Don't Tempt Me

  “She is like her mother, then,” he said, with a fondness in his voice that made it difficult to breathe.

  “Too much so.”

  “Allow me to ease your burdens, mon coeur. If you need funds, you have only to ask.”

  “Thank you, Philippe. I will reimburse the expense as soon as possible.”

  “I ask for only one thing in return.” His gaze darkened. “When I have information to share, I want to do so in the flesh. I want to admire you from afar, since I cannot have you.”

  Her mouth dried. “It is too dangerous.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Very much so, but I cannot resist. You will not return to Paris, will you, when you leave again?”

  Marguerite shook her head. “No.”

  He crossed his arms, his coat stretching over the beautifully defined musculature she remembered so well. The years had been kind to him. She found him just as devastatingly handsome now as she had when first laying eyes on him.

  “I will protect you from discovery,” he promised. “You will have to protect you from yourself; you know I will never turn you away.”

  “Philippe . . .”

  “You do not trust yourself as you should. You are decided against sharing my bed again, therefore, you will not change your mind. You are too honorable, too loyal, too stubborn.” The smile he gifted her with was so despondent, she sobbed for being the cause of it. “I cannot resent those traits in you, since they are why I love you as I do.”

  She tried to hold her tongue, but could not. It was unfair that their love was like a flower destined to grow in the dark, stunted by lack of warmth and sunshine, struggling to survive in the barren soil of their hearts, watered only by tears and the mist of memories.

  “Je t’aime, ” she whispered.

  “I know.”

  Lynette awakened to the feel of something tickling the tip of her nose. Exhausted, she swiped at the offending sensation with her hand. Her eyes remained squeezed shut in the hope that she could drift back to sleep again.

  “Time to rise, a thiasce.”

  The sound of Simon’s deep burr woke more than just her brain. Every nerve ending in her body tingled at the sound.

  “Simon.” She smiled, but did not open her eyes.

  He leaned over her, his skin smelling of bergamot soap. His lips brushed featherlight over her brow. “A bath awaits you.”

  “What time is it?”

  “A quarter past three.”

  She groaned. “Your servants must hate you.”

  He laughed and straightened. “Perhaps it is a usual request.”

  A low growl rumbled in her chest.

  “Thoughts of you have led to a recently acquired need for chilly submersion,” he drawled, soothing her ruffled feathers.

  Opening one eye, she peeked up at him and marveled that he could look so wonderful with no sleep and hours of sweat-inducing exertion. His hair was tied back now, but he was still shirtless and clad only in breeches.

  A black brow arched. “Again? You are insatiable.”

  “Hmm . . .” She rolled to her back and stretched, gasping as his hands cupped both breasts and squeezed. “Who is insatiable?”

  “I am not a man to miss an opportunity.”

  She exhaled harshly, tired and loath to leave these hours behind. “Is that what this was? An opportunity?”

  He gave her a chastising look, then stood and held out his hand. “I think you should parade around naked for a few moments, by way of an apology for that question.”

  Wrinkling her nose, she took his hand. He tugged her up, caught her close, and grabbed her buttocks with a firm smack, making her gasp in surprise. He kissed her nose. “Lack of sleep does not suit your temperament, I see.”

  Lynette wrapped her arms around his lean waist, her fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his breeches. “Leaving you does not suit me, mon amour.”

  “Shh.” He pressed a finger to her lips, while lacing his other hand with hers. He tugged her toward the adjacent sitting room.

  A lovely and quite large copper tub waited there, luring her to sink deep into the steaming water and melt away the unfamiliar aches and pains that plagued her every step. The thoughtfulness Simon displayed moved her deeply, showing her that he valued her for more than mere sexual gratification.

  There were no servants about and the tension created by walking around unclothed faded away. She smiled.

  “What thoughts inspired that siren’s smile?” he asked, his arm providing her support as she stepped into the tub.

  “I was thinking that I have become a wanton woman to cross a room naked with a man and not feel painfully awkward.”

  “Let me assure you, there is nothing even slightly awkward about you.”

  Lynette settled into the oversized tub with a blissful sigh. She was sore in places she had not known could feel discomfort and her limbs were weighted by exhaustion. However, for the most part, she felt better than she ever had in her entire life. There was a certain unique contentment that came with having one’s carnal needs sated so thoroughly. Solange always had an air of indulgence about her that was very alluring. Now, Lynette understood why.

  Simon kneeled beside her and began to bathe her himself, covering a cloth in fragrant soap and washing her gently limb by limb. Eyes half-closed, she watched him, admiring the glorious rippling of powerful muscles beneath his skin. What a potently virile animal he was, yet he touched her with such gentleness.

  His hands slipped between her legs and she winced.

  “Are you overly sore?” he asked gruffly, his movements stilling.

  “No more so than should be usual, I imagine.” She winked. “Especially considering your size.”

  But his frown did not fade. With steady, yet tentative fingers, he felt along the swollen lips of her sex. She spread her legs as much as possible within the confines of the tub, showing him that she was not afraid or wounded unduly.

