Trapped by Scandal (11 page)

Hero rummaged in the knapsack. She found bread and cheese, a thick garlic sausage, apples, and a paper twist of coffee. “How do we make coffee without a fire?”

“We don't.” William, returning as soundlessly as ever, knelt beside her, setting down his flagon of water. “It's too risky to light one this close to the city. Maybe later tonight, when we've moved downstream. Later this afternoon, I'll see if I can tickle a trout or two.”

“Oh, I'm quite good at that,” Hero said. “Better even than Alec. We used to do it all the time when we were children. Of course, the river keeper considered it unsportsmanlike and was most unpleasant if he ever caught us at it. D'you remember, Alec?”

“Mmm,” he murmured, still too occupied with the sleeping Marie Claire to pay serious attention to his sister.

Hero shrugged. “We'll try together this afternoon.” She took out her small knife from the pocket of her apron and began to slice the sausage. “I am famished.”

William chuckled. Society ladies in general did not admit to the grosser needs of the flesh; in fact, if they were to be believed, they lived on air. But then, of course, Hermione Fanshawe was no ordinary Society lady. And the reflection brought a deep frown between his brows. What possible life could she lead when she so clearly didn't fit into the one she'd been born to? He knew to his cost what happened to those who stepped beyond the boundaries of acceptability, and the thought of Hero, with her indomitable, reckless spirit suffering that fate was something he could not countenance. But, for the moment, there was nothing to be done about anything except getting themselves to safety, and that was his responsibility.

“What's the matter? Why are you frowning?” Hero felt a little chill. His sudden displeasure was almost palpable. It had happened several times before, and it always seemed to come from nowhere. It was directed at her, but she couldn't for the life of her imagine what caused it.

“Something we're going to have to discuss at some future time,” he said, spearing a piece of sausage on the point
of his knife. “But the issue is moot at present.” He tipped up the flagon of crystal clear water and sent a stream down his throat before passing it to Hero.

Alec left the sleeping Marie Claire and came over to them, helping himself to bread and cheese and sausage. He looked drawn and worried, much as he had looked in the months spent waiting for news from her family.

“She'll be all right, love. Once she's had some rest and fresh air and decent food.” Hero laid a hand on his arm, offering what reassurance she could. “Perhaps we could find some fresh milk?” She glanced interrogatively at William.

“I've never milked a cow,” he said, “but there's always a first time for everything.”

“I'm sure we could buy a cup from a farm somewhere,” Hero pointed out in a tone of reproof. He didn't seem to be taking the matter seriously enough. And then she reflected that he rarely seemed to make heavy weather of anything—except when his sense of responsibility overwhelmed him, she reminded herself, remembering that fury-borne passion of lovemaking. But however relaxed he seemed, most of the time whatever needed doing always got done, however impossible it appeared.

“Later,” he promised. “For now, I intend to have a nap, and I suggest you do the same.” He rose to his feet in a leisurely stretch and wandered away into the bushes, presumably to answer a call of nature.

Hero glanced around for a secluded spot for herself as she stood up. A group of shrubs close to the river looked suitable, and she took herself off into their seclusion. She
was preparing to leave her private spot when she froze in the process of shaking down her skirts. Voices rose from the river below. They sounded very close, and her heart beat faster. The last thing they needed was inquiring strangers.

She crept as quietly as she could out of the shrubs and back to where Alec was now lying beside Marie Claire, one arm protectively around her sleeping figure. William was repacking the knapsack. He looked up, instantly alert, as she approached softly over the grass. “Men,” she whispered. “On the river just a few yards away.”

He nodded. “Stay here, and keep quiet.” It was a whispered command but nonetheless imperative. Then he strolled casually back the way she had come. Hero hesitated and then followed him, her heart in her throat. Crouching behind a tall stand of reeds, she could see the two men standing on a sandy spit at the side of the river. They didn't look like villagers; they carried muskets slung across their chests, and they wore the cocked hats of members of one of the local militias who patrolled the countryside, sniffing out any antirevolutionary sentiment, accusing and arresting at will those who fell foul of them for any reason, personal or otherwise. They were universally loathed, uneducated and brutish.

She held her breath, watching as William approached them, raising a hand in greeting. They turned and surveyed him as he came onto the spit. He walked casually towards them, his red cap tilted to one side, and Hero saw that his hand was on the slim knife sheathed at his belt. It was a rapier blade, she knew. As lethal as all such weapons were intended to be.

William gestured to the river running by the tip of the spit, and they both followed his hand with their eyes. He was talking with animation. Hero could not hear a word, but she saw as they moved that he was encouraging them to go to the end where it jutted into the river, which flowed fast at that point, a swirling eddy around the sandy tip. They had their backs to him, shading their eyes as they looked across the river to the far bank, following William's gesturing hand.

