England's Assassin (14 page)

“The gentleman kissed Mademoiselle Beauvoire intimately, calling her ‘darling’ and speaking to her as though they were long time acquaintances.”

Joseph bristled, his spine stretched by masculine competition. “And how did the lady respond?”

Captain Turgeon smirked, saying, “Mademoiselle Beauvoire slapped the gentleman, asking ‘Why he was in Paris?’ Joseph smiled to himself but his satisfaction faded when the captain added, “The leasing agent was then asked to leave but said it was quite apparent that the two had been lovers.”

“Merci,” the minister nodded. “Now go round to this leasing agent’s home and dissuade the man from speculating on Mademoiselle Beauvoire’s personal affair.”

“Right or left hand?”

“Left,” Joseph said, feeling magnanimous.

Captain Turgeon bowed, but before he had turned away the minister had a second thought. “And investigate Monsieur Damont. I want to know what brings this man to Paris.”

But he had an idea.

Daniel Damont had traveled from northern France to find his lover. A woman, Joseph thought hungrily, that must be well worth the trip.

It was now midnight and Daniel sat, cornered in his carriage by the beautiful Countess Constantine. Her hands roamed over his waistcoat as she looked longingly into his eyes.

“I thought that we could go to your apartment, Monsieur Damont. You can don that Marc Antony costume and I can become your Cleopatra.” Her hand descended, skimming his shaft as she continued down his thigh. “You can conquer me all night,” the countess whispered, kissing him.

Daniel lifted his head to dislodge himself from her mouth. “Well, Countess Constantine, have we really known one another long enough to be… ‘conquering’ each oth--”

The sophisticated woman laughed, removing his cravat. “I do not believe Marc Antony asked Cleopatra if she desired to be ‘conquered’.”

“Now, that is where you’re mistaken, Countess Constantine. Cleopatra--” Daniel groaned as the woman expertly caressed his length. He pulled her hand away and concentrated on their inane conversation.

“It is believed that Cleopatra seduced Antony to force… Oh, bloody hell!” The countess was unbuttoning his pantaloons, ready to service him then and there, when the carriage stopped in front of her home as per his instructions. “Here we are,” Daniel announced, hastily retying his cravat.

“Surely, you jest?” the woman asked on an incredulous huff.

“I very much enjoyed our evening, Countess Constantine.” Daniel smiled politely and opened the carriage door, holding his hand out to her. The countess stared at his hand as if she’d no idea what it was and then slowly, reluctantly accepted his assistance.

“You arrive at my home less than an hour before opening curtain and abandon me at my door less than an hour afterward. I’ve no idea what you are about Monsieur Damont,” her dark eyes met his. “But I do know that I detest being used.”

“As do I, Countess Constantine.”

They stared at one another until the countess conceded his point. “Most men dream of being my bed fodder.”

“Feed on someone else, countess, as I prefer to entertain women for whom I am fond. Good Evening.”

Daniel bowed, pausing at the truth of his statement.

He had always enjoyed women more in bed if he first enjoyed them outside of it, if he had experienced an affable affiliation prior to carnal knowledge.

In short, if he gave a damn about them.

“Sod me,” he said, climbing into his darkened carriage a bit shaken.

Daniel closed his eyes and leaned his head against the squabs, trying to comprehend his epicurean epiphany. It would seem that he cared more for a woman’s mind than her body.

The idea was indeed disturbing for if one were to chase such circular logic it would then follow that his happiness was dependant upon the incomprehensible mind of a woman.

He was surely doomed to a life of miserable solitude.

Yet, Daniel understood now why he had developed such an affinity for Sarah Duhearst. He had known the lass since he was ten years of age, had danced with her, gone to birthday celebrations, ridden with her and her brother more times than he could remember. He cared for Sarah and knew that she would have made an excellent wife and companion, an excellent mother to their children.

And she was. Sarah was an excellent wife and mother to the Duke of Glenbroke’s children.

Daniel felt the ache of loss in his chest, but was beginning to wonder if it were the loss of the friendship, the loss of the caring he wanted so desperately to give her.

No, he would have to be more guarded with his affections. More careful to shield himself from women he could not and never would have.

