Читать книгу His Forbidden Liaison - Joanna Maitland - Страница 9

‘Come in.’ Marguerite did not look up from her task of bathing Herr Benn’s forehead. It did not matter who the visitor was. Herr Benn was still safely unconscious, while she was behaving like the perfect nurse, for anyone to see.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am.’

That unmistakable voice sent strange vibrations down her spine all over again, in spite of her resolutions. The earlier hard edge was almost gone, replaced by thick, velvet richness. She clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palms. By the time she rose and turned to face him, she was back in control of her wayward senses.

Mr Jacques was standing just inside the door, staring across at the motionless figure on the bed.

‘It is too soon to expect any change, sir.’Marguerite was pleased that her voice was steady, though she found it easier not to look directly into his face. His deep blue eyes, so much more intense than Herr Benn’s, were definitely best avoided.

He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I apologise for disturbing you. I am going to the village. I wondered if there was anything you needed?’

Marguerite gestured towards the window. The sky was very dark. ‘Is that wise? I’d say there’s a storm brewing.’

He shook his head impatiently. ‘I have no choice, ma’am. Herr Benn’s valise was lost in Marseilles, and I do not have enough linen for two. If I can find a haberdasher’s here, I might be able to purchase new cravats and so on, for us both.’

Cravats? His companion could be at death’s door and he wanted cravats? His casual attitude to Herr Benn’s condition caught her on the raw. Worse, he was taking it for granted that she would continue to nurse Herr Benn, without even a single word of thanks. She was too well schooled to rail at him, but she fanned the flames of her righteous indignation. Better to appear peevish than to succumb to the strange feelings this man was able to arouse in her. ‘I have everything I require, thank you, sir. And I do not think Herr Benn has need of cravats, just at present,’ she added, with relish.

That barb struck home. His eyes narrowed. For a second, she thought he would respond in kind, but he did not, though his throat was working as if he were swallowing his ire. Eventually, he sketched a bow and turned for the door, murmuring something inaudible. She supposed it was some kind of farewell.

Insufferable man! Was he really going to buy cravats? Or was that simply a pretext to go drinking with his new found Bonapartist cronies? Either way, it should not matter to Marguerite. She was not going to allow herself to think about Mr Jacques. Not in any way. Not his voice, nor his astonishingly deep blue eyes, nor the half-naked torso he had paraded in front of her in that harbour inn.

That last image was much too vivid. She could feel her skin heating in the most unlamented way. She rushed across to the door and shut it quickly, leaning her back against it and closing her eyes. She should be glad that Mr Jacques had left the inn, for his very presence was dangerous. She would not think about him. She would concentrate on caring for Herr Benn.

The sound of muttering jerked Marguerite out of her light doze. She leapt up from the chaise longue. Herr Benn was thrashing around on the bed, clearly in pain. She hurried across to the dressing table to fetch her cooling cloth once more.

Herr Benn had thrown off most of the bedclothes so that he was naked to the waist, apart from the bandages around his shoulder and upper chest. Marguerite laid her fingers gently on his brow. He was getting hotter. She touched the skin of his torso. That was hot, too. At least he was still insensible. He might be in pain, but he was not aware enough to know it. She began to bathe his face, his neck and the exposed skin of his chest. It seemed to help, for he settled back into his pillows, and the frown disappeared from his brow.

‘Sleep now,’ she said in halting English, trying to reach more deeply into his troubled mind. Most of the English she had learned as a small child was long forgotten. Would Herr Benn understand her? ‘You are safe here, I promise.’ It seemed to help, for he gave a long sigh and his body relaxed a little more.

Marguerite bathed his skin again and then dried him with her own soft towel. For a moment, she stood gazing down at him. She had never before touched a man in such an intimate way. Herr Benn’s body was beautifully formed, his skin white and his features finely sculpted, yet strong. He was a remarkably handsome young man, with the kind of fair good looks that might make ladies swoon. But she felt no tug of attraction at all. Why was that?

