Rendezvous (9781301288946)

  Even at this early hour the sailors had long been awake, scrambling about amongst the riggings, readying the single-masted ship to catch the tide. The mail for the continent had already been stowed on board as one lone passenger made his way up the gangplank. His face muffled in the depths of a woolen scarf, his flowing white-blond hair all but hidden beneath a red Phrygian cap, Etienne Lazare attracted little notice or comment from any of the busy seamen.

  Sheltered from the stiff sea breeze, standing near a silk warehouse, Sinclair and Belle watched Lazare's progress to the ship.

  Sinclair stuffed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat. Brief as his acquaintance with Lazare was, the mere sight of the Frenchman inspired Sinclair to ball his hands into fists.

  “Lazare appears to be taking no chances of being left behind," he grumbled.

  "Perhaps if we are fortunate enough, he will fall overboard." Although Belle's voice was light, Sinclair did not miss a certain tightening of her mouth. Her face was shadowed beneath the brim of her straw bonnet as she studied the distant form of Lazare

  "Why, Angel?" Sinclair demanded. "You clearly despise the man, so why did you agree to let him come?" It was a question he had been seeking an answer for ever since her initial outburst that night outside Mal du Coeur when she had blurted out that she had been the one to shoot off Lazare's ear and scar his face.

  But Belle had refused to discuss the incident any further. For the past ten days they had seen little of each other, both too busy preparing for the journey to France for Sinclair to pursue the matter. But now that Lazare had crossed their path again, Sinclair felt he had to have some answers.

  As always, Belle evaded the question. "Lazare has his uses," she said. "No one knows the streets of Paris better than he does, not even Baptiste."

  Sinclair stepped in front of her, partly to shield her from the brisk wind that was causing her to belt her pelisse more snugly about her and partly to force her to look at him.

  "That won't do," he said. "I think it is time you were a little more forthcoming with me about our friend Lazare."

  "The quarrel between Lazare and me is personal. I told you before, it doesn't concern you, Mr. Carrington."

  Belle tried to edge past him, but Sinclair closed in, all but backing her against the wall of the warehouse. He leaned one hand against the rough planking, using the length of his arm as a barrier to her escape.

  "It concerns me a great deal, Angel." Sinclair watched Belle stiffen, the soft angles of her face turning hard. She was not the sort of woman to respond to demands or to being bullied. He infused a coaxing, almost playful note into his voice. "After all, I am rather attached to both of my ears. I wouldn't want to offend you in the same manner Lazare did, whatever that was." Sinclair allowed his eyes to rove suggestively over the outline of her lips down to the full curve of her breasts. A flickering of Belle's lashes told him that she was not unresponsive to the boldness of his gaze.

  "If I was ever tempted to shoot at you, Mr. Carrington," she said tartly, "I would aim much lower than your ears."

  As Sinclair chuckled, she thrust his arm aside, breaking past him. But she had taken only a few paces along the wharf when he caught hold of her arm.

  "You might have a little pity on me, Isabelle. As a new member of your society, it is only natural I am curious about you and Lazare. Small wonder poor King Louis still languishes in exile if all you royalists persist in shooting each other instead of—"

  "I told you I am no royalist. And as for Lazare—" Belle gave a derisive laugh. She spun about to face Sinclair, her hands on her hips. "He was once a sans-culotte, the more radical group of the revolutionaries. I daresay he cheered more loudly than any when Louis XVI was beheaded. According to Lazare, only the working class in Paris deserved to be left alive."

  Sinclair frowned in confusion. "Then what the deuce is he doing working for Merchant?"

  "Lazare claims to have seen the error of his ways, to now be a loyal monarchist. He likely thinks he has fooled Merchant, but I doubt if he has. Victor is far too shrewd for that. But they both hate Napoleon, the difference being Victor would replace the Corsican with a Bourbon king, Lazare with anarchy."

  Belle added thoughtfully, "It will be interesting to see what happens when Victor and Lazare cease to be of use to each other."

  Sinclair pinched the bridge of his nose as though the information she had given him was too much to assimilate. "It's enough to give one a headache," he complained. "This gets more confusing all the time, like reading a book with too many of the pages gone." He leveled a stare at her. "Some of which I think you hold."

