Trapped by Scandal (12 page)

“I feel filthy,” she said, smiling despite herself. “When we've eaten, I'm going to bathe in the river.”

“I'll join you,” he responded, turning the fish over on the stone with the edge of his knife. “Is there any bread left?”

“Half a loaf.” She withdrew it from the knapsack. “And
some cheese and a few apples. A positive feast. And the coffee smells wonderful.”

Alec and Marie Claire joined them at the fire as William took the fish from the heat. He sliced down the backbone with his knife, then pulled a piece off with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. “Eat up, children.” He broke a piece of bread and put another piece of fish on it.

It was a big trout, but it didn't last long among the four of them. Hero wiped her sticky fingers on a tuft of grass poking out of the bank and took a long sip of coffee from the single beaker they had brought with them, before passing it to Marie Claire, who had more color with each mouthful and each sip. “Can we keep the fire going until I've had my bath?”

William nodded. “Alec, why don't you take Marie Claire up onto the bank and find a place to sleep for an hour? I'll stay here and keep watch. We'll go on until dawn. Then we'll pull out and rest for the day.”

Alec and Marie Claire disappeared, and William leaned back on his elbows, regarding Hero with a slightly wicked smile. “Go on, then, take your bath. I'd like one myself, but we can't both be in the water at the same time.”

It was a disappointing truth, Hero reflected, kicking off her skirt and petticoat. The thought of their naked bodies in the water together was almost enough to send her into a spontaneous climax of passion, but someone had to keep watch. She shrugged off her bodice and chemise and walked to the water, dipping her toes in a little wavelet that broke on the beach. It was colder than she expected, and she glanced over her shoulder. William was watching,
with desire clear in his golden eyes and in every line of his alert frame.

“Get in,” he instructed softly. “My willpower is proving much more feeble than I thought.”

She laughed with pure exhilaration, twirled once on the sand in a teasing little dance, then turned and plunged into the cold waters of the Seine. It took her breath away but felt wonderful, washing the filth of the day's grim journey from her skin. She had no soap, but there was no point reaching for the stars. She lay back, letting the water stream over her hair as she scrubbed her scalp with her fingers. It was probably the closest thing to heaven she would ever experience, she decided.

“Come out now.” William was standing at the edge of the river. The fire, freshly fed, glowed and crackled behind him.

Reluctantly, Hero obeyed, splashing her way to shore, squeezing the water from her hair. William pushed off his britches and flung aside his shirt before taking two steps into the river, then diving beneath the water. She stood on the sand, wringing out her hair, watching his powerful arms cleaving the water as he swam. Then, still naked, she walked to the fire and stood turning herself slowly in its heat, like a chicken on a spit, until her skin was dry. She didn't dress, instead wrapped herself in William's discarded jerkin and sat on the sand to watch him as he swam back to shore, rising dripping from the river like some male Venus. No, it would have to be an Adonis, she corrected, watching him with the same lascivious gaze that he had had watching her.

“Oh, you
are
hungry,” he said softly, coming to stand above her, water glistening on his skin. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Are you not?” she whispered, her tongue touching her lips.

“Stand up.” He reached down for her hands and pulled her up, the jerkin falling from her shoulders. He glanced once around, then murmured, “Oh, to hell with it,” and pulled her beside him back into the river. He walked until the water lapped around her thighs, then turned her into his arms. “Hold on to me.” She put her arms around his neck as he lifted her against him, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her body opening with an aching need for the delicious feel of him sliding within her beneath the water. She clung to him as he moved, just little movements that sent needles of arousal across her skin, filled her loins with urgent desire. She kissed him, her mouth hard on his, and his tongue pushed within her mouth as his sex pushed into hers, and she felt herself climbing slowly up and up, hanging for a long and glorious moment at the very peak of pleasure before she seemed to explode with joyous sensation and felt the tears of joy streaming down her cheeks as she clung helplessly around his neck, unable to move until the glory began to fade.

TWELVE

F
or nearly a week, they kept to the river, traveling only by night. William and Alec made short forays into the towns they passed to buy provisions, and to both Hero's and Marie Claire's joy, on the third day, they returned with new clothes. Secondhand but clean, together with a bar of that most precious commodity: soap. The two women spent a blissful hour alone in the river, bathing, washing their hair, before dressing in clean clothes. Marie Claire was ecstatic at being able to discard the britches and jerkin for a peasant's petticoats, kirtle, and laced bodice, but they still wore the necessary red bonnets.