She busied herself with gently smoothing the sheets over his body and making him comfortable. She did not want to answer her own question. Indeed, she had not wanted to ask it, for she already knew the answer. For some unfathomable reason, the man who drew her was broader, darker and not nearly as handsome as her invalid. Mr Jacques’s rich voice had twined itself around her thoughts, just as the image of him, half-naked in the gloom, had etched itself into her memory, like acid dripping on to a copper plate. She realised she had even been dreaming about him, which provoked a groan of frustration. Would she never be able to erase him? She refused to let him beguile her. He was a Bonapartist, the enemy, and a real danger to her invalid. She would oppose him with every ounce of strength and cunning she possessed. Even at the risk of failing her own family.

She swallowed hard. When faced with a choice between her duty to her family and her duty to her king, she had not hesitated, and she knew that every member of her family would have made the same choice. But it did not remove her worries, or her sense of guilt.

Marguerite shook her head at her own folly. There was no sense in worrying. She was duty-bound to care for Herr Benn, and to protect him from his companion, until he was able to mind his tongue. With constant nursing, that might be soon, perhaps only a day or two more. Suzanne would have to cope for a little longer. And meanwhile, Marguerite would focus all her wits on keeping Herr Benn safe, and strengthening her defences against Mr Jacques’s unsettling charms.

Jack trudged back across the inn yard in the sheeting rain, cursing the sudden turn in the weather. His testy lady had been right about that. And about cravats, too, but what other excuse could he have offered her? Inexplicably, he found himself focusing on her reactions to him. Would she still be cross? Or would she give that delightful throaty laugh when she saw the state of him?

His simple greatcoat was almost sodden now, and he was well-nigh frozen. Worse, it had all been for nothing. He had visited all the shops in the village, bought drinks for the local men in all the bars, and had even gone to the church to talk to the curé, but no one had been able to give him any definite news. The Bonapartists were all certain, on the basis of no evidence at all, that their beloved Emperor was among them once more. The royalists, who in Rognac numbered only the curé and a couple of old men, were equally sure that such a landing was impossible. The forces at Toulon would have prevented it, they said, even if it meant blowing Bonaparte’s ship out of the water. Which side was right?

Jack shrugged his shoulders and then cursed aloud as the rain from his collar ran down the back of his neck. He raced the last few steps to the shelter of the inn doorway. Paris, and even little Rognac, would soon know everything there was to know, for news travelled very swiftly across France, relayed between tall telegraph towers with movable arms. Jack would have to be patient. He would soon learn whether these were simply wild rumours started by old soldiers in their cups.

The landlord came bustling forward as soon as Jack entered the taproom. ‘You’re soaked, sir. Let me help you off with that coat.You’ll be needing to sit by the fire to get dry.’

Jack muttered his thanks, but did not attempt to make conversation. He had already tried humouring the landlord, a couple of hours earlier, while he and the surgeon were sharing a glass of brandy by the bar. The landlord, an old soldier, was loud in his praises of the returning Emperor, but totally lacking in real information. And so, as it had turned out, was the surgeon.

‘I’ll have another large measure of your best brandy, landlord.’ Cupping the glass in his freezing fingers, Jack threw himself into the rough wooden chair nearest the fire. It had been well fed with logs and was roaring nicely, throwing out a huge amount of heat. Once his fingers were warmer, Jack leaned back in his chair, took a large swallow of his drink and stretched out his booted feet. He could allow himself just a few minutes by the fire before he went upstairs to check on Ben.

Poor Ben. At least he had remained safely inside, in the warm, but he had had the rough end of this mission, so far. Not only had he been shot, but he had lost all his possessions. They were no great loss, of course. Both Jack and Ben had brought only very ordinary clothes on this mission, since they could not afford to draw attention to themselves. But now Jack would have to face the delectable Miss Grolier, who would see at a glance that he had failed to buy any new linen. If questioned, he would have to admit that Rognac did not boast a haberdasher’s. What would she imagine he had been doing all this time? Would she be furious that he had taken advantage of her generosity by leaving her to nurse Ben for so long? He realised with a jolt that he needed to concoct a plausible story. Such a needle-witted woman would not be easily gulled.

