His Silken Seduction (3 page)

She raised her head, slowly, to look at him. Ben saw that her eyes were huge and sheened with tears. That hurt. He felt as if he had been struck a blow. This remarkable girl was bearing the burdens of her whole family. No wonder she could not respond to his silly teasing. He should be taking her in his arms, stroking her hair and soothing her with sympathetic words. She needed comfort and gentle caresses. But he did not even have two good arms to offer her. He…

Without conscious thought, Ben did something totally foreign to him. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Her eyes widened even more. He heard her sharp intake of breath, impossibly loud in the stunned silence. She sat motionless, like a radiant statue wrought from glowing, pink-tinged marble. She was so beautiful that it almost pained him to look on her, knowing that they had only a few more days together and that he would never set eyes on her again once he left this place.

Slowly and very deliberately, Ben turned her hand in his and put his lips to her tender palm.

It was as if the marble had been touched by the finger of some ancient god and brought instantly to life. Her whole body shuddered. She moaned deep in her throat. And her glorious eyes, darkening to almost black, closed against his gaze.

What was he doing to this poor girl? Ben knew he should have been feeling compassion, and remorse for treating Suzanne in such a cavalier fashion. He felt neither. His whole body was exultant that she should respond to him so. Hard, masculine pride surged through him. What he was feeling for Suzanne Grolier was pure, unquenchable desire. And he was beginning to suspect that she might be feeling it, too.

For long minutes, neither of them moved. Ben feasted his gaze on her, seeing for the first time how the tiny tendrils of fine fair hair escaped to curl at her temples and caress her porcelain skin. Her eyelashes were thick and surprisingly dark. They rested on her blushing cheeks like downy feathers, waiting to be blown away by the whim of the breeze…or by the breath of a lover’s kiss. Ben raised his lips from her palm and strained forward, as if drawn by an invisible thread. He was going to kiss…

Her eyes flew open. She was shocked. Her lips worked as if she were saying his name, but there was no sound. And then she turned her head away.

The moment was over. The thread was broken. Ben gently returned her hand to her lap, resisting the temptation to allow himself a last caress. His body was now raging with desire. If Suzanne were aware of even half of what he was feeling, she would flee from him in horror. She was an innocent girl, after all, untutored in the base lusts of men.

“Tell me what happened today, Suzanne. Why are you upset?” When she said nothing, Ben knew it was time to insist. “What has happened to your sister?”

Suzanne remained tense and still for several seconds. Then she crumpled. Her shoulders slumped, her hands went to cover her face, and soon her whole body was shaking with convulsive sobs.

Ben reached out his hand, but let it drop again before it could touch her shoulder. She needed his advice and counsel. Feeding his rampaging lust even further would be of no help at all.

Her weeping stopped almost at once. She was fumbling in her pocket. Ben reached under his pillow for his own clean handkerchief and pushed it into her fingers.

She raised her head, surprised. “Thank you.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She wiped her reddened eyes and then blew her nose hard. She had begun to shake her head, in disbelief at her own weakness, Ben decided. Or was it in rejection of him?

She straightened her shoulders and looked at Ben. The handkerchief was a screwed-up ball in her clenched fingers. “There is nothing that you, or any of us, can do,” she began in a lifeless voice. “Marguerite sent back the trunk of silks from Paris since she could not sell any there. The trunk was broken open on the way.”

“The silks have been stolen?” Ben knew the damage such a loss would do. The family needed every sou that the sale of their wares could bring. Marguerite had been foolhardy to entrust her silks to a carrier in such dangerous times.

“No. Nothing is missing.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He frowned a little and would have touched her if he dared, to show her the depth of his concern. But that was out of the question, for his body would go up in flames.

“No, how could you?” She sounded strange, as if she were talking to someone else, someone invisible. “The trunk has two keys. Marguerite carries one when she travels. The other is kept here. That way, if the trunk must be sent by carrier, we can be sure that its contents have not been tampered with.”

This was all extremely odd. Had she not said, just a moment ago, that none of the precious fabrics had been stolen?

Before he could say a word, Suzanne continued in that same thready voice. “They broke open the trunk, but they took nothing. What they wanted was Marguerite’s letter. They broke into that, too.”

Ben’s heart began to beat very fast. Now he did understand. What on earth had possessed Marguerite to enclose a letter? And what was Jack about, to allow her to do such a thing? One indiscreet word could be the death of them all. They would…

His logical mind reasserted itself. There was a strange mystery here. “How do you know there was a letter, Suzanne?”

Her hand went to the bosom of her plain muslin gown. “It was still in the trunk. But the seal was broken. I fear we are lost.”

Ben smiled reassuringly. “How long is it since the trunk arrived?”

“What? Oh, several hours, I suppose. It would have arrived at the coach office last night, but it was not delivered until first thing this morning. I don’t see that the timing changes anything.” She was fighting back now, and sounding much more like her normal self.

“It changes everything, my dear Suzanne,” Ben said firmly. “If Bonaparte’s agents were going to arrest us all, they would have done so by now. ‘Strike while the iron is hot’ as the proverb goes. And why would they have left you the letter, knowing that you would understand the danger as soon as you saw the broken seal? No, trust me when I tell you that they will not come.”

Her eyes widened, and she clasped her hands together. Then her mouth opened just enough to allow the tip of her tongue to moisten her lower lip. Ben recognized it for an unconscious gesture, born of anxiety, but the effect on him was electrifying. It was the most sensuous move he had ever seen. Desire flooded through him, all over again.

Suzanne seemed to notice nothing. “But it must have been Bonaparte’s agents,” she protested. “Thieves would have stolen the silk and ignored the letter.”

