it is not urgent. Not yet.”

  “Good. We’ll stop on the road as soon as we leave this town.”

  To his surprise, she let out a low laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I am becoming a true barbarian,” she said. “Drinking straight from a jug. Tearing up my petticoats for bandages. Pissing, so to speak, upon the side of the road.”

  He raised a brow.

  “I believe I will enjoy this barbaric life,” she said primly.

  He shook his head at her even as a smile played at the edges of his lips, then took his leave of her and went outside to the innyard. He and Laurent made quick, efficient work of exchanging the horses for fresh ones. As they led the new horses back to the carriage, Laurent covered his mouth against a huge yawn, and Sam clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Long day, eh?”

  “Long evening,” Laurent admitted. “The day wasn’t so bad. Spent most of it playing chess with Lady Dunthorpe, after all. Not an unpleasant way to pass the time.”

  Sam didn’t find spending time with her unpleasant, either, but he still scowled.

  What was this feeling? Possessiveness, he realized. He felt like he didn’t want anyone to speak with her or to enjoy her company, except himself. And he damn well didn’t want her enjoying anyone else’s company.

  That was ridiculous. He’d never felt that way about any woman before. It would be idiotic to start with this one.

  He took a deep breath through gritted teeth. “Right.”

  “But …” Laurent turned troubled eyes on Sam. “Hawk …” He swallowed hard, his throat making a jerking movement with the action. “I think … I think I might’ve killed one of them.”

  Something inside Sam went cold. Laurent’s first kill. He’d known it would come someday, but … Hell. It wasn’t something to celebrate. “How are you?” he asked in a low voice.

  “I … don’t know.”

  Damn. The boy was so young, and he sounded shaken to his core. Sam squeezed his shoulder. “You did well. You kept Lady Dunthorpe safe. Without you out there, I’m not sure we could have escaped from that room.”

  Laurent nodded, then blinked hard. “Right.”

  “You did what you needed to protect your own, lad,” Sam said in a low voice. “I’d have expected nothing less.”

  Laurent gave him a somber smile; then he seemed to shake it off. Or perhaps he just wished to change the subject. He gestured to Sam’s arm, obviously seeing the bandage through the hole in the sleeve. “Lady Dunthorpe’s handiwork?”

  Sam nodded.

  “She did a fine job. I was a bit worried.”

  “It’s nothing,” Sam muttered. He took a breath. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you a few hours before dawn.”

  “Right.”

  Laurent opened the door and disappeared into the carriage compartment, and Sam climbed up to the driver’s perch.

  He didn’t push the horses but allowed them to walk at a slow pace. The lanterns at the front posts of the carriage helped, but it was a dark night with heavy cloud cover and no moon to speak of.

  It was quiet out here, the clomping of the horses’ hooves over the packed dirt of the road making the only sound. The cold night air felt heavy and thick around him, as if it were going to snow.

  He thought about Laurent, about how he’d often wondered if the boy was cut from the cloth that would make him successful in this line of work. He’d handled himself well this afternoon, performing his duty without hesitation. He hadn’t even told Sam about the possible fatality until now, when they were out of London and safe.

  The fact was, though, Laurent was softhearted in a way, given to powerful ideals about the distinction between right and wrong. He was a believer in the work they did, in the rightness of it.

  But sometimes, Sam knew well, the lines between “right” and “wrong” grew hazy. What would happen the first time Laurent was ordered to do something he didn’t believe was entirely right?

  No telling what would happen. And that was Sam’s worry.

  He focused on the dimly lit road, brooding, hoping the boy had fallen into a peaceful sleep in the carriage.

  Eventually, his thoughts drifted back to Lady Dunthorpe. Élise. How he’d been inexorably drawn to her sweet, trembling lips. His desire to taste her had reached a peak, and he hadn’t been able to deny the impulse to bring his mouth to hers. He’d wanted to be close to her. He’d wanted to drive away her fear, make her forget. He’d wanted to taste her.

  In retrospect, his thoughts at that moment had not been at all rational. He supposed he was still worked up from the events of the mad dash from the town house.

  Her thoughts hadn’t been rational, either.

  Or … had they?

  Carter had said she’d be in Sam’s bed already if not for that fact that he’d killed her husband. In truth, she should never want to go near his bed. That one act he’d committed—that she’d seen him commit—should have put her off him forever.

  Had she hated Dunthorpe to such an extent that she could forgive his killer so easily? That she could kiss her husband’s murderer?

  Something about her weakened him, made him want to open up to her, to trust that she’d never been involved in Dunthorpe’s treachery and had been only a victim of his villainy. He had no proof of her guilt.

  No proof of her innocence, either.

  Sam had dropped his guard. He’d told her too much. For God’s sake, he’d even told her his name.