It felt to Hero rather as if she was living through a dream during those long warm days of Indian summer. Everyday life and concerns seemed to be quite irrelevant. True, there was the ever-present fear of discovery, of making some fatal slip that would endanger them all, but even so, the hazy, trancelike nature of their journey was something she knew she would never forget. And the exquisite sensuality of her relationship with William was a daily entrancement. There were opportunities aplenty for lovemaking during the day, when they rested in readiness
for the night's journey, and they took full advantage of every one.

Alec was content as always to leave his twin to manage her own life as she thought best and was too busy himself bringing his beloved fiancée back to full health. Indeed, Marie Claire blossomed under the sun and fresh air, plentiful rest and food. Her grief for her parents was now a part of her, but she no longer lived in fear, and that freedom was evident in the way she moved, the way she would sing softly to herself when doing some chore or other, and Alec lost the worry from his eyes and the tension from his mouth.

Just before dawn on the seventh day, they drew close to the town of Honfleur on the southern bank of the estuary of the Seine. William shipped his oars and rested, leaning his elbows on his thighs, looking across the estuary to the port of Le Havre.

“So we made it this far,” Hero said softly, following his gaze. “Will we find a packet boat to take us across to En­gland, or should we look only for a fishing boat? It's a lot farther across the Channel from here than it is from Calais, and it would be horridly uncomfortable.” She reached across to brush the errant lock of hair from his forehead.

“Yes, we'll certainly need something more substantial than an open dinghy,” he agreed, looking somewhat ruefully at his callused palms. “We can pay for passage; it's just a question of not drawing too much attention to ourselves. The ports are actively watched by the agents of the Committee of Public Safety.”

“I wonder if we could commandeer a small sailboat,”
Alec suggested. “Hero and I are competent sailors. We grew up with boats. Our family home is on the Beaulieu River.”

“Oh, yes, we've sailed the waters of the Solent many times,” Hero said with enthusiasm. “If we could . . .” She hesitated for a moment. “If we could
borrow
a sailboat from someone, I'm sure we'd manage to sail it across the Channel.”

William chuckled. “I don't doubt your abilities. As it happens, I'm not exactly inexperienced with sails myself, so, yes, I'm sure we could manage under our own steam. It'll probably take several days, depending on the wind, so we need a craft with some kind of cabin.”

He would, of course, be a competent sailor, Hero reflected with an inner smile, wondering if there was anything at all at which William Ducasse, Viscount St. Aubery, was not an expert.

William took up the oars again and turned the little boat back the way they had come. “I noticed an inlet just a little way upriver. We'll tie up there out of sight and take a look around.”

“Why don't Marie Claire and I go into Honfleur and look for a suitable vessel?” Hero suggested as they entered the narrow inlet, protected on both sides by tall reeds. “Two women with shopping baskets are less likely to draw attention than either of you. And I know perfectly well what to look for.”

William inclined his head in acknowledgment. “True enough. But don't do anything, and don't speak to anyone about a boat, is that clear?” He fixed her with a steady stare and held her gaze until she nodded.

“As crystal.”

“In that case, you may go.” He shipped his oars as Alec stepped out of the boat with the painter. His feet sank into swampy mud, and he swore vigorously, splashing through the reeds until he found what passed for a bank, pulling the craft behind him.

“I'll be glad to be done with this river business,” Alec muttered, securing the painter. “Give me the open sea any day.”

Hero hitched her skirt and petticoat above her knees and, carrying her shoes, stepped into the water and up onto the bank. Marie Claire, with a little more reluctance, followed suit. She was not quite as unconcerned as Hero about exposing her legs thigh-high.

“Bring back fresh bread and fruit.” William handed them a basket that Marie Claire had woven from reeds one idle afternoon. “And anything else to make a satisfactory breakfast. And Hero, I repeat, do not mention boats to anyone. Use your eyes, but keep your tongue still.”

“Yes, milord.” She gave him a mock curtsy, and he shook his head in warning, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Just be careful. This is not a good time for games.”

“Spoilsport,” she threw at him, hitching the basket on her arm. “Come, Marie Claire, let us go to market like any other
femme de ménage
.”

Marie Claire followed her along the narrow bank towards the little town. She was accustomed now to the banter between William and Hero, but she couldn't imagine herself and Alec indulging in anything that was quite so
sharply provocative, and the sparkling, keen-edged sexuality it revealed intrigued her even as it slightly shocked her.

Hero strolled along the quay, her eyes on the craft bobbing at anchor in the bay and tied up at the long piers. They would want one docked at a pier. It would be easier to take than one at anchor farther out. And it needed to be an undistinguished working boat, one that would draw no attention if they passed other shipping in the Channel.