Unattainable, women like Nicole Beauvoire.

But why these women? His father had instilled a deep protectiveness of the fairer sex in all seven of the McCurren men. This tendency would undoubtedly need to be overcome, but Mademoiselle Beauvoire was more than capable of taking care of herself.

She had killed nine men, perhaps even more, and had no need of a bodyguard. The woman had endured the loss of her beloved husband and had volunteered to travel to France in service to the crown. No, if any woman did not need his caring, his affection it was Nicole Beauvoire.

All Daniel need do is harden himself against the lass. Aid her in the assassination and then be on his way home to London where, with his new self-insight, Daniel could find a woman with whom he could share his life.

He would take his time in selecting a woman capable of returning his affection, a simple woman who wanted nothing more than to bare his many children and build their happy home.

Daniel took the stairs to the apartment two at a time, invigorated by the idyllic imagine of his home in the highlands overrun by his bairns. Contentment washed over him and Daniel wanted nothing more than to soak in the soothing waters of a steaming hot bath.

He opened the door and kicked off his impractical shoes before peeled off his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them on his bed. He wrestled with his cravat and his mind drifted down from the highlands of Scotland to the darkened homes on the Place Vendome.

Nicole Beauvoire would be across the street by now and when Daniel had finished with his bath he planned to resume his impartial observations. He would note the activities taking place at Minister LeCoeur’s home with detachment, hoping only to aid the lady in her commission.

After all, the lass was a widow and well acquainted with the ways of the world. If Nicole Beauvoire chose to compromise herself in order to gain the minister’s trust then that was her decision. She had probable done it before and would again, once he had left her, alone in Paris.

Daniel hardened himself against his chivalrous tendencies and yanked his shirt over his head, mussing further his unruly hair. He combed it back with his fingers as he made his way to the washroom off the master suite, trying not to think about the assassination.

The entire manner of this killing went against everything that he believed if not human nature. The woman should be protected, not need protecting from. Nicole Beauvoire needed a guardian, not a man who sat by while she willingly compromised herself to achieve her goal and the crown’s.

There was an answer, of course, but he did not know—

Daniel stilled the moment he heard a splash of water coming from the washroom. He crept forward, his bare feet stepping lightly on the cold wood of the threshold floor. He turned the brass knob and slowly opened the tall door then stopped, stunned by the sight of Nicole Beauvoire sitting in the decorative copper tub.

Her hair hung free in chaotic black ropes, cascading down her nude body like twists of licorice. Her pink nipples were peaking above the water as she held out her left arm to scrub it with her right. Daniel stared, frozen by the sight of her milky skin until he heard a feminine gasp.

He lifted his gaze to meet those violet eyes and for the first time in his life, Daniel was rendered speechless. His words were taken by neither embarrassment nor remorse, but by the power of a beautiful woman to pull the air from a man’s lungs. He knew then why men painted and wrote maudlin poetry in the vain hope of capturing this allusive allure that women wielded over men.

“What are you doing?” She sat back with a splash and covered herself with her arms, but her delicate forearms scarcely covered the rosebuds of her nipples. The feminine curve of her waist, the outline of her hips was clearly visible from his elevated height.

“I…” Daniel lowered his eyes, speaking to the talon feet of the tub as he said, “My apologies, I thought to have a bath as I believed you to be…” His eyes darted back and forth as his sought for the appropriate word on the oak floor. “Out.”

“Well, I am not… ‘out’.” Irritation was infused by his carnal accusation. “As you can clearly see.”

“Yes,” he had seen quite clearly. “Right, I’ll just go then.” Daniel spun on his bare heels and reached for the door but his hand stilled, warming the cold brass knob.

Why he had paused Daniel could not say, but something in their exchange was not right. Had not been right since the moment he entered the washroom. He turned round and the lady gasped, covering herself as his eyes scanned the small room.

Candles blazed in the far corner and thick velvet drapes were drawn across the window to keep out the cold or, Daniel glanced at the woman in the tub, to keep in the heat.

He walked across the lush green carpet and lifted the white towel and neatly folded garments.

Nothing.