What happened next was so fast Hero barely caught it. She saw a silver flash, heard a short cry, and one of the men fell forward, his head in the river. The other swung around in surprise, and the knife caught him, so that it looked almost as if he fell upon it. He toppled backwards as William withdrew the knife.

Hero stared in momentary incomprehension. Then it became clear as day. There were two dead men at the end of the spit, and William was now manhandling the bodies into the river, where, with the speed of the current, they would be whisked downstream. Without further thought, she scrambled through the reeds and ran along the spit, bending to help him as he heaved and maneuvered the second body into the whirling eddy of the river. She stood watching blankly as the dead man turned, spun around, and then, caught by the current, disappeared beneath the water, reappearing a few yards farther down, visible for only a moment as the body was swept out of sight around a bend in the river.

She looked at William. “You just killed two men.”

“Yes,” he agreed, his voice harsh, as he bent to wash the
blade of his knife in the water. “Before they took us. If you can't stand the heat, child, you need to stay away from the fire.” His voice was cold, a tone she had not heard before, and his expression was dark as the grave. He straightened and turned to her, taking her by the upper arms. “Now, listen to me. When I tell you to stay put, you stay put. Will you understand that?” His fingers were hard on her arms but not painful. They didn't need to be. His point was unmistakable.

She nodded, thinking of Marie Claire, so vulnerable in the glade behind them. They could not have run from the militia with an invalid, and if the militia had taken them, they would all have died. She said tentatively, “You were glad of my help to get rid of them, though, weren't you?”

“Don't try to cozen me,” he responded. “I could have managed well enough without you, as you well know. But if you disobey me again on this journey, I won't answer for the consequences. Is that understood, Hero?”

“Yes, up to a point. But supposing a situation arises that you hadn't anticipated, and I can do something about it but it would go against your dictates? What am I supposed to do then?”

She looked genuinely anxious for his answer, and after a moment of disbelief, he said, “I give in. In such a situation, you will follow your own instincts, as always, But believe me, if they lead you astray and cause more trouble, then beware my wrath.”

The harshness had left his voice, and there was glinting amusement now in the tawny gold eyes, but Hero understood that some kind of bargain had been made. He was
willing to trust her in extremis, but she must be prepared to accept the consequences if her instincts played her false.

“So be it,” she said.

“Now that we understand each other, I suggest we take that nap before we try to tickle some trout.”

ELEVEN

H
ero awoke from her comfortable spot in the indentation between tree roots after a blissful period of unconsciousness. She hitched herself onto an elbow and glanced across to where her brother and Marie Claire lay. Alec was sitting up, his arm around his fiancée as he helped her drink from the water flask. He glanced at his sister as she pulled herself into wakefulness.

“You slept well?”

“Yes, thank you. How is she?”

“Stronger, I think.” He set aside the flask and re­arranged Marie Claire against his shoulder.

Hero edged over to them, taking the other woman's hand. “How do you feel, love?”

“Better.” Marie Claire managed a feeble smile. “I think I just need to sleep.”

“Could you eat anything?”

She shook her head. “No, not yet. Just sleep.” She slid down again into the mossy space that had held her before. Alec helped her to position herself and covered her again with his cloak. She was instantly asleep.

“It is the best medicine, they say,” Hero said with a ten
tative smile, laying a hand on her twin's arm. “I do think she will make it, Alec. We will all make it out of here.”

He nodded slowly. “I don't want to leave her alone.”

“No, of course, you mustn't.” Hero knelt up, looking around the glade. There was no sign of William. After a moment, she said, “William killed two men just a short while ago.”

Alec looked at her, his gaze sharp. “Who were they?”

“Militia. I heard them by the river.” Her attempt at a casual shrug was unconvincing. “I told William, and he just killed them . . . with his knife. And pushed them into the river.”

Alec looked closely at his sister. “Them or us,” he said quietly.

She took a deep breath. “Yes, I know that. My brain knows it, at least.”

“But you can't quite accept it?” he said.

“Not quite,” she agreed. “And I know it's stupid. I know the danger. I spent a week in that blood-filled city, fighting for my life. And yet there was something so cold, so calculating . . . I don't know, Alec. Maybe I'm a weak and feeble woman after all, when all's said and done.”

“When all's said and done, it's hard to have strong feelings for an assassin,” her brother stated with brutal clarity. “But you do; it's as simple as that. And William does what he has to do to fulfill a higher purpose. He knew we could never have escaped with Marie Claire the way she is, so he simply did what he always does. What needed to be done.”

