Adele Ashworth (24 page)

She stood rapidly, clasping the empty pouch with her hand, and raced to the other side of the room, sitting in one of the wicker chairs just as he opened the door.

He stopped to stare at her, his mouth twisted in a half smile, head tilted a fraction, and intuitively—either from her nervous breathing or perhaps just the charge in the air—he sensed that something was different, something had changed. Then the look vanished as he stepped inside the room, basket of food in hand, and closed the door behind him.

“I found a good price on roasted hens,” he said pleasantly, walking to the table next to her and setting the basket on top. He glanced at her face, his eyes narrowing with just the slightest trace of suspicion. “Anything happen while I was gone?”

Her heart began to race. As always, he overwhelmed her with his presence, standing before her, informally dressed once more in a cream linen shirt and dark-brown trousers, hair tousled from his walk in the breeze, his skin bronzed from just their short time on the Mediterranean coast. But the moment for confrontation had arrived, and she refused to allow him to think he had the advantage simply because of her obvious discomfiture, of which he was usually clearly aware.

So with fortitude, and timing the exposure expertly in her opinion, she reached for his hand, turned it flat, and placed the empty velvet pouch in his palm.

“I found your necklace, Jonathan,” she confessed in a sultry whisper.

She heard him suck in a small, sharp breath, but his eyes stayed transfixed on hers, and he didn’t move his hand. The unsureness she felt from him at that moment filled her with confidence and extreme gratification.

In one fluid motion, she reached around and pulled the ribbon from her hair, letting her thick curls fall free, then gently kicked her shoes from her feet. Rather unbecoming for a lady in the middle of the day, but she wanted to appear comfortable and self-assured for the discussion ahead. She shifted her body in the chair, pulling her legs and feet up under her gown to rest them on the seat, grinning triumphantly, waiting.

Finally he glanced to the pouch, running his fingers over the velvet. “What do you think you know, Natalie?” he asked quietly.

She folded her arms casually across her belly. “I know I have the emeralds.”

For moments of unbearable silence he did nothing. Then he raised his gaze to hers once more, but instead of the anxiety or anger she expected to see in his expression, he instead smiled, eyes flashing in a sort of prideful amusement. That unnerved her so suddenly, she faltered, which she was sure he noticed.

“You looked through my trunk?”

Now she squirmed in her chair, sitting up a little as warmth flooded her. “How else was I to confiscate them?”

His brows rose. “How else, indeed.”

He tossed the pouch on the table, then sat heavily in the chair next to hers, folding his hands politely in his lap, eyeing her with what she could only describe as pleasured calculation. “I trust you didn’t steal my razor.”

She almost laughed, restraining herself with difficulty. “For a moment I considered it, Jonathan, but then I recalled the thickness of your skin.”

He did laugh at that. Very softly. Watching her. “And did you replace all of my personal . . . apparel?”

Her cheeks burned, and from nervousness she reached up and ran her fingers through her hair. That was a mistake, as his eyes traced the movement with gross familiarity.

“I believe we’re straying from the point, Jonathan,” she maintained sternly.

“Mmm. The point.” He relaxed a little against the wicker back, tapping his thumbs together. “What do you want to know?”

“Is Madeleine a spy?” she asked pointedly, her voice flat.

“Yes,” he replied without evasion. “She’s employed by the British government for that purpose and was deliberately set up for this job as my contact in Marseilles. She’s very good at what she does and is exceptionally loyal to the British cause.”

Natalie blinked, surprised by his quick, candid answer. “You work for the government?”

He pursed his lips, brows furrowed in concentration. “Not precisely. I work for three individuals: Sir Guy Phillips, Lord Nigel Hughes of Cranbrook, and most directly for Christian St. James, earl of Eastleigh. They are all my friends, although Sir Guy is my official contact, and I go through him as the Black Knight. We—the four of us—are the only ones who know of their involvement in my work. Should I ever be caught or arrested, they can never be implicated except by me, and that won’t happen. I am not involved with political issues exactly; I work independently of them, although there are several men in high government circles who know who I am. Sir Guy is one of them, and he arranges my contacts throughout Europe—for any help, should I need it.”