  So he was back to that again, probing into her own past concerning Lazare. Belle clamped her mouth shut. She hated questions regarding her own life. She had told Sinclair that at the outset. If Sinclair was going to be her partner, he would have to learn to tolerate her reticence, just as she was learning to put up with his infernal habit of calling her Angel.

  Yet in this matter of Lazare, perhaps she was merely being stubborn. Belle exuded a weary sigh. Sinclair did have a right to know the whole tale, especially if he was going to be working with Lazare. He ought to be warned how dangerous Lazare could be.

  As though he sensed her yielding, Sinclair remained patiently silent, stroking back the strands of night-dark hair the wind whipped across his eyes. Belle stared at a flock of sea gulls wheeling overhead, their strident cries breaking the quiet morning air, but she charted not so much their course as the course of a memory, a memory like too many others she possessed, painful, better forgotten.

  "Two years ago Lazare and I were on a mission together," she began at last. "It was a simple enough assignment, to gain information on French troops, where they would be likely to strike next against the allied forces."

  Belle shook her head dolefully, rubbing her arms. "But the expedition seemed ill-fated from the first. I took sick soon after we were set ashore in France. I became feverish, almost delirious. Lazare should have just left me, went on himself. But he insisted on nursing me back to health. I should have died but for his care."

  "The man strikes me as being a most unlikely nurse." Sinclair only echoed what Belle had thought herself at the time. She struggled to account for Lazare's unexpectedly noble behavior.

  "I seemed to hold a strange fascination for him. The streak of cruelty in him was not as strong as his vanity in those days. He was very conscious of his looks, and in me, I believe, he thought he had at last found a fitting mate."

  "Him and you?" Sinclair growled. "It's enough to make my flesh crawl just thinking about the possibility. So he took care of you until you recovered. Then what happened?"

  "We went on with the mission. It went well enough until we were surprised by two soldiers and forced to take them captive. They were both so young." Belle closed her eyes briefly and could again envision the two lads, peasant farm boys in their ragged, ill-fitting uniforms, doubtlessly farther from home than they had ever been in their lives and so scared.

  She opened her eyes and continued briskly, "We had them well trussed up, hidden in a ditch by the roadside. We would have been long gone before anyone found them. I saw no need to silence them permanently, but Lazare did not agree. He kept sharpening that damned knife and eyeing their throats. He used to be a knife grinder by profession. He would stroke that blade of his the way most men caress a woman."

  Sinclair looked sickened. "Good God! The two soldiers. Lazare didn't—"

  "No, he didn't, but only because I drew out my pistol and threatened him. Lazare tried to take the weapon away from me, and somehow it went off." Belle caught her breath. It was as though she could yet see Lazare clutching the side of his head, the blood gushing between his fingers, and she could still hear his screams, his horrible inhuman screams.

  Belle became aware that Sinclair was grasping her hands. Her fingers felt cold even encased in kid gloves, but Sinclair's warm strength penetrated the thin leather, dispelling the chill that coursed through her. Lazare'
s screams faded to become nothing more than the cries of the gulls circling the pier.

  "Somehow I got Lazare away from there," she concluded, "and found him a doctor. There was no possibility of saving his ear. Indeed it was a miracle he lived at all, considering the severity of his wound, the powder burns to his face." Wearily she shook her head. "I felt so guilty. I never meant to shoot him. I only wanted to stop him."

  "The only thing you should be sorry for is not having had better aim. You should have killed that blackguard, Angel."

  Belle glanced up at Sinclair, startled by the vehemence of his words.

  "There is nothing more dangerous than a wounded jackal. When Lazare looks at you-.” Sinclair's jaw tensed. "You should never have agreed to his presence on this mission."

  "Perhaps not.” Sinclair told her nothing that she had not repeated over and over to herself this past week. "But he did save my life once, and considering how badly he was injured by my hand, I fear Lazare is right. I do, at least, owe him another chance."

  Sinclair did not look as though he agreed, but he vented a sigh of frustrated acceptance. "You just be careful around that man, Angel. Do you hear me?"