Hero leaned back against the tree trunk. Nothing Alec had said was surprising. And this most powerful attrac
tion she felt for William Ducasse included that aspect of his character. He asked for no quarter, and he took no prisoners. It was for her a most potent attraction . . . and what that said about her she didn't know.

After a few moments, she stood up, stretching, feeling absurdly well for the circumstances. William would be at the river tickling trout. She set off, careful not to make a noise crackling through the underbrush, and emerged on the riverbank a few minutes later. William lay on his belly a few feet ahead of her, his hand in the water. She stopped to watch him, his utter silence and concentration, and the stillness seeped into her as she took a deep breath. She knew what it felt like, that quiet, perfect moment when it was just you and your intention, a battle of wits and will with the fish under the stone.

She trod soundlessly to the bank and slipped onto her belly, looking into the brown shallows of the river under the bank, where the swift current didn't reach. And she saw the speckled brown trout he was after, lying still and flat under a stone amidst the rushes. If William was aware of her presence, he gave no sign, and she made no move to disturb his concentration.

His fingers moved delicately through the water, taunting the trout, challenging it, and then his hand moved, swift as an eel, and caught the fish above the gills, lifting it thrashing out of the water. Hero reached for the heavy stick she had seen lying ready beside William, and with a swift, neat movement, she gaffed the wriggling trout. It was over in a moment, the fish falling still on the bank, William pushing back onto his knees, smiling down at her.

“Well, you are quite the fisherman, my lady. My thanks for a speedy save.”

“You were ready for him,” she said, rolling onto her back on the bank, her eyes smiling. “Did you rest at all?”

“I did.” He knelt above her, wiping his wet hands on his jerkin. “You seemed to be sleeping peacefully.”

She stretched, lifting her arms to him. “I did, but I seem very wide awake now.” She linked her hands behind his neck, drawing his head down to hers. For a moment, he hung above her, his tawny gold eyes filled with light, his mouth firm, his body braced on his elbows, and then he brought his mouth to hers, and this was a soft, gentle, exploratory kiss, so unlike the rough, needy passion of their previous connection. His tongue moved within her mouth, stroking the sides of her cheeks, teasing her own tongue with little darting movements, sliding over her lips, and Hero responded, tasting his mouth, her tongue dancing with the suppleness of his, relishing the soft sweetness of his inner cheeks.

He lifted his mouth from hers for a moment, rearing back on his heels, moving a hand over her face, tracing its lines and contours, a finger painting the curve of her lips. Then he unlaced her bodice, slowly, carefully, parting the sides to reveal her breasts. His lips caressed her nipples as they rose erect beneath the touch of his tongue. His hands spanned her ribcage as he opened the bodice even further, so that she felt the air cool on her belly. His lips painted a liquid caress through the cleft of her breasts and down to her navel, dipping into the sweet indentation, before flicking sideways to brush a moist kiss across her
hip bones as his hands pushed her loosened skirt down over her hips.

She lifted her hips, and he pushed the skirt and petticoat down to her knees, his flat palm stroking her belly. A finger slid between her thighs, exploring, feeling the heated core of her sex rise hard beneath his touch. Hero gasped as his fingers slid inside her, teasing, stroking, flooding her with sensations more intense than any she had experienced. Her hips bucked, her hands tightened around his neck, and she gave herself up to the exquisite moment of fulfillment as the last rays of the dying sun warmed her closed eyelids.

Even as her body still pulsed from that delicious moment of pure pleasure, he unfastened his britches, rising above her for a moment, his eyes holding hers, before he entered her in a slow glide, his penis sheathing itself within her moist and welcoming body. She tightened her internal muscles around him as he pushed against the very edge of her womb, and he gave a little cry of surprised pleasure, then withdrew to the edge of her body, watching her face, her smile as the tip of her tongue touched her lips in a moment of pure sensual delight, and then he plunged deep within her to become a part of her, his sex throbbing deep into her core, and Hero heard herself cry out, her hips lifting, her buttocks tightening, as the shafts of sensation shot through her body with such intensity she was no longer sure whether it was pain or pleasure she felt.

And then it was over. She felt herself sinking into the earth beneath her, her hips falling heavily, her legs
sprawled, and William fell alongside her, his penis still pulsing against her thigh, one arm flung across her body.

No anger had fueled that explosion. Passion, pure and simple, Hero thought, her hand resting on his chest, feeling the rapidly beating heart. And it was wonderful. For a wistful moment, she thought how lovely it would be to fall asleep now in a deep shared bed, with nothing to worry about. Instead, there were two dead men surging on the tide downriver, a weak and ailing young woman, and many miles as well as the Channel to cross before the possibility of a bed, shared or otherwise, could be considered as anything more than a dream.