He tilted his head and peered at the base of the metal tub, nothing seemed amiss so his eyes traveled once again to the lady in it. Daniel stared at Nicole Beauvoire, at her hair. Something was not right about the woman herself.

“What are you doing?” She asked as he continued to stare and ponder. “Leave this instant!”

His eyes squinted as his concentration sharpened.

“What do have behind your back?”

Nicole froze in the hot waters of her bath.

“Nothing,” she laughed forcefully.

“Aye, you’ve something behind ya.” Daniel Damont nodded convinced. “A woman would lean forward to cover herself. Unless,” his turquoise eyes met hers. “She was hiding something behind her. Then… Then a woman would lean back and cover herself as best she could. As you’ve just done. Twice.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Monsieur Damont. Remove yourself!” Nicole felt fear twisting her muscles but as the man planted his feet, she realized that she had no place to run.

“I will,” he crossed his arms over his naked chest to punctuate his resolve. “As soon as you show me what you’re hindin’.”

“I’ve nothing behind my back.”

She held his eyes as he stood at the foot of the tub then, slowly, reluctantly she leaned forward. Her breasts brushed the top of her thighs and she wrapped her arms behind them, forming a sphere of protection.

A smirk lifted the right side of Daniel Damont mouth and then he made his way behind her. Nicole rested her forehead on her knees and closed her eyes, shivering in the warm water as she waited an eternity for him to view her imperfection.

Water dripped from the dangling strings of hair and she could feel herself holding her breath, ready to take the impact of his revulsion. Daniel Damont had wanted her last night, but after he saw her back no amount of washing would make her appealing.

“Oh, lass.” Nicole heard above her. “What have they done to you?” A tear escaped her and she hugged herself tighter, her scars answering for her.

And then she felt the feather light caress of his fingertips as they sought their way around her waist, his other hand darting beneath her knees. He lifted her from the safety of the tub gently, softly as if her wounds had never healed.

Nicole leaned against the taut muscle of his bare chest soaking him. Monsieur Damont didn’t seem to notice as he walked toward her bedchamber door. She reached up with her left hand and covered herself with the towel he had so thoughtfully placed across his shoulder. She covered her face, not wanting to be seen, and not wanting to see the pity in his beautiful eyes.

Unobserved, her tears came steadily and Nicole nuzzled deeper into the crook of his neck. She hated that the raised flesh of her scars rested against his forearm as he carried her. She thought to lift herself, but then he was setting her on the duvet of the master suite bed.

Daniel Damont said nothing as he worked the velvet duvet beneath her as if she weighed nothing more than a sick child. He bent over, his right hand grasping the heavy fabric as he pulled it toward her head. But rather than release the duvet Daniel lifted his left leg and crawled in next to her, tucking the layers of blankets behind him to keep them both warm.

He pulled her back against his chest as if to absorb the wounds, her wet head resting on his bulky arm. Nicole felt his muscle flex, and his left elbow bent and his hand came across to rest on her right shoulder. His right hand smoothed the hair from her face before circling her waist, the towel still bunched between them.

She lay surrounded, shielded by his strength before his baritone voice rumbled in her ear. “How long did they hold you captive?”

They?

“Over a year,” Nicole said to her pillow.

The arm around her waist tightened, almost painfully so. “And this is why you became an assassin?”

“Yes,” that was why she murdered Frenchmen, because she had murdered, because she had finally defended herself and killed her capture.

“To kill the French who did this to you.” Daniel Damont said it to himself. Her brows furrowed as she sought the words to tell him the truth. “I’m so sorry lass,” he whispered, and all wretched thoughts were overcome with kindness, kindness and her own tears.

He eased his hold on her waist and she felt his right hand spay across her back.

“How could any man harm… I’m so sorry.” He rubbed the pain of the scars away in small soothing circles. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered again then kissed her where her shoulder and neck came together so that they might be completed by his lips.

His hand dipped down to her waist and slowly traveled up her bare hip. Nicole could feel his callous fingertips curling as he gently cupped her backside, more insistent in their explorations as his hand lingered then reluctantly dragged his fingers up the softness of her skin.