Jack gulped down the last of his brandy and stood up, turning for a moment to warm his back at the flames. Let her smell the alcohol on his breath and assume he had simply made a feeble excuse to spend the time in the local bars, well away from the labours of the sick-room. Let her assume he was a selfish wastrel. That would merely serve to confirm the low opinion she had formed of him earlier. That did not matter, surely?

It did matter. For some reason, part of him wanted her good opinion. He spent several fruitless minutes cudgelling his brain for a story that would show him in a better light. He failed. Ben would have been able to dream up some unlikely tale in a trice, but Jack could think of nothing.

The mission must come first, he told himself sternly. He was the leader. He had left Ben upstairs for over two hours, alone with Marguerite Grolier. That had been foolhardy. What if he started raving as a result of his pain? What would she do? She had saved Ben’s life in Marseilles.Would she now betray him? Jack’s instincts told him she would not, but he did not trust his instincts where she was concerned. She was a beautiful and extraordinary woman, admirable in every way—except that she might be a Bonapartist.

He told himself that she had not joined in with the surgeon’s ‘Vive l’Empereur’. Then again, she had not objected to it, either. For Ben’s safety, and his own, and for the success of their mission, Jack had to find out the truth about Marguerite Grolier. Whatever the cost. His childish instincts could go hang.

Jack ran up the stairs, pausing to listen for a moment outside Ben’s door. He could hear no sound at all. Good. With luck, Ben had not regained his senses, or spoken. As soon as Jack was presentable again, he could go in to ask after Herr Benn’s health and to probe, as subtly as he could, for where the silk weaver’s true sympathies lay.

The fire in his chamber had not been lit and, without a change of clothes, all Jack could do was to towel his hair and rub his exposed skin until it glowed. The shirt was thin. It would soon dry from the heat of his body.

His quiet knock on Ben’s door was followed by what sounded like a gasp. As if she were shocked to be disturbed? As if she were hiding something?

Jack had no way of knowing, and he could not enter the bedchamber without her permission. She was a lady, and he must continue to treat her as a lady, unless she gave him cause to do otherwise. Somehow, he did not think that would happen. She was not a lady in the usual sense of the word, of course, for she was a mere artisan, a silk weaver, but her speech and manners were impeccable. Many women in London called themselves ladies, but could not hold a candle to Marguerite Grolier. She was altogether remarkable. If only she were not also a Bonapartist…

‘Mr Jacques! My goodness, how wet you look. Come in and warm yourself. There is a good fire here.’ Marguerite stood back to allow him to enter. Since he had abandoned her for hours without so much as a by-your-leave, she had every right to be furious with him, but how could she rage at such a woebegone figure? He must have been totally drenched by the storm. His boots were dripping muddy water as he crossed the floor. His hairy wet, too, and tousled like a boy’s. He had stripped off everything but shirt, breeches and boots, and his shirt was so damp that she could see his skin through it. He might as well have been wrapped in nothing but a bed sheet again! Marguerite tried to put that thought out of her mind. She told herself sternly not to look at his torso. It was just one more male body, like Herr Benn’s. A lady should be able to ignore it.

Mr Jacques bent to the fire, spreading his fingers to the warmth. ‘I am very much in your debt, ma’am, for tending to Herr Benn in my absence. I…I feel I have taken advantage of your good nature.’

A little gratitude at last. Marguerite automatically responded in kind. ‘After what you did for me, sir, it was the least I could do.’

He straightened and turned to face her. It was only then that she smelled the alcohol on his breath. She tensed. Clearly, he had not been searching very hard for replacement cravats. He had been making the rounds of Rognac’s bars. That was disgusting behaviour from a so-called gentleman. If she were not a lady, she would tell him so. Instead, she lifted her chin and drew back her skirts so they were no longer touching his contaminated boots.