  His breath hitched at the gesture and his eyes, so softly affectionate a moment ago, heated with something more profound. His touch became less examining, more arousing, his callused fingertips parting her and slipping over the tiny knot of nerves that brought her so much pleasure.

  Her hands wrapped around the hot lip of the tub, clenching as he touched her there, his caress featherlight and teasing.

  “Simon?”

  “Let me watch you,” he whispered, stroking rhythmically. “Keep your eyes on me.”

  She whimpered as her womb tightened again, her muscles tensing, her cheeks flushing from the heat of the water and the added heat of the fire he sparked within her.

  He purred. “You feel like the softest silk, a thiasce.”

  She was completely exposed, pinned by his gaze, her lips parted on desperate pants as her body grew taut as a bow, tightening in anticipation of climax.

  The water began to slosh in measured waves, spurred by the movements of his hand at the most private part of her. Over and over, circling around and across the source of her torment. Her head fell back against the tub rim, her hips rising, her body instinctively working toward that blinding release of pressure.

  “I wish you were in me,” she gasped, feeling her sex grasping for him, reaching for him.

  “Come for me,” he crooned, pushing a finger gently inside her and thrusting shallowly. “Let me feel how much you need me here.”

  Arching, she climaxed silently while he watched her, the moment so intimate she felt as if there were no secrets between them.

  She turned her head, offering her mouth to him with a breathless plea. “Kiss me.”

  He accepted with a groan, his head angled to create the perfect fit between them. This time, she took all that he had taught her about kissing and gave it back to him, her tongue stroking into his mouth until he wrenched away with a curse, breathing heavily.

  Pushing to his feet, Simon held his hand out to her. “We must dress you and return you before the hour grows any later.”

  His groin was ey
e level and she could not fail to see how much her passion inspired his. If he cared for his own pleasure, he could have her again now. Whether she returned home or not did not affect him at all. Aside from de Grenier’s wrath, he would incur no penalty. Her father would not insist Simon wed her, because he was unsuitable.

  Therefore, the desire to see her home swiftly was for her benefit. Another display of his concern for her well-being.

  Lynette dressed swiftly, as did Simon. Her hands shook slightly when she saw the tear in the placket of the borrowed breeches. That she inspired such a primitive response in him awed her, but not nearly as much as the thought that he tempered such fervency. For her.

  Heavy-hearted, she followed him down to the front door and exited out to the chilly night air. The sky was dark; the streets mostly quiet, aside from a few eager vendors preparing for the soon-to-dawn morning. Piotr waited by the curb, the reins of their horses held in his hands. Simon’s mount was there, too, the one she had espied him upon the night she arrived in Paris.

  He assisted her up, then mounted, sitting tall in the saddle, his hand loosely resting atop the hilt of a small sword. His gaze was sharp, though his posture was relaxed. A hunter in disguise. She stared at him, finding it nearly impossible to believe that so formidable a man had been quivering in her arms.

  They rode in silence back to Solange’s home, Piotr falling deliberately behind them, while they traveled side by side. Although she had been overly hot during the ride to Simon’s, she was now shivering on the journey home, the chill starting from the inside and working its way out.

  When they reached the alley and dismounted, Piotr hurried to the stables with the two horses. Simon stood with her, eyes bright and frame stiff with tension.

  “I will send word to you and the vicomtess,” he said, “if I learn anything of note. I trust that you will heed my warning and leave Paris as soon as possible. Until then, stay out of view, I beg you.”

  Lynette bit her lower lip and nodded, her chest tight with an emotion akin to grief.

  Simon cupped her face with both hands and pressed a far-too-swift kiss to her trembling mouth. “Thank you.” His hands shook as he held her, then he backed away. “Go inside now.”

  With dragging steps, she headed toward the stables, where her clothes waited. She glanced back at him once and found him staring after her, hands behind his back. Her vision blurred with tears and she looked away, departing the alley with silent sobs.

  It was a painful crick in his neck that pulled Edward from the depths of dreamless sleep into waking. He groaned and straightened, discovering that he had slept for hours sitting up in Corinne’s bed. He straightened away from the headboard, rolling his shoulders, glancing to the side to see where she had gone to.

  She lay curled atop a pillow on the far side of the bed, watching him with eyes so ravaged by illness they looked bruised.

  He stilled, wary. “Good morning.”

  “Are you drunk?” she whispered.

  A smile threatened, but he restrained it. “I am afraid that smell is you. You were feverish and we needed to cool you.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I have been asking myself that question for three days.”

  “Three days?” she gasped, clearly horrified.

  Leaving the bed, Edward stretched his arms wide and glanced at the clock. He would have to leave for work shortly and, perhaps, not be allowed to return.

  He reached for the pitcher and glass on the nightstand, and poured a small ration. Rounding the bed to the other side, he deliberately moved without haste so as not to aggravate the high tension he sensed in her. She rolled with him, facing him.

  “Can you sit up?” he asked.

  Corinne blinked slowly, wearily. “I think so.”

  “If you require assistance, you have only to ask.”

  She struggled to a seated position on her own. “Where are the Fouches?”

  “Most likely preparing for the day. They are old,” he pointed out.

