Lady Scandal (10 page)

But what if that was a lie too?

Skin warm, she bit her lower lip.
Could she
bear to let go of the past and embrace the stark truth that he was
no longer the man she'd once almost loved beyond anything?
Or could
she…bother, but she might as well offer to fly back to England.
She
could not let go her upbringing, her years of duty and
responsibility—something Paxten had never known.

This seemed a dangerous, one-sided game.
Paxten might know her better than she did herself, but what did she
really know of the man he had become?
Oh, yes, he could attract
with that sensual charm of his, but she had also seen the
calculation in his eyes.
A dark edge ran though him, one that had
not been there before.
And now she had stranded herself with
him.

Oh, but perhaps, just perhaps, she was just
being overly sensitive about all this.
They had been shocked to see
each other last night; and they were both fatigued yet.
Perhaps
that was what left them edgy with each other.
She could not
tell—and that alone ought to warn her to keep her distance from
him.

However, they had once meant so much to each
other.
And she found she could not let go of that.
She did not want
to.
With Bertram in his grave and Jules grown, the only thing that
stood between them was the shadow of their past.
Such an
insubstantial thing.
Such an uncertain thing.

So why did it seem so insurmountably
large?

#

Paxten's good intentions to mind his manners
lasted until the gruel arrived instead of his beef.
A thin slip of
a maid with dark hair and sallow skin brought it to him, along with
Alexandria's niece, who bustled about, opening windows, chattering
in schoolgirl French, and pausing only to arrange in a white vase
the spring wildflowers she had picked.
The girl's chatter amused
him until he glanced at the watery gruel in the bowl on the
tray.

He looked at the maid,
picked up the bowl and threw it.
He had good aim and the startled
squawk of chickens came in through the window that the bowl had
gone out.
He wished them
bon
appétite
with any remains they could find.
And he said, "I asked for beef."

Wide-eyed, the maid started to hurry out to
fetch what he wanted, but Alexandria's niece stopped her.
"Please
forgive my uncle, and bring him more gruel.
Aunt's orders, dear
Uncle," she added, showing small, white teeth in something that
might be meant as a smile.

He lifted one eyebrow.
"She told me she
would send me the beefsteak I wanted."

"Well, that is not what she—what are you
doing?
Stop that!
You are not supposed to be out of bed!"

He paused with his bare feet swung out and
onto the floor and the bedcovers the only thing between his skin
and the world.
"Am I not?
But if no one will bring me food I can
eat then I must fetch my own."

"But...but you are not decent."

He flashed a grin.
"I've not been that for
years.
But if you mean I have no clothes, either bring me breeches
and a shirt or close your eyes.
Or bring me real food."

With a good imitation of her aunt, her chin
lifted and she folded her arms.
"You are bluffing."

He winked at the maid, and said to the
niece, "Hungry men do not bluff, my little one." Pushing up off the
bed, he started to stand.
The girl's blue eyes widened.
The maid
stared, her mouth hanging open.

Before he could gain his feet, the girl gave
a squeak and hurried out, dragging the maid with her, even though
the maid stared back over her shoulder at him, admiration warming
her eyes.
As he stood, he heard their rapid footsteps hurrying
away.
Would they return with food?
Or with Alexandria?

In either case, he was bored with lying in
bed.
The landlord had come up earlier to shave him, but now his
stomach grumbled its complaints of neglect.

He dragged a sheet around him, clutching the
ends of it at one hip.
Not the most fashionable garb.
But good
enough.
He had to wait a moment for the room to steady before he
started for the door, intent on finding something to eat and to
wear, and wishing this dizziness would go away.

The hallway also kept wanting to tilt on its
side, so he paused in the doorway to lean on it and catch his
breath.
When he heard firm steps on the stairs, he stayed where he
was, waiting for her.

A moment later, Alexandra came up the narrow
stairway, her skirts lifted, showing those trim ankles of hers.
She
had changed, he saw, into a different gown from this
morning—something very pretty, he thought, in a deep gold with a
pattern in it of red and brown.
She had tucked a white scarf around
the low neckline, and a garnet-and-topaz broach pinned the scarf
between her lovely, high breasts.

He watched her for a moment, eyes narrowed,
and made her an elegant bow, baring one leg from the sheet to do
so.
"I thought you were going to send me up some beef?"

She shook her head.
"You are as pale as that
linen you are wearing.
Please go back to bed."

"Only if you come with me."

Eyebrows arching, she came forward and
wrapped her arm around him.
She looked up at him, gray eyes almost
silver in the light.
"Very well.
I shall."

Her agreement surprised him.
"You shall?
What is this—more false promises?
Such as my meat."

"Are you still harping on that?
I was
annoyed when I said I should give you what is bad for you.
But what
if we compromise—on beef broth?"