He did not appear to notice. ‘How is he now? Has he come to himself at all during my absence?’ There was a hint of anxiety in his voice. Or was it shame over his own appalling behaviour?

Marguerite resolved to keep her anger under control. It was beneath her to lose her temper with such a man. ‘He was hot and restless an hour or so ago, but he is improving now. He is still insensible, but he may come round soon.’

He crossed to the bed and stood gazing down at the invalid, who looked very peaceful now, his breathing slow, but not in any way laboured. ‘He looks as if he is healing well, ma’am. And when he wakes, he will thank you for your care, I am sure. Unless, perhaps, you plan to continue towards Lyons today?’

He must know she did not. He must have heard when Guillaume made the arrangements for them to stay. She frowned at him, but said only, ‘Travelling in such weather would be madness.’ She nodded towards the window. The storm was still raging.

He ran his fingers through his unkempt hair and attempted a roguish smile.Yet again, he looked absurdly young.

‘Carriage accidents happen all too easily, especially in conditions like these, when—’ She stopped herself just in time. She was gabbling uncontrollably. She had been about to refer to her mother’s accident, and its terrible consequences. It must be the fault of that clinging shirt. It had melted her common sense.

Shocked at her own weakness, she took refuge in attack. ‘I take it you managed to acquire the linen you were seeking? Did the haberdasher keep you waiting while some of it was stitched for you?’

He had the grace to blush a little. ‘I…er…I spent far too much time enquiring for a haberdasher’s. Some of the locals sent me off on a wild goose chase, I fear, for there is no such establishment in Rognac. No doubt it amused them to roast a stranger so. I was gullible and got thoroughly soaked as a result. If you choose to call me a fool, ma’am, I will readily accept it.’

What a ridiculous story! She hurried across to the fire, holding out her hands to it as if she were cold. ‘It would be the height of impoliteness for me to say any such thing, sir,’ she said, addressing the blackened fire surround. ‘I have no basis for making any judgement about you.’ Oh, that was a lie. For all his faults, she knew he was a gentleman, and brave, with a body fit to grace a statue. Just as she knew that she must not trust him with Herr Benn’s secret.

‘You are very generous, ma’am. I can but apologise for having left you alone for so long,’he said gently.And then he was silent. Waiting.

His frank apology disarmed her. She gripped her hands together, feeling the tension in her neck and shoulders and arms. This man was such an extraordinary mixture of boyish charm and mature decision. He seemed to revert from man to boy in the blink of an eye. It was thoroughly disconcerting. But undeniably attractive. She did not know how to deal with it.

The noise that broke the silence was not made by Mr Jacques. It was a very definite groan, followed by a mumble that could have been words.

Marguerite raced back to the bed. Her mind was flooded with dire warnings. She must find a way of getting Mr Jacques away from here. Before he heard words he must not hear!

She almost pushed Mr Jacques out of the way in her haste to protect the invalid. She stretched across the bed, putting her own body between Herr Benn and his so-called friend in hopes of muffling any words Benn might utter. She bent low to his head, laid her hand on his cheek and then, keeping her back to Mr Jacques, she slid her fingers down until they covered Herr Benn’s mouth. ‘Oh, I think he may come round soon. Is that not wonderful?’ she gushed. ‘Pray, sir, be so good as to ask the landlord if the kitchen can prepare some barley water. Herr Benn will be so very thirsty when he wakes.’

Behind her, Mr Jacques neither spoke nor moved.

Marguerite bit her lip. He was making this very difficult, but she would not allow him to win. She smiled sweetly up at him over her shoulder. ‘If you please, sir. I do not think I should leave Herr Benn at the moment. And the barley water would be so very good for him. Why my old nurse swears by it. She—’

He grimaced with the sort of pain she had often seen on her late father’s face when confronted with gabbling women. ‘Very well, ma’am. If you insist.’