Ben forced himself to respond to her words and not to her distress. ‘You are right about the thieves. And you are right to assume that Bonaparte’s men broke into your trunk and read your sister’s letter. Then they were arrogant enough to send you both trunk and letter. They want you to know what they have done.”

“So they do suspect us!”

“It is more likely that they simply want to display their power. They want you and all the people of Lyons to be afraid. They know there are royalists in this city, so they are sending a very clear message everyone is a suspect, everyone’s possessions can be searched at will, and no one is safe under Bonaparte’s law.” Suzanne’s pale skin was turning ashen at his words. “But in this case, your sister’s letter has passed their test. I am sure of that, Suzanne. Tell me, what did she say?” He had convinced himself, by his own hard logic. But could he convince poor Suzanne?

She began to speak, but she soon faltered. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and drew a folded paper out of her bodice. “I think it is best if you read it for yourself. I assumed we were all betrayed. Perhaps you can assure me that I am wrong? I hope SO.”

Ben took the letter and unfolded it carefully. The paper was still warm from its contact with Suzanne’s body. There was just the faintest scent of the lavender in which she stored her clothes. It lingered in the back of Ben’s throat like the perfume of the finest wine. And one mouthful was not nearly enough.

Ben tried to concentrate on the letter. It was short. And it was very cleverly crafted. Had Suzanne been so shocked by the broken seal that she had failed to notice that? Marguerite had given nothing away, not even her own name, but there were hidden messages here, nevertheless. She was going to visit someone she referred to as “the curé.” She mentioned the possibility of a visit to the coast. What did she mean by these tantalizing references? Was she planning to help Jack to escape to England? Ben could see no other explanation.

 
“Who is the curé your sister speaks of? Do you know where he lives? She says that is where she is going. She makes no mention at all of Jacques, but I assume that he will go with her.”

Ben’s factual questions seemed to restore Suzanne’s normal poise. “I was not sure at first. Then Guillaume reminded me. There was a curt, Father Bertrand, who, er, who knew our family well in the old days. But he had to leave Lyons during the troubles. Guillaume says he went to Normandy. A village somewhere near Rouen, he thinks.”

“Ah. I see.” The tension began to leave Ben’s shoulders. ‘Your sister is a brave and resourceful woman, Suzanne. She is telling us, through this subtly coded letter, that she and Jacques are making for the coast so that he can take ship for England.” He grinned at her, feeling more than a little smug at having deciphered Marguerite’s code where Suzanne could not.

“But why on earth should he do that? Jacques’s place is here, alongside his fellow royalists, fighting for our cause. You must return to England, Benn, but you are English. Jacques is a Frenchman.”

Ben knew, in that instant, that his face had given him away.

“Dear God!” Suzanne exclaimed. “You gulled us all. Your friend Jacques is another English spy!”

There was no point in denying it. “You are right, of course,” he conceded, trying to keep his tone light. “The only difference between us is that he can pass for a Frenchman, and I cannot. Jacques’s…Jack’s mother is French, you see,” he added, with a rueful smile.

“And ‘Jack’ is his real name.” It was not a question.

Ben did not reply, which was confirmation in itself. He had told Suzanne quite enough now. It would be dangerous for her to learn more.

Her next question surprised him. “But what about Marguerite? Her English spy…this two-faced Jack of yours…will abandon her and sail back to his own country. She will be left alone, and in danger. Oh, war is cruel to treat poor women so. And English spies are heartless.” She rose and turned her back on him, hurrying for the door.

“Don’t go. Please, Suzanne.” The words were out before he knew it. He took a deep breath, fixing his gaze on her straight, tense back. “Jack is an honourable man, Suzanne. He knows how much he owes…how much we both owe to you and your sister. I know he will ensure that Marguerite is safe before he leaves. If not with the cure, then somewhere else. He would never abandon her. As I could never abandon you.”

She spun on her heel to confront him. But it was no true confrontation. Her face was more flushed than he had ever seen it. Her eyes were sparkling with unshed tears. Ben fancied that her hands were shaking.

“Never?” Her voice was shaking, too.

For a heartbeat, their eyes locked. Then she turned and fled from the room.

There was no going back now. He must continue with his mission…he had no choice there…but he was now bound to Suzanne Grolier by ties of honour. Somehow, he would have to find a way of ensuring her future safety and her comfort. That was not what he really wanted, of course. What he really wanted was to take her in his arms, to feel her lithe, strong body under his own, to show her what passion could be between a man and a woman.

It was out of the question. He knew that. She was no loose woman, but a solid bourgeoisie, the daughter of an honest trader. She was not of Ben’s class, but she was not of a class that he could trifle with, either. It would be dishonourable for Ben to seduce any girl of the bourgeoisie. With Suzanne, it would be even more unthinkable, for he had now pledged himself to protect her.

He should think of her as a sister.

That made him laugh out loud, so much so that a shaft of pain tore through his wounded shoulder, a telling reminder of the risks he ran by acting without careful thought. Before Jack left for Paris, he had been rash enough to swear on the Grolier family bible that he would treat Marguerite as a sister. Ben wondered whether Jack would have been able to resist the temptation. Marguerite would make a luscious armful and, unlike Ben, Jack had two good arms to wrap around her.

Ben tried to push that sensuous image from his mind. Lying here, in Marguerite’s room, injured and idle, was doing him no good at all. He needed something to do…to keep his mind busy and away from lustful imaginings.

He would make a start, right now, by getting back on to his feet.

Suzanne was refusing to think about what Benn had said. She told herself she had far too much to do, finishing her accounts and sorting out the precious fabrics from Marguerite’s trunk. She was glad she had asked for Guillaume’s help with that. Although he said little, his company was comforting.

She piled the last of the parcels into his arms. “Take these upstairs, please, Guillaume, and stack them behind the door. I will lay them out properly when I have finished with the accounts.”