  “Thierry is not.”

  “Madame Fouche was disinclined to have him tend to you.”

  Holding out her hand, she accepted the glass. She looked like a child in the big bed, so small and delicate. “But she had no objection to you?”

  “Her age gave her little choice, and in the end, she felt a lover would be more acceptable to you than her son.”

  Corinne choked on her first swallow and he thumped her carefully on the back.

  “A lie, of course,” he pointed out, in case she thought more had happened to her while ill than she knew.

  “You are impossibly arrogant,” she gasped.

  “Yes, that is true.” He straightened. “I must prepare for work now. Would you allow me to visit you tomorrow in the evening?”

  She stared at him.

  He waited, knowing that he would think of her all night.

  However, tonight would best be spent in study of Quinn, a mystery that niggled at him relentlessly over the last two nights. Tomorrow he was free of any duty and he could catch up on missed sleep, enabling him to return to Corinne refreshed and perhaps armed with more information. It also gave her time to rebuild her strength. He knew she felt vulnerable now, which would only make her ill at ease and defensive. One wrong move could ruin everything.

  A knock came to the door, and shortly after, Madame Fouche bustled in, huffing from the journey up the narrow servants’ staircase. She paused upon seeing Corinne awake and curtsied. “Good morning, Madame Marchant.”

  Corinne frowned. “Good morning.”

  She still did not respond to Edward’s question and he reluctantly took that as an answer in the negative.

  “She will need plenty of fluids,” he said to the housekeeper. “Beef tea and vegetable stock, both salted lightly. Lots of water.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Edward held out his hand to Corinne and she placed hers within it. The skin was paper-thin and lined with thin blue veins. So fragile, yet she was so strong in other ways. He kissed the back and withdrew.

  He would pursue her anew when she was fully recovered. This would not be the end.

  “Where are your spectacles?” she asked.

  “They were crushed the night of the fire.”

  Her fingers tightened on his. “You saved me.”

  “Actually, you were well on your way to saving yourself. I simply caught you.”

  “And tended me for three days. Thank you.”

  He bowed, released her hand, and turned away.

  “I anticipate your visit tomorrow,” she said in barely a whisper.

  Edward’s steps faltered slightly, but he gave no other outward sign of his relief. He could not appear eager, not with a woman so frightened of overt male interest.

  “Until then,” was all he said, but he was smiling as he departed.

  Desjardins was whistling as he entered his study shortly after breaking the fast. It was unfortunate that James had chosen to search the wrong side of the Orlinda manse first, which had led to Lysette being exposed to danger longer than he would have liked. However, the physician assured him she would survive without long-term damage and James was so smitten already that he had spent the last three nights tending to her himself.

  But then such fortuitous events were the usual for him. His life had always been a charmed one. Take, for instance, the Fouches. While he regretted providing Lysette with such elderly and subsequently dubious help, he could afford no better without arousing undue suspicion in his wife. Comtess Desjardins was a beautiful woman, far too lovely for a man of his unremarkable appearance, but regardless, she loved him, as he loved her, and she would not allow him mistresses or even temporary dalliances. Keeping Lysette was one of his marriage’s enduring secrets, as were his less savory deeds performed with the goal of increasing their social stature.

  Now it appeared the age of the Fouches was a blessing in disguise, providing James the excuse to act heroically once again.

  The comte had j
ust taken his seat behind his desk when a knock came to the open door. He smiled at the waiting butler and said, “Send him in.”

  He knew the man’s identity already, as his arrival was scheduled and perfectly timed.

  A moment later Thierry entered, smiling. “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  His returning smile was sincere, his affection for the man bolstered by over two decades of loyal service. Thierry had filled many roles over the years, from courier to footman. His present guise as the Fouches’ son allowed him to stay apprised of the developing relationship between Lysette and James. Despite their years, the Fouches had no difficulty in assimilating new roles quickly, even becoming the parents of a grown man overnight.

  “How is Lysette?” the comte asked.

  “She woke this morning.”

  “Lovely news.”

  “She is tired and weak, of course,” Thierry said, “but seems well enough.”

  Desjardins leaned back, his legs stretched out before him. “Any word on what she and James intend from this point?”

  “James will return tomorrow.”

  “Not tonight?”

  “No, not that I blame the man. Mademoiselle Rousseau is not an easy woman to care for while unconscious, courtesy of Depardue and his men.”

  “Damn the man.”

  He would never forget his first sight of her, cowering and abused, ruthlessly shared among a coarse lot of men until little of her spirit remained. But again, it was another fortunate event for him, because acquiring Lysette had given him a valuable tool he would not have had otherwise, both in her loyalty and her identity. Only time would tell if he would ever have to use the latter, but it was there, if he should need it.

  “I will see her this evening, then,” the comte said. “Tell her to expect me.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Thierry straightened and leaned forward, setting a missive on the edge of the desk with a now familiar and much hated black seal on the reverse. “I was handed this on the way here.”

  Thierry had become nearly the only bearer of the L’Esprit orders of late, but then Thierry was one of few whom Desjardins saw on a regular basis.