Natalie stared at him, stunned. “I can’t believe you’re telling all of this to me so readily.”

He breathed deeply, scrutinizing her with intensity. “I trust you, Natalie.”

Never had four simple words melted her so completely. But it wasn’t just what he’d said, it was the meaning behind it, the gentleness in his deep voice, in his eyes.

“So why do you do it?” she continued softly.

He thought about that for a moment. “I strive to right wrongs, but there’s more to it than that. In many jobs I do, I think of my work as rather a way to . . . fix things. Things that can’t be fixed in any other manner. I expose illegal trade or people who are so clever they cannot otherwise get caught doing illegal or unscrupulous acts—both personal and political. Sometimes I work for government issues, although those in government, aside from a select few, don’t know at all I’m involved in . . . oh . . . setting up political criminals to be discovered and arrested, or locating the whereabouts of extorted money or stolen weapons. I’m not technically a spy; I’ve had no formal training for anything. I work instead for myself, by doing. I’m given detailed information about a specific situation, and it’s up to me to do the rest, at my discretion. Once in a while I need help and I get it unconditionally, as is the case with Madeleine. Most of the time I work alone, and most of what I do is simple thievery designed to affect the outcome of a broader situation. When the job is completed, I’m paid, and paid very well.”

“By Sir Guy.”

“Yes, and my other two benefactors. I’m paid with private funds, not money from the public treasury.” He paused, his eyes growing dark as they pierced hers. Then leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together in front of him, he lowered his voice to a deep whisper. “I invented the Black Knight six years ago, Natalie, and although my work has made me wealthy, what I do as the thief is for the betterment of society and my own personal satisfaction. Not for money. It’s each of these accomplishments that makes me who I am as a man, and even if I were never paid again, I don’t know that I could give it up completely. I enjoy what I do and I hope to continue working in this capacity, to some degree, for the rest of my life.” Very cautiously, he added, “Do you think you can accept this?”

She had no idea what to say, or what specifically he wanted from her with such a direct question. He was profoundly serious in manner and tone, his eyes locked with hers, waiting for a response. And then she understood.

A strong gust of cool, ocean wind swept through the open window behind him, making the curtains billow around him in a dazzle of sea green against the blackness of his hair. But he didn’t appear to notice the intrusion, concentrating as he was on only her and the importance of her reply.

With total depth of her own honesty, knowing just how much this mattered to him, she murmured, “If you’re asking me to remain silent about this and your identity, Jonathan, of course I will. I swear to you I will never tell a soul.” Then she purposely twisted her mouth into a knowing grin in an attempt to brighten the mood and return to the most immediate issue. “Besides, I couldn’t expose you now even if I wanted to. I have my own agenda.”

He stared hard at her, calculating her motives, searching her face for answers he couldn’t yet perceive, or perhaps just weighing the challenge to come. Then slowly he sat back again, placing his elbows on the arm of the chair, chin resting on the tops of his fingers, studying her.

“It appears you also have my emeralds.”

Eyes sparkling, she swallowed a giggle of triumph. “Yes, I do. And before you get any ideas about stealing them from me, let me assure you now that you will never find them.”

He lowered his eyes blatantly, first to her breasts, then to her hips and legs, outlined for his view by a modest white blouse and a skirt without stays. “I don’t suppose you’ll allow me the pleasure of a search through
your
personal items.”

Never had a man made her so thoroughly uncomfortable from a look, a simple phrase, as Jonathan did, and did continuously. Embarrassment returned, but she ignored the feeling as she ignored his brazen comment, pulling her knees up, bare feet flat on the cushion, wrapping her arms around her legs to hug them against her protectively.

“When did you steal them?” she asked a little too harshly.

He looked back into her eyes. “Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?”

“Actually it was probably Thursday morning,” he amended with a shrug. “While you slept, anyway.”

She shook her head in amazement. “You left me here alone in the middle of the night, walked into the count of Arles’s home, then his private study, broke into his safe, stole priceless emeralds, then returned here and climbed back into bed?”

“That’s . . . a fairly accurate description of events.”