He laughed, winced, and moved his arm from
the door jamb to lay it over her shoulders.
She had been speaking
mostly French, but with English words used whenever she could not
find a translation.
She mangled the language, but he found it
charming.
It made her seem less the so-very-correct Lady
Sandal.

He slanted her a glance.
"Is that what you
want in my bed, too—compromise?"

"What I want in your bed is you!"
She spoke quick and sharp.
Seeming to realize what she had said,
she flushed, color streaming up from her neck and into her
face.

He spoke low, and in
English, intending the words for her alone.
"You could have me
there—just by asking.
Will you ask now,
ma
chér
e?"

The images flooded his
mind, sending his senses reeling.
Her naked and arching with
pleasure.
Silken hair loose.
His hands on that creamy skin of hers.
He had reason once to call her Lady Scandal.
Reason to know she
could be as wanton as any Parisian
amazone
.
And he wanted to see her
like that again.
Wanted to see her eyes glazed by passion.
Wanted
to hear soft, helpless moans of shivering pleasure from her.
Wanted
her lost to everything but him.

He stroked a caress from that slender neck,
over a supple back, and to a waist still as trim as he remembered.
With that memory, his body stirred.
The sheet slipped from his
loosened fingers, shifting dangerously low.
He ignored it and
brushed his lips against her cheek.
"Ah, but it's been so long, too
long, since I touched you.
I could hold you like this forever."

"That is an absurd thing to say," she answered, her
tone sharp but with a betraying quiver underneath.

"Then I am absurd.
Or still hot with fever, and not
with the intoxication of you."

Trying to focus on her task—and not on his lips, nor
the caress of his hand, which had inched lower on her
back—Alexandria took hold of the ends of the sheet with one hand.
She kept her other arm around him.
She tried to be careful of his
wound, and so she ended with her hand pressed against his bare skin
just below the bandages and above his narrow hips.
Her throat
tightened.
It had been too long.
But he was in no condition for
this.
Neither was she, with too little sleep and too many things
happening too fast.

She must remember, too, that he had been shot not
that long ago for being in another woman's bed.
But why did that
not seem to matter so much with his lips brushing across her
jaw?

"What of your desire for beef?" she said, focusing
on the practical and pulling him towards his bed.

His voice dropped lower.
"Why must I choose?
Why can I not have both?"

"I ought to call the landlord to assist
you."

"But you are so much more charming.
And I
think perhaps you smell better, too." He pressed his nose to her
neck, and rubbed his lips from her neck to her cheek.
"You smell
of...of onions actually.
What have you been eating?"

"Onion soup—the landlord's wife is an
excellent cook."

He pulled back from her, his eyes bright
with indignation.
"You eat such things and send me gruel—you
torture me!"

"No, that would be allowing you to make
yourself deathly ill!" With the words, she pulled away from him and
pushed hard on his chest.
The bed caught him on the back of his
knees and he tumbled back, arms flung out as he lost his balance.
He ended up laying diagonally across the narrow bed.
Bending over,
she lifted his feet and put them up on the bed.

The sheet had twisted around him, revealing
one muscular thigh and a glimpse of flat, hard hip and stomach.
She
tried not to stare at the bare skin, the taunt muscles—how unfair
that ten years sat so well on a man.
And how lovely.

The momentary distraction gave him time.
Grabbing her hand, he gave a sharp tug, and pulled her down so that
she lay next to him, pressed against his uninjured side.
He smiled
at her.
"Now are you happy?
I am in bed again."

"Paxten!
This is not good for you!"

"Let me judge that," he said, nuzzling her
neck.

She pushed against him, but he had his arm
around her and more strength than she had expected.
Parting her
lips, she started to reason with him.

He stole her words, covering her mouth with
his.

Heat rushed into her in a dizzying, sweet
flush.
His tongue brushed across hers lips and she let out a
breath.
Oh, she had forgotten the drugging passion of him, how soft
his lips could be, how demanding, how caressing.

She wound her arm around his neck, and
arched against him.
His palm brushed across her breast and his
fingers closed there, pulling another sigh of pleasure from her.
She pushed against his chest, but not really hard enough to free
herself.
Ah, it had been too long.
So very, very long.

His kiss deepened to something harsh,
something more demanding, and panic flared inside her.

The clatter of hooves, and shouts from the
yard, gave her reason enough to at last drag herself from his
grip.

Dazed, she rose from the bed.
He stared at
her, eyes narrowed and an angry flare in them, but he seemed to
hear the commotion from below.
His eyebrows lifted as he glanced
towards the open window.

Alexandria moved to the window, heart
thudding hard and her stomach quivering—from Paxten, or the
alarming sounds coming from the stable yard?
She did not stop to
find an answer.
Instead, she brushed at her hair and looked
out.