  A part of him had decided she was innocent, but that didn’t mean she was. It could be his heart doing the thinking—his cock doing the thinking. A very real possibility remained that she’d been working with Dunthorpe and was still in league with Dunthorpe’s men.

  If that was the case, what would her plan be? Certainly to discover as much about Dunthorpe’s killers as possible—including who had employed them to do the job. She’d come uncomfortably close in her guess, too, when she’d told them she’d thought they were British spies.

  How would she insinuate herself into their good graces? By playing the innocent, the woman who was terrified of gunfire and who thought her husband a traitorous beast.

  She’d rouse their protective instincts. Next, she’d seduce them, starting with Sam. He was the leader; he’d killed Dunthorpe; he knew the most. If she got to him, she’d get to Carter and Laurent by extension.

  God. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want her to be that woman—that cold, calculating creature. He wanted her to be the intelligent, feisty, deeply vulnerable woman who so intrigued him. But how could it be real? How could she kiss him—kiss him!—four days after witnessing him shoot her husband in the heart? Whether or not she’d loved that husband …

  He pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to hold back
the headache forming there.

  He remembered his promise to allow her some privacy to relieve herself. With a sigh, he drew the horses to a halt.

  He needed to proceed with the utmost caution.

  * * *

  They drove for three days and three nights, not rushing per se but not stopping for anything except to change horses and buy food, which they ate in the carriage. The weather was dreary and overcast, promising but delivering neither snow nor rain.

  Sam and Laurent wouldn’t allow her to join them on the perch—they said it was too cold, that she didn’t have the proper clothing, that passersby would make note of her appearance.

  So, except for those brief times when she took care of the necessities of her toilette, she was trapped in a tiny space. She tried not to resent this, but if Laurent or Sam had been imprisoned in here for as long as she had, they’d certainly feel resentful, not to mention angry.

  When Laurent shared the carriage with her, he was as charming as ever but less talkative than usual. Most of the time, he simply sprawled on the cushion and slept while Élise jammed her body into a corner and tried not to disturb him. The boy could sleep in any uncomfortable position, it seemed, and he always fell asleep in a matter of seconds.

  She often watched his innocent-looking face as he slept, reflecting that for such a young boy, he was involved in quite a dangerous profession. And he was French, too. How had he started in this? In more ways than one, this occupation seemed contrary to Laurent’s sweet nature.

  That innocent look his face took on in repose was an illusion, though, she knew. Laurent was old beyond his years. As cheerful and harmless as he appeared, he was a competent young man, and Sam trusted him implicitly.

  Sam.

  In contrast to the boy, the man never seemed to sleep. She’d woken this morning with her head on his lap as he stroked her hair. More than once, she’d opened her eyes to see his dark gaze on her face, tenderness in his expression that melted away as he realized she’d awakened, turning into his usual emotionless flatness.

  It was early afternoon, and Sam had promised they’d arrive at their secret destination by dusk.

  Laurent was driving, so Sam sat beside her in the carriage now. His wound had healed rapidly. It had scabbed over, and Sam said it itched like the devil, but she was happy with her handiwork. It would leave a small scar, but otherwise, he would soon be good as new.

  “You are silly to keep our destination from me,” she announced, breaking an extended silence.

  “I am, am I?” She heard a smile in his voice.

  “You are,” she confirmed. “For I will know it once we arrive, will I not?”

  He sighed. “Knowing you, yes, you probably will.”

  “And I know quite a lot already.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course. I know we have gone very far north, but not so far as Scotland. We passed through Birmingham day before yesterday and Preston this morning.”

  “You are correct.”

  “Well, then. You might as well tell me what our final destination will be.”

  “How extensive have your travels been in England?” he asked her.

  “I have been here many years, monsieur,” she said dryly. “This is my home.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I have traveled extensively, of course. To my husband’s country estate and house parties all across the country.”

  “Tell me some of the places you’ve been,” he said. “I know you spend most of your time in London. But you have also spent time in Brighton.”

  “Yes,” she said. “My uncle, the Compte D’Ambert, owned a house in Brighton. He had no children of his own, so he left it to me, you know, and it is my house now. It is a large house—very large for one small woman—but it is mine, and I like it there.”

  Another benefit, of course, had been that Dunthorpe didn’t like it there.

  “Mmm,” Sam said.

  “And Dunthorpe’s country house is in Yorkshire. I have spent much time there over the years, though it is not my house of preference.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” she said simply, “it is Dunthorpe’s.”

  “So you don’t like it just to be disagreeable?”

  Dropping her elbow from the window ledge, she turned to him. “It is not that simple, as I believe you are aware.”

  He shook his head, and there was an odd, determined gleam in his eyes. “I know very little about you and Dunthorpe, my lady.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “That is for the best. There is not much worth knowing, especially …” She hesitated.