  Sinclair's commanding tone should have irritated her, but strangely it did not. She gave a shaky laugh. "I am always careful, Mr. Carrington. But if Lazare wanted vengeance, believe me, he would have tried to take it long ago. He is not a subtle man."

  "All the same, I would never turn my back on him for long, especially on board the packet. I don't want you anywhere near him on that open deck."

  "No fear of that. I will spend the entire crossing below in one of the cabins." Although it hurt her pride to admit to what she considered a foolish weakness, Belle said, "I am frequently prey to seasickness."

  Sinclair's grim expression softened. "So is Admiral Lord Nelson," he told her with a grin.

  "Truly, is he?" Belle asked eagerly, then eyed him with suspicion. "Sinclair, you made that up."

  "No, upon my honor, I did not."

  Whether Sinclair had or hadn't, it didn’t matter. Once again he had lightened her mood and charmed a smile from her. She became aware that he was yet grasping her hands. Rather reluctantly she disengaged herself.

  They strolled some little ways along the dock together in companionable silence. Having resisted accepting Sinclair as a partner, it occurred to Belle that she had learned to be comfortable with him in a short space of time. He was so easy to talk to—

  Too easy, she thought, frowning. What other man had ever induced her to reveal painful episodes of her past or to expose her weaknesses? Especially a man who was a virtual stranger to her. What did she truly know of Sinclair Carrington? Belle cast a sharp glance at him. He gazed out across the rough channel waters, making no effort to shield his already sun-bronzed features from the elements, seeming to take a keen enjoyment in the wind that tousled his hair and snapped the ends of his coat. His face indicated nothing to her except the countenance of a handsome rakehell, too damnably attractive from the lazy arrogance of his smile to the heat that radiated from his eyes when he looked at her.

  Perhaps it was time she posed a few questions of her own. Belle halted so abruptly that Sinclair outstripped her by several steps, his boots ringing against the weather-beaten boards of the dock. When he realized she was no longer with him, he turned back, his thick brows arching an inquiry.

  "Sinclair, I have been thinking-" she began.

  "That sounds rather alarming, Angel."

  She refused to be put off by his teasing. "You have learned some things about me these past ten days. Yet I still know next to nothing about you."

  A certain wariness crept into his eyes. "What did you want to know?"

  "To start with, you know my motive for working for Victor Merchant, but what about yours? And don't try to tell me you are a devoted royalist, because I don't think I will believe it."

  "I wouldn't dream of trying to humbug you, Angel. Quite simply, I work for the money. I am a soldier of fortune, an adventurer, the same as you. Didn't I tell you at the outset that you and I have a great deal in common?"

  His voice had dropped to an intimate pitch that she found as warm as a caress. Belle tried to ignore the way her pulse quickened in response.

  "But despite how much money Merchant was offering," she said, "you seemed most reluctant to accept this assignment, traveling to France—"

  "Speaking of traveling-." Sinclair reached inside the flap of his coat. "I have our passport right here."

  Was he trying to distract her? It was not going to work. He would soon discover she could be as persistent with her questions as he. When Sinclair offered the traveling papers to her, Belle snatched them and subjected them to the most cursory inspection, intending to thrust them right back at him.

  She hesitated as one line of the scrawled print leaped out at her. Issued to Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair Carrington, accompanied by one maidservant, Paulette Beauvais.

  "Mrs. Carrington?" She subjected Sinclair to an icy glare. "I wasn't aware that you were bringing your mother along."

  "You know full well that refers to you, Angel. I decided it would be best if you pretended to be my wife."

  "You decided! It is my habit to select my own roles, Mr. Carrington." She slapped the passport back into his hand so hard that he winced. "And if you think for one moment I will—"

  "Hold a moment, Belle, and reason it through clearly. If we hope to get near Napoleon, we will have to invade the upper reaches of French society. To do that we have to appear respectable."

  "I could pretend to be your sister."

  Sinclair's eyes drifted over her in one of those lingering appraisals that never failed to set her nerve endings a-tingle. "I would never be able to make anyone believe you were my sister. We look nothing alike. Besides, as a married woman, you will have greater freedom of movement."

