Surrender to a Stranger (24 page)

“And this is what the people of France wanted,” she whispered bitterly. She took another mouthful of brandy.

Armand shook his head. “No, Mademoiselle, this is not what the people of France wanted. Noblesse like your father dreamed of a new order in which the power of governing France would be more equitably shared between themselves and the monarchy. Perhaps he even shared the ideals of the philosophes and the bourgeois, in which the privileges and limitations of birth would be abandoned in favor of equality, where men would be judged by their character and abilities instead of their pedigree. It was a noble dream. But the peasants wanted something far simpler. They dreamed of bread on their tables and clothes on their backs, and an end to a system that stripped them of everything except their determination to survive. But the government in power today has little in common with the ideals that were expounded in 1789. The revolution has blown off course, and its original leaders have all been denounced and executed. Feudalism has been dismantled, the monarchy has been destroyed, the noblesse and bourgeois have been blamed for all the country’s ills and are being exterminated. Yet the masses are still starving, and the new leaders are terrified.”

Jacqueline tilted her head back and swallowed the rest of her drink. “They should be terrified,” she stated bitterly.

He looked up at her, and once again was captivated by her beauty. She was standing before the fireplace staring intently into the flames, which were casting gold and peach light across the pale ivory of her skin. A wisp of her honey-colored hair had strayed down to her cheek, and he was filled with an overwhelming urge to touch those threads of silk, to lightly brush them off her face and at the same time to know the feel of her velvety skin against his fingers. He remembered the night he had painted her face to make her look old and filthy and haggard, and he wondered now how he had ever accomplished such a feat. With her high cheekbones, her delicately chiseled chin, her perfectly shaped nose, and those lusciously full lips stained the color of summer strawberries, it was impossible to imagine that any man could have looked at her and not wanted her there and then. The thought did not please him.

“Monsieur St. James, I wish to engage your services,” she blurted out suddenly as she swung around to face him.

“Indeed?”

She set her glass down on the mantel and began to pace in front of the fireplace. “Today I received word that a friend of mine has been arrested and imprisoned in Paris. He has been falsely charged with assisting in my escape, but naturally his innocence will not spare him from the blade of the guillotine.” She stopped her pacing and looked at him. “If he has not already been executed, I wish to hire you to rescue him.”

A friend. He wondered exactly what that meant. “I see,” he replied.

His expression was utterly neutral, so it was impossible for her to tell whether he was interested in the mission or not. He had not said no, but he was not asking any questions either, and she did not think that was a good sign. “Of course I will pay you for your services,” she hastily assured him, lest he think she was asking him to return to France and risk his life simply as a favor to her.

He arched his brow skeptically. “And just how do you intend to pay me, Mademoiselle? Has Sir Edward placed a generous sum of money at your disposal? Or are we back to drawing on the fund you have set up for Suzanne and Séraphine?”

He was referring to her previous offer back in Paris, when she had asked him to help her kill Nicolas. He had refused her then. She did not want him to refuse her now. “Neither,” she replied. “Although my financial resources are extremely limited here, I do have some wealth waiting for me in France.”

He looked at her in disbelief. “Mademoiselle, you know all of the De Lambert holdings have been confiscated by the government, including the château and its contents.”

“True,” she admitted. “But since almost no one in France has any hard currency, and anyone who did would be afraid to spend it on something as grand and antirevolutionary as the Château de Lambert, it is unlikely the government has been able to find a buyer for it.”

He still did not understand her reasoning. “What of it?”

She seated herself on the sofa beside him. “Do you remember at my trial, how the public prosecutor demanded to know where the De Lambert jewel collection was?”

He nodded.

Jacqueline smiled with satisfaction. “That was one prize they were not able to get their filthy, bloodstained hands on. They wanted it badly, for it is worth a fortune, and they knew they could easily sell it outside of France, for real currency that is worth more than the paper
assignats
the government continues to pour into circulation.”