She didn’t know whether to be shocked at his daring or proud of his accomplishment, but the intrigue was certainly building. “How did you do that?”

“Quietly.”

She grinned in spite of herself, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing one ankle over the other. “I didn’t break into his safe, though, I unlocked it. And I didn’t steal the emeralds, I exchanged them.”

“For forgeries.”

“Yes.”

“How on earth did you learn to unlock a safe you’d never seen before?”

“With practice.”

“You’re being evasive.”

His brows rose in innocence. “I’m being truthful.”

She rested her chin on her knees. “What if I woke up and found you gone?”

That made him laugh. “You’d sleep through a chariot race, Natalie.”

The statement shook her a little, making her feel both offended by his vigorous rebuttal and oddly warmed by the fact that he’d actually paid attention to how she slept.

She moved on without response. “Why did you bother going to the ball if you already had them in your possession?”

Mischievously he challenged, “Why do you think?”

She shouldn’t have asked that. He knew she would know. He understood how well she’d studied the thief, admired him, wanted to be a part of his life. It was unnerving, mortifying when she thought about all the things she’d said to him, disclosed in confidence. But what kept her from cowering in that mortification, or running from it, was her determination to even the score.

“It’s his style,” she said levelly, though dropping her gaze to study the fine, silk weave of his shirt. “The Black Knight is not a conventional thief. He does things to make a point, wanting to be a part of the action, to be acknowledged in a different way from all the others.” She looked back to his charming, beautiful, arrogant face. “Quite frankly, Jonathan, I’m surprised he didn’t leave a calling card.”

“
I
didn’t need to. The rumors will spread on their own.”

Her comment was meant to be a subtle insult, but he didn’t seem to take it that way. “You’re rather pompous about the whole thing,” she said brusquely.

He shook his head very slowly. “It’s neither pompous nor foolish for one to work the way he works best. That is, instead, the smart and very cautious thing to do.”

She smirked disgustedly. “Waiting around to be suspected hardly seems the best way to work, or the cautious thing to do.”

He pulled a face of genuine surprise. “Why would they suspect me?”

“You’re English,” she said, exasperated.

“With an impenetrable false identity.”

She straightened. “Arranged by Madeleine—”

“Who has never been, is not now, nor will ever be my mistress.”

That bold statement absolutely startled her. It had come from nowhere; an explanation certainly wasn’t required at her request this time. He had thought of it, and for reasons of his own, had stressed it of his own accord with the firm intention of making this perfectly clear to her. What she wasn’t sure of exactly was why he bothered to do this.

Irritated, she ran the fingers of both hands through her hair. “I don’t care.”

“I think you care a great deal,” he replied softly.

It was a lightness of the assertion coupled with the huskiness of his tone that flustered her. But he wasn’t being at all careless with his choice of words. They were evaluated; she could see the determination in his features, in his eyes as they once again bore into hers.

Voice quavering with sharp anger, she whispered, “I hate you, Jonathan. I despise you to the center of your soul.”

He grinned wryly. “I don’t think so. If you hated me that much you would have murdered me. Or left.”

“You’re so arrogant.”

“No, I’m positive,” he countered.

“You made me a fool.”

“You are no fool, Natalie. You’re one of the smartest women I’ve ever known.”

That hardly registered as she pounded her fists once on the armrests, refusing to give in. “You lied to me, humiliated me—”

“I had a job to do.”

“You could have told me,” she said fiercely.

He sighed, rubbing his jaw with his fingers. “If I had, you either wouldn’t have believed me or you wouldn’t be here with me now. I didn’t like the thought of either scenario.” He dropped his arm and lowered his voice. “I like to look at you, Natalie, to talk to you every day, to feel you in my arms.” He hesitated for seconds, then whispered huskily, “I like the thought of you beside me.”

Natalie actually had to sort through and purposely contain her emotions, careful not to expose her confusion to his watchful eyes. She wanted to hate him passionately; she wanted to lean over and kiss his lips with all the softness and desire she possessed. She wanted a magnificent revenge; but with a melting of her soul, she also realized she wanted him more. To look at, talk to, feel. Beside her.