  She hated to admit it, but Sinclair's arguments made sense, although she still distrusted his motives. Exactly how far would he try to take this pretense?

  While Sinclair returned the offending document to his pocket, she grumbled, "Do you truly think you can carry it off? Frankly, you strike me as too much of a rake to convince anyone that you are a married man."

  A mischievous glint appeared in Sinclair's eyes. "You can always give me the opportunity to practice."

  Belle stiffened. That was exactly the sort of attitude upon Sinclair's part that she feared. Before she could prevent it, he had slipped both arms about her waist and was drawing her closer. Belle splayed her fingers defensively against his chest. Even through the layers of fabric, she could feel how tautly honed were the muscles beneath.

  "This is not how respectable married people behave," she said, her heart beating erratically.

  "No? This is how I would behave if you were my bride."

  He was teasing her, as he was so fond of doing. Perhaps it would have ended there if their eyes had not chanced to meet. A spark of attraction coursed between them as undefinable as it was irresistible. Sinclair's easy smile vanished, his expression becoming more intent as he drew her closer. Her hands suddenly seemed too weak to hold him at bay.

  As his mouth slowly descended to claim hers, a tremor shot through Belle. His lips tasted of the salt sea air. Her resistance melted, and her lips became soft and pliant, allowing his questing tongue to explore the sensitive recesses of her mouth in slow, fire-wrought circles. Desire flickered to life, stirring a sweet ache deep within her, a need that she had denied for far too long.

  She retained enough sense to break free of Sinclair's all too seductive kiss and turn her head aside. "No," she said as his lips caressed her temple, the side of her cheek, his breath hot upon her skin. "We agreed that we should not- This is not wise— I—oh!"

  Her protest ended in an exclamation of dismay. She found herself staring deep into a pair of wide gray eyes that peered up at her from beneath the brim of a straw hat. Bare yards away, a small boy with wind-tossed sandy curls watched her and Sinclair with unblin
king fascination.

  "Sinclair!" Belle wrenched out of his arms. "We have an audience."

  "Hmmm?" Sinclair's ardor appeared to wax too hot for him to make sense of her words. Then he saw the boy, too, and grimaced as though just doused with cold water. A blush surged into Belle's cheeks. If their passionate embrace had attracted ribald comments from one of the dockhands, that would somehow have been less embarrassing than the child's innocent regard. For once, even Sinclair seemed at a loss for words.

  It was the boy who broke the tension. His snub nose crinkled like a rabbit's. He scratched it and broke into a grin whose charm was enhanced by a missing tooth.

  "I like kissing pwitty girls, too," he announced.

  After a moment of stunned silence, Sinclair flung back his head and gave a shout of laughter. Belle's lips curved into a reluctant smile.

  "But I like sweets better," the boy added.

  "Do you indeed? That will change when you grow a little older" Still chuckling, Sinclair slipped his hand inside his coat. He produced a small tin of peppermints, which he flicked open to share with the child.

  Not in the least shy, the little boy dipped into the tin and crunched down upon one of the drops. "It's hawder to eat when your tooth gets knocked out by a wock," he confided, his mouth full.

  Sinclair solemnly agreed, popping a peppermint into his own mouth and savoring it with the same boyish relish as the child did. When he noticed Belle's surprised stare, he said, "I have a sweet tooth, Angel—another of my vices.”

  "You appear to have so many of them, Mr. Carrington."

  "At least this is one of my harmless ones." He cast her a wicked look, his gaze lingering on her lips, which yet felt tender from his kiss.

  A kiss that would not happen again, Belle vowed. Deciding to ignore Sinclair, it seemed by far safer to concentrate upon the child, who was emptying Sinclair's tin. She stooped down so that she was at eye level with the boy's piquant features. She straightened his straw hat, which had been buffeted by the wind. The boy reminded her of an element there had never been any place for in her life—children. Once soon after her marriage, she had hoped, but a fall from a horse had taken care of that. A son like this with bright gray eyes and sandy curls was but one more thing that would forever be denied her.