Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
He’d lingered at the picnic with Elizabeth for as long as he’d thought they’d be safe from the curious eyes of passing strangers, but the fugitive had not come.
James rolled over in the bed, unable to fall asleep.
It wasn’t just prying strangers who posed a threat.
He’d kissed Elizabeth. The pressure of her lips, the taste of her mouth, the feel of her body against his, had enflamed his senses far more than the sun or wine or even danger could ever have done.
He’d wanted to make love to her. And he might have, if they had stayed.
But he’d come to France to do a job—to build up England’s spy networks and to save a man’s life.
He turned restlessly in the bed, his mind filled with thoughts of the fugitive and his promise to Grenville and Elizabeth and Moreham and Anne.
This, he mused just before he fell into an exhausted sleep, must be how it feels to experience madness.
In the predawn hour, the room was soothingly dark, the bed was satisfyingly warm, and his body, including his eyelids, refused to rise.
James’s brain sent a halfhearted command to his limbs.
But the only part responding was the part of him that was nestled against the curve of Elizabeth Harcrest’s bottom.
He was accustomed to waking with an erection.
He was also accustomed to waking with a desirable woman in his bed.
So, it was natural that his hips began to follow the direction of his desires.
Slowly, almost unthinkingly, he began to rock his hips against hers, his hardness bumping between her thighs.
His arms had been draped around her, his hands resting against the folds of her nightshirt.
He began to draw it up, his fingers sliding against fabric until they found flesh.
And then they continued to move.
Like silken spiders, his fingertips traced the skin above her knees. They followed the swell of muscle up and then descended, ever so lightly, to touch the soft curls between her legs. She parted her legs, and James moved closer. His father had surrendered to his peculiar madness, why couldn’t he?
With her hand, Elizabeth touched her breast. In her dream she was experiencing the most exquisite pleasure.
When her finger closed over her nipple, she felt an arcing connection between her legs and realized she was awake.
And that James’s finger was sliding with the utmost precision up and down the cleft between her legs.
She opened her lips to protest, but only the faintest whimper of pleasure escaped.
It felt so good. He felt so good. She supposed she might pretend to be asleep, pretend her submission was unconscious…
She rocked her head back against his chest and moaned.
And when his hand came up and caressed her breast, she clutched it.
The insistent rubbing between her thighs was not a hand.
As she slid against his hardness she thought he would not penetrate her, not now, not this way, with both of them half asleep and too many things unsaid.
She slipped her hand down between them and felt him thrust against her palm.
This time it was he who moaned. Elizabeth felt a sense of power and held her hand flat against him, pushing as he thrust again and again, each time harder.
The balance of power shifted as his hips pumped insistently, his hardness slid faster and faster against her.
Ragged breathing sounded in her ears, but Elizabeth didn’t know if it was his or hers, or theirs.
She clamped her thighs together, not knowing whether she was trying to stop him from entering her or lock him against her forever.
He pulled away from her with a strangled cry.
They lay in silence then, on either side of the bed, nightclothes and nightshirts as tortured as their breathing.
For several moments, Elizabeth’s heart pounded so loudly the sound drowned out the voice in her head, the one that wondered how it was possible to feel exhilarated and ashamed at the same time.
The way he touched her, the way he made her feel…
Was it because he wanted her? Or simply because she was in his bed?
And if he wanted her, why didn’t he want her enough to marry her?
When at last she found the strength to speak, she turned to face him.
He turned to her, too, one hand reaching out to brush back a damp curl that fell across her forehead. The touch of his fingers, so gentle, made her want to reach for him. But when he spoke, she was glad she had not.
“My apologies, Elizabeth. This should not have happened. I…lost control. I’ve destroyed your reputation, but I will not destroy your life by getting you with child. We are not man and wife. It is madness to think we can ever be.”
“Good God, she’s back again.” Lieutenant Gourneau nodded in the direction of the old woman who had just come through the door and was headed straight for his desk.
She brushed past a plump textile merchant in a red-white-and-blue-striped waistcoat, who’d been sitting in a chair by the wall, hat in hand, waiting patiently for the opportunity to speak with him.