  He bent close, which in this small space, was very close indeed. She could feel the warm wash of his breath over her cheek. “Especially?”

  She clenched her hands into fists in her skirt and straightened her spine. “Especially for you, Monsieur Spy. Not because you are a spy, or because he was your enemy. But because there are private things between a husband and a wife that no one outside of a marriage has a right to know.”

  He raised his hand and brushed a finger down her cheek. His finger was rough. Callused. It left a tingling trail in its wake. Her heartbeat surged, heat flushed through her, and she looked down at her lap.

  She’d avoided touching him as much as possible the last few days. She wanted to touch him, but the wrongness of it kept replaying in her mind. He’d avoided her, too, and that gave her the strength to keep her distance. Perhaps he’d never wanted her.

  But those insecurities faded when she woke to him cradling her head in his lap and stroking her hair …

  “What sorts of private things?” he asked.

  She blew out a frustrated breath, thrusting away that annoying, persistent excitement she felt whenever he came near. “You have never been married, monsieur. If you did, you would know.”

  “I have been married,” he said.

  She drew back, eyes wide with shock. “You have?”

  “I have.”

  “Where is your wife?” she asked suspiciously. Coldness washed over her, dousing that warm flush of arousal. Images of a woman waiting for him somewhere assailed her. Dieu. He hadn’t behaved like a married man, but—

  “Dead,” he said. “They both are.”

  “Both?”

  “Yes. I was married twice.”

  “And they both died?” She couldn’t quite comprehend that. Certainly he was too young to be a widower twice over.

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him in stunned silence for a moment. Then, “Did you love them?”

  He seemed taken aback by her bluntness. He blinked at her; then his lips tightened. “I cared for both of them. They were mine.”

  The way he said mine. Such a possessive tone. And despite the topic of their conversation, heat flushed through her yet again. Dieu, but a part of her so wanted him to say “mine” just like that … in reference to her.

  She pushed her focus back to the conversation at hand. “What were their names?”

  “Marianne. And Charlotte.”

  “How did they die?”

  “Marianne died at war.” He closed his eyes in a too-long blink. “She inadvertently walked into an army training area. She was killed. It happened in Malta, where I was stationed at the time.”

  “And the other?” she asked quietly. “Charlotte?”

  “Charlotte … she died in childbirth in Portugal, both she and our son. It happened a few days before the Battle of Vimeiro … which marked the end of my military career.”

  “Bon Dieu,” she murmured, reeling with all this. She gazed at him, thinking about the flat expression on his face, about the monotone of his voice.

  Two wives, both dead. A dead infant son. He had been at war. She swallowed hard. “Why was it the end of your military career?”

  “I was shot and stabbed by a bayonet. I returned to England to recover.”

  The mangled scar on his chest. The slashes … they had been from a bayonet.
In battle. Her breaths grew short as her mind circled from his scars back to his losses, how they must have affected him. It explained so much about him, about his seriousness, his lack of emotion. Even now, his face was schooled to blankness … and suddenly that blankness held so much more poignancy. Suddenly, those moments in which she’d seen him smiling or laughing seemed much more special.

  “That—all of it—must have been very terrible,” she murmured. Her heart ached for him. “I am sorry.”

  He acknowledged her condolences with a tilt of his head, but his expression remained stoic.

  She reached up to cup his cheek, wanting to provide comfort by touch. “You were a good husband.”

  He gave a snort. “What makes you say that?”

  “I just know it. But me …” She drew in a deep breath. “I was not a good wife.”

  “Why not?”

  “I did not love my husband, and I did not like him, either. I married him when I was seventeen years old, which is young—too young. At seventeen, I did not understand that some level of mutual respect is required in a successful marriage.”

  He leaned in to the hand cupping his cheek and closed his eyes. “I always wonder if you’re lying to me when you talk like that about Dunthorpe.”

  She dropped her hand. “Non. I do not lie.” Not about that.

  His eyes opened, and they gleamed at her, dark as obsidian in the dim carriage. “Did you manipulate Dunthorpe, too, then? As you manipulate me?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You tell me,” he murmured. There was a silkiness in his voice that rubbed at her nerves and sent her senses into high alert. “In every way, perhaps?”

  “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “Don’t you?” He leaned closer, so close his lips brushed her cheekbone when he next spoke. “You beguile, Élise. You seduce. Is that how you manipulate men? Is that how you manipulated Dunthorpe?” She stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice. “You seduced him with your wiles, turned him traitor? People will do that for the love of a beautiful woman, you know. Ever so easily, they will turn on everything they once held dear. Recall Helen of Troy?”

  “Move away from me, monsieur,” she said tightly, even though her heart pounded and the heat from his proximity grew almost unbearable as her body cried out for her to touch him. But she didn’t like what he was saying. It was offensive. Cruel.