Marguerite fancied that his good manners had won out over his real intentions. She held her breath, listening for the squelch of his boots across the floor and the sound of the door closing. At the click of the latch, she raised her body and removed her hand from Herr Benn’s mouth. He was trying to shake his head, as if to free himself. He was going to come to his senses very soon.

With a muttered but heartfelt apology, Marguerite whipped the bottle of laudanum from her pocket and deftly forced the invalid to take another dose. ‘It is done to save you,’ she whispered as she hastened to hide all traces of what she had done. ‘When you are well again, I will truly beg your pardon, I promise.’

Herr Benn was already slipping deeper into oblivion.

‘I have done as you asked, ma’am.’

Shocked, Marguerite whirled round, her hand to her throat. She knew she must be blushing. ‘Sir. You took me by surprise. You did not knock.’ She was trying to suggest he had committed an outrage, but her ploy was not succeeding. He was not at all abashed. He looked large and powerful, framed in the dark wood of the open door. He was all mature, dangerous male.

‘The barley water will be delivered as soon as it has boiled and cooled.’ He shut the door and crossed to the bed once more. ‘Has Benn come round?’

‘Alas, no. I am afraid your friend has sunk back into insensibility. It may be some hours yet before he truly awakes.’

‘Then I will tend to him.’

No! He must not! ‘I…er…There is no need, sir. Since the weather prevents my travelling onwards, I am more than happy to nurse Herr Benn. I fancy—’ she smiled at him, trying to assume the image of a simple, well-meaning female of the kind who could never be dissuaded when she knew she was doing her duty ‘—that I have rather more experience of such things than you do.’ She raised an eyebrow at him and was rewarded with a long sigh of resignation. ‘While you were out earlier, I had Guillaume bring up my things,’ she continued quickly, giving him no chance to change his mind. ‘I shall sleep here on the chaise longue where I can tend to Herr Benn if he needs me. I must tell you that I am used to such duties. I often nurse my invalid mother. And—’

‘Spare me the details, ma’am,’ he said gruffly. He took a step back from the bed and made her a tiny bow. ‘It is not the sort of service that I would ever have expected a stranger—even one as well trained as yourself—to provide, but since you offer so generously, I shall accept. On behalf of Herr Benn.’

‘It will be my pleasure to tend him,’she said simply. For it was true.

‘But is there nothing I can do? Have you eaten? I could watch over him while you went down to the coffee room for a meal.’

‘Oh, no, you—’

‘I may be only a mere male, ma’am, but I am quite capable of bathing a man’s brow, or calling for help if his case should be beyond my powers.’

He was baiting her now. She must be careful not to go too far. ‘Guillaume brought up some food while you were out. He will do so again later. I shall do very well, I assure you.’

He was trying not to smile. They both knew good manners prevented him from contradicting her. ‘I imagine that you do very well in everything you undertake, ma’am,’ he said at last.

‘Oh. Oh, thank you.’ She had a feeling that his compliment was sincere, even if it was double-edged. What mattered here was that she had won. Soon he would leave, and she could relax, alone to defend Herr Benn.

He started for the door, but stopped midway, as if remembering something. He spun round. ‘But I have not had a chance to tell you what I learned in Rognac. It is not yet totally certain, but it seems that the Emperor has indeed kept his word to France, and is returning to liberate us. Wonderful news, do you not agree?’

Marguerite was caught like a bird in lime. What was she to do, to say? He was challenging her directly now. He was openly admitting that he was a supporter of Bonaparte and challenging her to do the same, to make common cause with him. ‘Are you sure, sir?’ Her voice cracked a little on the words. When he nodded, she swallowed hard and forced herself to speak in a bright, enthusiastic voice. ‘Why, that is the most wonderful news. I had dreamed…All France had dreamed, but we never dared to hope that the day would come. The Emperor! The Emperor himself is to return to us! There will be rejoicing indeed.’

‘Vive l’Empereur!’ His voice was flat, but strong.

What choice did she have? She had to protect Herr Benn. ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ she echoed.