“As I recall, you told Fouquier-Tinville you had sold it.”

“I lied.”

He regarded her with interest. “Are you saying the jewels are here in England?”

“No,” she replied. “I hid them at the château. But when we return I will fetch them.”

His turquoise eyes clouded over with angry disbelief as understanding dawned on him. “So that is what this is all about,” he began, his voice low and taut. “You still cannot forget this need for vengeance that poisons your every thought, preventing you from accepting your new life here.” He stood and braced one hand against the mantel, staring hard into the flames as he fought to control the fury fast rising within him.

“This mission has nothing to do with vengeance,” she burst out heatedly. “François-Louis has been arrested and he needs your help. Since I do not expect you to work for charity, it is necessary that I go with you so I can get the jewels. Once I have them I will wait for you wherever you tell me to. I have no intention of going anywhere near Nicolas.” It was a complete lie of course, but she was certain her tone was sincere.

He turned around to face her, his expression harsh. “Do you take me for a fool, Mademoiselle? You know as well as I that you are obsessed with the thought of killing him. The very fact that you want to go with me clearly demonstrates how little regard you have for your own life, despite your responsibility toward your sisters.” He turned away from her in disgust. “You are appallingly selfish.” His voice was heavy with contempt.

“How dare you speak to me so!” she spat, rising from the sofa to stand beside him. “I am offering to pay you, Monsieur St. James, whatever price you ask, so François-Louis can be saved. I am willing to even risk my own life to secure his freedom, and you dare to call such an act selfish? You, a bourgeois merchant who deals in the movement of frightened, desperate human cargo as a way of making a living, and who would not even consider saving the life of another unless the price was agreeable to you? You dare to stand there and judge me selfish?” Her voice was shaking with anger.

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. “Tell me, Jacqueline, what is this man to you, that his survival is so important you are willing to risk your life for him?” he demanded.

“He is…a friend,” she stammered, not certain why she chose to describe him as such. François-Louis was her betrothed, the man with whom she was supposed to have shared her life. Perhaps, since she would not live long enough to marry, such a description did not seem important.

“A friend,” he repeated. Again he found himself wondering just exactly what that meant, and could not understand why it mattered to him. “And do you intend to return to France to rescue all your friends as they are arrested?” he demanded sarcastically.

“Of course not,” she assured him. “But François-Louis has been falsely accused of assisting with my escape, and I feel honor bound to help him.” She turned away from him, furious that he was questioning her motives. “Naturally I should not have expected you to understand, Monsieur,” she declared sarcastically. “I had forgotten such a code of honor is not part of the history of your class.”

It was as if she had slapped him. He reached out and clamped his hands on her shoulders, then spun her around so quickly she let out a gasp of outrage.

“Be warned, my haughty little aristo,” he drawled softly as he held her in a painful grip. “I do not take such assaults on my character lightly. If you wish to criticize me, do so on the basis of my actions, not my birthright.”

She glared up at him, her eyes the smoky gray of a summer storm that advances quickly across the ocean. Her breasts were rising and falling rapidly as indignation and anger stole her breath; they strained against the black jeweled silk of her bodice, barely touching him, and yet suddenly creating a desire within him that was appalling in its intensity. The honey-gold wisp of hair brushing against her cheek had been joined by another silky lock, that had tumbled away from its pins and come to rest against her collarbone. Her cheeks and throat were flushed from the heat of the fire, or perhaps from her fury. Her lips were moist and slightly parted, ready to demand he unhand her. She felt warm beneath his touch, warm and soft and filled with life, and despite every ounce of rational thought within him ordering him to let her go, he found he could not help himself. He bent his head and captured her lips with his.