At the sight of the uniforms, she spun
around and the word came out with a panicked breath,
"Soldiers!"

Paxten muttered something in French.
Pushing
up from the bed, sheets tangled around his legs, he asked, "Where
are my breeches?
And do you know, does this inn have a back
entrance?"

#

Frustration simmered in Taliaris.
Having to
stop at every village for word of three women traveling in a coach
made for slow work.
But he wanted no more mistakes.
The trail had
been here and then gone, but always it led towards Calais.
He still
could not believe it.
Did these English have no sense to take side
roads?
To vary their direction?
Or were they so arrogant they did
not fear anyone would follow?
Or perhaps he was on the wrong trail
entirely, following innocents who did not need to hide?

That last worry made him cautious.
And so he
took his time, stopping at every town, every village, every
farmhouse near a crossroad, accounting for every change of horse
they made and every glimpse of that black coach.

They'd had one piece of luck—a footman had
indeed come back for Marie-Jeanne.
Now they would see if he had
told them the truth when they had questioned him.

Swinging off his horse, Taliaris handed the
reins to his orderly and watched as his lieutenant barked orders to
dismount.
He glanced around this sorry excuse of a village.
The
English had at last left the main road to come here.
The footman
had not wanted to say anything—a loyalty Taliaris could admire,
even if it was misplaced.
But putting a man in front of a firing
squad made most forget noble ideals in place of survival.
Before
muskets could even be shouldered, the footman had betrayed the name
and direction of this village as the place where the English had
stopped.

It had taken long enough, first to ride back
to interrogate the footman, and longer still to ride here.
Would
the English still be here?
Even if they weren't, his men needed
food, and their mounts needed water and rest.
They would stop.
And
he would hope their quarry had been foolish enough to feel safe and
remain.

The landlord came out from his inn, a frown
in place as he took in the soldiers and horses in his yard.
Taliaris gave the man the same examination.
Not every Frenchman
held a deep affection for the First Consul and those who served him
in the army.
Some called Bonaparte the Little Corsican, never mind
that Corsica had been part of France for years.
Others called him
dictator and murderer of the Revolution.
Of course, they did not do
so in public.
But Taliaris had heard the whispers.

And this landlord did not look pleased to
see them.

Wiping his hands on his apron, Gustave Lepic
singled out the man who seemed in command.
Not the one shouting
orders.
But the one who stood watching everyone else jump.
Armies—bah!
Bad for business.
Too often they ate and drank, and
when the time came for the bill, they said it ought to be a glory
to serve those who served France and left without paying.
But he
kept those thoughts to himself and gave them a stupid grin.

In troubled times, a fool might stay alive.
And these times seemed always troubled.

He put on a smile.
"Good day, General.
And
what may I do for such fine soldiers of France?
Is it food you
need?
Drink?
My brother owns the best vineyard in Champagne."

No jovial smile answered him, just a face
that could have been carved of oak.
He had to look up at the man—a
tall fellow.
His shako made him seem even taller.
The dolman jacket
swung over one shoulder by a cord and the gold braid across his
chest also made him dauntingly broad.
But he had a young man's
face.
An earnest face.
Deadly so.

Gustave kept smiling.
What else did one do
with men who carried muskets and sabers and had the right to do
anything in the name of France and the man who had made himself Her
master?

"We are looking for some English.
Two women
with their maid.
They would be traveling by coach.
They also might
have lost the maid in place of a man—an injured man."

English—ah, he had known it.
The girl had
that look to her in that fair skin and golden hair, and the lady,
well, no Frenchwoman spoke so little as she.

Rubbing his chin, Gustave took time to
answer.
Was there a profit to be made here?
Not from these men, but
from how grateful an Englishwoman might be that she had been kept
safe?
Finally, he said, "Well, now, a coach left just this morning,
it did.
With three women inside.
They hired fresh horses from
me."

"Describe them."

Gustave hesitated.
So far he had not lied—he
had given nothing that could come back to him in accusations.
What
did he say now without stretching his neck out?

His hesitation did not serve.
This time as
he rubbed his jaw and tried to look befuddled, the man's mouth
thinned with impatience.
Turning to his soldiers, he called out,
"Search the inn!"

Gustave pulled in a breath.
If they found
those guests of his, what would they do to him?
Might they take him
for something other than a fat fool and arrest him as well?

He hurried to the doorway, his apron
flapping, the sweat cold on his forehead.
"Ah, but, sirs, I run a
good, decent place.
Boots stomping through my inn will disturb my
guests and frighten my maid.
Come, why do you not allow me to show
you about instead, after you have some bread and cheese, and good
wine to wash it down?"

The soldiers pushed past, shoving him aside.
He might as well have been talking to a storm, telling it not to
blow.
The man who had ordered the search remained in the stable
yard, one hand resting on his saber.