“Who is she?” his captain asked, eyeing her determined progress.
“The damned egg lady.”
The captain chuckled. “What do you think she’s brought this time? Nests?”
The lieutenant didn’t have a chance to answer, because the woman had reached the edge of his desk. She stood, twisting the ends of her frayed apron in her leathery hands.
“Here now.” The textile merchant stood up. “I’ve been waiting nearly a quarter of an hour. You can’t just push ahead like that...”
“Citizeness,” he said, allowing only the slightest note of irritation in his voice, “you have more egg thefts to report?”
“No, sir. No, citizen.” She shook her head. “I’ve already shown you the evidence. I wouldn’t bring you more. No, you told me to come back if I noticed anything else peculiar, anyone suspicious hanging about.”
Gourneau reminded himself he was there to serve the people. The people were the eyes and ears of the Republic. It was his duty to listen, even if some of the people were lonely, crazy old women. “Yes?” he prompted.
“I’ve got pique-niquers, citizen.”
The lieutenant schooled his features to appear interested. “Pique-niquers?”
“Three days in a row they’ve taken their lunch in the field near my farm. Three days,” she repeated for emphasis. “A man and a woman. I ask you, citizen, what sort of people do that?”
Lovers, the lieutenant thought disgustedly.
“He is tall and blond, with a scar on his face like this,” the woman persisted, drawing a line up her cheek toward her eyebrow. “She is young and has brown hair. And they are English,” she added triumphantly.
“And you know this how?”
“Because they bought hard-boiled eggs for their pique-nique at my farm.”
“Me, also, I know it, too,” the merchant said, elbowing the old woman aside so that he, too, was standing in front of Gourneau’s desk.
“Don’t tell me—they were pique-niquing at your shop?”
“They claimed that they were interested in importing French fabrics into England, but I knew there was something funny about the pair of them.” The merchant waved a finger knowingly. “I think they are spies.”
The lieutenant straightened in his chair. And this time, he had no need to feign interest.
They returned to the field with their picnic basket and the red and white blanket later that afternoon.
James had just finished an egg Elizabeth had refused when an unusual movement at the edge of the field caught his eye.
“Elizabeth,” he hissed, “don’t make any abrupt movements, just glance to your left and tell me what you see. ”
“There’s something moving in the bushes.”
James reached behind his back, feeling for the pistol he tucked into the waistband of his breeches.
“Do you think that’s our man?” Elizabeth whispered as a tall man with wild gray hair, dressed in a ragged brown workman’s jacket, emerged from the foliage and began walking toward them.
The man’s steps slowed as he neared the blanket.
He stopped, close enough for them to hear him speak, but still far away enough to give himself a head start if he needed to turn and run.
His eyes kept shifting from their faces, to the carriage waiting on the road, to the food spread on the blanket, and then back again.
Elizabeth forced herself to smile encouragingly at him, noticing as she did so that the man was keeping one hand in his coat pocket.
The pocket bulged, the fabric strained downward as something far heavier than his hand was concealed within.
Was it a rock? Was he a mad beggar preparing to strike them and steal their food?
“May I help you, citizen?” James said.
The man cleared his throat, staring hard at them, almost as if he were trying to peer beneath their skin. Elizabeth saw the hand in his pocket move and the outline of his knuckles appeared against the fabric; she realized whatever was in there, he was gripping it tightly.
“Red and white.” When at last the man spoke, his voice rasped as if it hadn’t been used in a very long time. “Good colors for a blanket.”
“Red for the blood of the martyrs, white for the Bourbons,” James said.
The man’s features twisted, and for a long moment he seemed to be fighting to control them. “Thank God,” he breathed before drawing himself up and offering them a courtier’s bow. “Amaury de Joley, at your service.”
James rose, grasping Elizabeth’s hand as he did so and pulling her to her feet. “I am Lord Dinsmore and this”—his pause was briefer than a blink—“is my lady wife.” He inclined his head, and Elizabeth swept into a curtsey. “And it is we, monsieur, who are at your service.”