Jacqueline’s first thought was that she must fight, that this was another assault that she must fend off with every fiber of her being. Her entire body stiffened and she tried to pull away. But as Armand’s lips began to move gently over hers, warm and firm and coaxing, she was overcome with a strange sensation that rendered her unable to fight. It was a feeling of warmth, and need, and curiosity, all melded together into one, making her dizzy and at the same time sharply aware of everything that was happening. In her mind she wanted to shove against him and push him away, she was certain of it, but her hands betrayed her, moving up to rest lightly against his chest, tingling at the feel of the hard, muscular wall that lay beneath the fine wool of his evening jacket. Armand’s kiss grew more demanding and her lips parted, and then his tongue was gently sweeping into the wet heat of her mouth, startling her, confusing her, pleasing her.

He released her shoulders and lifted one hand to trace the delicate line of her jaw, while the other arm wrapped possessively around her waist, pulling her close. Her small, slender form sank against his enormous frame, molding herself to him until he was achingly aware of every soft curve. His tongue explored the sweet darkness of her mouth, and she began to respond with an urgency that matched his own, tasting, teasing, touching, wrapping her arms around his neck, and pressing into him until he was oblivious to everything except the need to be closer to her. His hand trailed down the ivory column of her throat and came to rest around the fullness of her breast. He stroked the soft mound and the nipple sprang to life beneath his palm, and Jacqueline moaned and clung to him even harder, as if she was desperate to be touched. Her need intoxicated him, it filled him with a passion he had long thought dead, and without pausing to question it, he tore his lips away from hers and began to kiss the fragrant skin of her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. Her scent was delicate and fresh; it reminded him of country air on a summer day, sweet and tangy and wonderfully clean. He wanted to touch and taste every part of her, to strip the black silk gown from her body and feel her naked beneath him, to pull the pins from her hair and plunge his hands deep into the blond thickness he knew barely touched her shoulders, knew because he had cut that hair with his own hands to save her life.

Until this moment he had not once thought of making her his. Now he could not imagine letting anyone else have her.

When he had left her that night with the Harringtons, his mission was completed, and yet he had felt as if he was abandoning her. She had seemed so lost and out of place, and for a brief moment he had actually wanted to lead her back to his carriage and take her home with him. He had tried not to think of her these past few weeks, and yet she had haunted him, interrupting his thoughts from morning until night. When he first saw her this evening, looking so pale and regal and beautiful, and in Preston’s arms, he had been filled with a rage so intense it had shocked him. Now she was here in his arms, responding to his touch, and awakening things in him he had not experienced in years. It was wrong to touch her. He understood that. He had nothing to offer her. He was not titled. He would not marry her even if he were, for he knew with every trip he made back to France he might not return. It was his choice to constantly play this game with death. But he could not expect a woman to live with that kind of torment. He should stop, now, before they went any further. Yet he could not control himself. He crushed her against him and pressed his lips to hers, drinking in her sweet passion like a man dying of thirst who has suddenly been offered a cup of crystal cool water.

It was the soft creak of the door that alerted him. He released her instantly, taking care to shield her with his body while he steadied her. She looked up at him in confusion, her eyes troubled, her lips rosy and swollen from his kisses.

“There you are, Armand,” sang out Laura’s voice prettily. “I have been looking for you all evening—whatever are you doing hiding in here?”

Armand took a deep breath and let an expression of absolute boredom cross his face. He turned and gifted Laura with a smile that seemed to say he was absolutely delighted by her interruption. “Mademoiselle de Lambert and I were just discussing the current situation in France,” he drawled wearily in English, as if he found the subject utterly dull.

Laura looked at Jacqueline in surprise, obviously having thought that Armand was alone. Her glance swept over her, taking in her slightly disheveled look. “Why Jacklyn, we have been looking for you everywhere,” she remarked stiffly. “Have you told Armand the perfectly awful news about your betrothed?”

Armand’s expression darkened slightly. “I don’t believe she has.”

“Well, it is simply terrible,” Laura assured him. “Jacklyn’s betrothed, the Marquis de Biret, has been arrested and is awaiting execution in a prison in Paris. Jacklyn has been terribly upset about it all day, haven’t you, Jacklyn?”