William stirred first. He rolled sideways and stood up, fastening his britches. He looked down at Hero, still inert on the bank. “It's almost dark, and you have to move, sweetheart. We need to take the boat and get downstream, where we can make a fire and cook the fish.” He bent to take her hands, pulling her to her feet.

Hero shook down her skirts, refastened her bodice, and flexed her shoulders. “How do we take the boat?”

He tilted her chin on his forefinger. “Such an indomitable Hero you are. Alec and I will take it, while you help Marie Claire to her feet. She will need certain things,” he added delicately.

Hero interpreted that correctly as meaning that the other woman would need to relieve herself before they set off again. “Will you gut the trout?”

“When we get where we can cook it.” He picked up the fish and tore loose some reeds from the bank, wrapping them around the glistening trout. “You take care of Marie
Claire. Alec and I will see to the rest.” He gestured ahead of him back to the glade.

Alec was sitting up beside Marie Claire, hugging his knees, as they reappeared. His eyes met his sister's for barely an instant in the gathering dusk, but it was enough to tell him what they had been doing in their prolonged absence. “Did you catch anything?” he asked lightly.

“A big brown trout,” Hero told him with a suggestive flicker of a smile. She knelt beside Marie Claire, who was sleepily awake. “It's almost full dark, love. We need to leave.”

The girl nodded. “Yes, I know. I feel much stronger, in fact,” she added in a tone of some wonder. “I appear to be hungry.”

Hero laughed and helped her to her feet. “Let's see if you can make it to the river.”

The open fishing boat was secured to a pole deep within the rushes a few yards down the bank. It was barely big enough for the four of them, but it would have to do, William reflected from his hiding place in the rushes. Anything was better than walking. Alec was beside him, watching the bank for any sign of movement. The evening star was bright in the night sky, and a crescent moon was rising slowly over the water. It would make them visible to anyone who happened to be out and about instead of tucked away where they should be beside their own firesides. But it was a risk they had to take. There was no way of knowing where or when the bodies of the two militia men would wash up, but if they got snagged in the reeds too close to where they'd gone in, there would be an
instant hue and cry, and any stranger would be suspect. They needed to put as much river behind them as they could before dawn.

William crept towards the boat, seeming barely to part the reeds in his stealthy approach. He untied the painter and pulled the boat along for a few yards to a spot on the bank clear of reeds. Hero slithered down the bank while Alec helped Marie Claire down and into the craft and took up the oars. Hero hoisted the knapsack into the boat and climbed in herself. William pushed the boat out into the river and hauled himself in, sitting in the stern, his bare feet squarely planted, his britches rolled to his knees. Alec pulled strongly into midstream, where the current would help them on their way.

Marie Claire sipped water and nibbled on a piece of bread, gazing around her, fully aware of her surroundings for the first time since her escape. The night quiet was broken only by the hoot of an owl, the plash of the oars breaking the moonlit water, a pair of stately paddling swans. They passed small groups of cottages along the bank, but they were all in darkness. Hero sat with her back against William's bracing legs in the stern and felt his fingers idly trawling through her hair, which had long since escaped its tight knot on top of her head and fell in unruly tangles to below her shoulders. After an hour, William took the oars from Alec and pulled steadily until sometime in the early hours of the morning, when he took the boat into a narrow inlet in the river, where the bank sloped down to a small beach, sheltered by tall reeds.

Hero awoke as the boat ran onto the beach. Alec had
jumped out to secure the painter to the trunk of a slender sapling. She uncurled herself from the bottom of the boat, her muscles protesting at their cramped position, and jumped down onto the beach. It was very quiet, and the moonlight was dimmed, filtering through the low branches of the trees along the overhanging bank.

William issued crisp orders, sending Hero to find wood for a fire, Alec to bring water, while he himself made short work of gutting the fish in the shallow water. Within the half hour, a fire crackled on the little beach, and the fish was cooking on a flat stone over the heat. Above it hung a makeshift trivet with a pan of water boiling for coffee.

William, squatting on his haunches before the fire, looked up from tending the fish as Hero approached with an armload of twigs and small pieces of wood. She let them fall from her arms to the sand and sniffed hungrily. “I'm famished.”

“We all are,” he said with a swift smile, his gaze lingering on her for a second. He found her irresistibly attractive, with her grubby skirt hitched up to her knees, her bare feet firmly planted on the sand, her hair a honey-colored tangle around her unmistakably dirty face. “You are a complete urchin,” he said, somehow making of the words a most intimate caress that sent that little jolt of desire through her belly.