Chapter 20 #2
As much as he would like to have Miss Muir brought straight to Isobel from the theater, assuming the plan met with success, it was neither feasible from a safety standpoint nor from an information-gathering standpoint.
There would be eyes to see where Cuvelier went as soon as he discovered Miss Muir’s defection, but given Dubois’s suspicions about Nate and Isobel, there might be precious little time to make a move on any of the three: Cuvelier, Compton, or Dubois.
In order to find out what Miss Muir knew and if it was of immediate help, she must be taken first to a safe house.
Quinn would ensure she made it there. Once there, Nate and Baudelaire would interview her as soon as possible.
“Amélie will provide clothing and provisions for your journey and arrange for you to meet tomorrow with Quinn so that he is not unknown to you,” he finished.
“If you write a message for your sister, Quinn will give it to her once they are safely away from the theater. I am sure she will be on her guard, so I hope it will help set her mind at ease.”
“Of course. I will write one tonight while Mr. Beaumont is out on the town. There is little enough else I may do.” Her voice held a faint trace of bitterness, but he didn’t think it was directed at him.
“It is best if you do not leave L’Orchidée.”
“I understand. Waiting will be hard, but I do understand. I do not wish to do anything that might jeopardize your plans.”
He’d been thinking of her own safety as much as the plans themselves, but he didn’t say it. She knew it too.
There seemed little else to say now. He’d realized this morning, holding her as she slept, that this afternoon might well be the last opportunity to see her alone. If everything went to plan, she’d be gone in just a couple of days’ time, from Paris and from his life.
And there was absolutely no point in wishing it otherwise.
Nathaniel looked extremely weary. As far as she knew, he’d only slept a couple of hours early this morning, if that. The light now suggested late afternoon. Whatever else he needed to do today—and later tonight at Cercle des étrangers—he also needed rest.
She touched his face. “Will you lie down? You are tired.”
“Aye.” But he didn’t move. He set his thumb beside her mouth to trace its outside corner.
Her first impression of him in Dover, the trait that had initially caught her eye despite its contradiction, was his inherent stillness. And she’d thought then that he was a man who had known little peace and so must needs carve it out for himself where he could.
“Lie down with me,” she whispered. Let me give you this much.
His hand slipped from her face to her collarbone, tracing the line of it. “Yes,” he said quietly.
She had loosened her gown’s laces before lying down.
She wriggled free of it along with her shift as she watched him undress.
He wore more than clothing; his coat contained a pistol, and when he removed his waistcoat, a knife sheath lay between his shoulder blades.
Another knife came from his boot. None of it frightened her, although it might have done, early on, had she seen him so armed.
As he no doubt was, during the struggle on rue Montmartre.
Now it was only a tangible reminder that he’d stood between her and danger more than once this past week.
Too, she knew now that deep within him, hidden away from the world, was a man capable of breath-stealing tenderness. It did something queer to her stomach that she should be privy to such knowledge.
He stripped off his shirt. Lamplight had been more than kind to him during their nighttime encounters, but in daylight he quite stole her breath.
He was allover muscle, although none of it overdeveloped or out of proportion to his lean frame: definition on his arms, a tautness over ribs flattening out above the high waist of his trousers.
Quiet strength, so neatly describing his character as well.
His hands moved to the fastening of his trousers, but he hesitated, his gaze settling on her face. “I was careless with you the other night.”
So he’d thought of it now too. “I did not conceive during my marriage. Not even once. You may at least remove your trousers without issue,” she added, wry, when he remained standing.
His mouth lifted on one corner before he looked to the work of his hands. When he’d stepped out of the trousers, he came to her. His weight settled heavily in the cradle of her body when she opened her arms to him. He laid his head between her breasts.
He was . . . home, for this moment. She wouldn’t think about what it meant, her mind suggesting such a word. She ran fingers gently through his hair.
He pushed up onto his elbows after several quiet minutes. His hands bracketed her face, but he made no move to kiss her. “I’ll not risk you again. No matter how slight the consequences. It was wrong of me to do so the other night.”
She touched his jaw. Ran a thumb across his upper lip. Tried to fix the shape of it in her mind. After Tuesday night, if all went as planned, they would never see one another again.
“If you have need of me once you’re back in England, Quinn will know how to reach me. It might take some time, but if you’ve—” He didn’t finish the sentence.
If she’d conceived, he meant.
She did not wish to think about it right now, either way. She wanted only to give him comfort, if she could, for a short time. It was within her power to give that. That much she knew.
And she wanted this for herself too. “So don’t risk me again. We did not think of it the other night, either of us, but you have as much self-possession as anyone I’ve known.”
“Maybe.” His mouth quirked. “I prided myself on it, anyway. Until you.”
“I trust you to be more careful this time.” She stretched upwards enough to close the difference between their faces. She did not have far to reach, or perhaps he was already coming down to her.
“You shouldn’t trust me.” But he kissed her, deeply.
“I shouldn’t trust you?” She asked long minutes later, after she’d caught her breath. “I disagree. My life has been in your hands all this week.”
“You can trust me with your life, aye,” he said drily. “But in this—”
She opened herself to him, winding her legs about his. “In this too.”
A shudder travelled the length of his body.
“I trust you not to risk me unreasonably,” she whispered. She knew her point won when he pushed his hips forward.
Why am I crying? She wanted this, wholly. He angled his head back, hands framing her face. His thumb smoothed along one cheekbone.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. They hadn’t long, a few hours at most, and he needed to sleep for most of that if he could. But they had a little while yet for this. “Give me this,” she said. One last time. “Let me give you this.” She slid her arms along his rib cage, pulling him back down to her.
“Aye.” He kissed her, moving deeply.
At some point they readjusted onto their sides, facing, legs entwined.
She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the intimacy, until she remembered that this was the last time.
She would gather the sweetness to her, then, while she could.
She opened her eyes, looking fully into his as she arched against him, breaking to pieces around him.
He kissed her again with devastating tenderness and withdrew from her body, his muscles tensed to take him away from her.
She caught his wrist, halting him, and curled fingers around his cock. “Show me how you need it.”
His eyes blazed as he closed a hand over hers, guiding her fingers through the grip and rhythm. His throat worked as he tipped his head back, eyes closed. She watched his face through it, beautiful in its fierceness. Climax took him all at once, his hand tight overtop of hers.
He would sleep soon; she had not imagined the shadows of exhaustion on his face. She rolled to her back, tugging him with her.
“I’ll be too heavy for you,” he murmured, but his full weight was already relaxing onto her, his eyes half shut.
“No, you won’t.” She guided his cheek against her shoulder, wrapping arms around him to hold him fast. “I can bear it,” she added softly, although she thought he might already have been asleep.
After tomorrow, she would never see him again. There was no point in wishing it otherwise.