“What do you think of that one?” she murmured to her companion, gesturing casually to a fishing boat, about twenty feet long, with a small cabin, shabby, peeling paintwork on the decking, but from what she could see, the hull appeared sound, and the presence of lobster pots and fishing nets indicated that it was sufficiently seaworthy for regular use.

Marie Claire swallowed, watching it toss in the wake of a larger fishing craft passing in the harbor behind it. “I'm sure it'll do us well.”

Hero shot her a quick concerned glance. She seemed suddenly rather pale. “What is it? Aren't you happy to think that soon we'll have kicked the dust of France from our shoes?”

“Yes . . . yes, of course.” Marie Claire didn't sound too convinced. Then she confessed, “I feel so silly, but I get most dreadfully seasick, Hero.”

“Oh, you poor love.” Hero was instantly sympathetic, but there really wasn't anything to be done about such an affliction except hope for a calm sea. “The weather's been so nice, we might just be lucky and have a pleasant breeze and no swell,” she offered.

“Just don't tell Alec or William, please?” Marie Claire begged.

“Not a word. Now, let's find the market.”

It was just before midnight when the four of them crept through the dark streets of Honfleur towards the quay. “This one,” Hero murmured, stopping at her choice. The sky was overcast, and there was little natural light. From a tavern in one of the narrow lanes leading up from the quay came the sounds of raucous laughter and the strains of an accordion. But the quay itself was deserted.

“Get aboard,” William instructed. “Marie Claire, after Hero, and get down into the cabin out of sight. You, too, Hero.”

“I thought I was sailing this tub,” she protested.

“Alec and I will take her out of the harbor. Now, do as you're told before anyone appears.”

Hero swallowed her indignation; the need for speed and silence was too great to quarrel with William's high-handedness at the moment. Later, on the open waters of the Channel, she would tell him how little she appreciated it.

Somehow they managed to slip away from the dock without drawing any attention and tacked slowly across the harbor under a foresail beneath a gentle breeze until they reached the harbor's sheltering headland and open water. The wind stiffened, and Hero, who had been crouching on the top step of the gangway to the cabin, stepped up onto the deck and came to stand against the
railing. They were running before the wind, and William had the tiller, his eyes on the edge of the sail, correcting course when it fluttered.

“I think we can risk the mainsail,” he said. “Can you and Alec get it hoisted?”

Hero shot him a withering look, which made him laugh aloud, and called for her brother.

The wind stayed fair, and the sea air seemed finally to blow away the last shreds of the terror of Paris, the last reek of blood and dirt. The Needle rocks and lighthouse appeared on the horizon early in the morning of their second day. Hero was at the tiller, lost in the motion of the little boat as it rose and dipped in the waves. Marie Claire was, as usual, curled in the far corner of the deck. She did much better in the fresh air and bravely kept her misery as much to herself as she could. Alec hovered, but there was little he could do except offer brandy and water, which seemed to ease the nausea somewhat.

William emerged from the cabin with a hunk of bread and cheese and a cup of wine, coming to stand beside Hero at the tiller. “Shall we stop for a night and a day on the island?” he asked casually. “We can round the Needles and dock at Yarmouth. We could even manage proper beds in a hostelry and a decent dinner, if that would appeal.”

“Would it?” she exclaimed, her eyes shining. “What an absolutely wondrous idea. A real bath, maybe. Perhaps some proper clothes. And meat, and wine, and even sheets . . . oh, can you imagine anything more delicious?”

“Not easily,” he agreed, grinning at her enthusiasm.
“But I can think of one other delight that might enhance the experience.”

Her eyes seemed to melt with seductive languor, just as he had known they would. “Take over,” she demanded, pushing the tiller towards him. “I'm going to tell Alec and Marie Claire that in a few hours we'll be on dry English soil.” She skipped away, and he watched her, wondering anew how it was that she could fill him with such pure pleasure just with her natural high spirits and optimism. Just a fleeting glimpse of her body made him ache with desire.

And all too soon it must come to an end. They would enjoy their idyll on the Isle of Wight for a day or so, and then he would tell her what had to be. He would make his own way across to the mainland. Any one of the little fishing boats plying the Solent would be more than happy to take a paying passenger across to the little town of Lymington, and from there he could make his way by road to London. He would buy a horse, and a two-day ride would bring him to the capital. Alec and the two women could take their “borrowed” boat across the Solent, along the coast a short way and up the Beaulieu River to the Bruton family estate. It was the perfect solution. They would be safe at home, as if they had never left it, well beyond the reach of the Lizard and his agents without once traveling on English roads, and he would be free to concentrate on the business that awaited him in London, until he could return to his work in Paris.

But they had a short time yet before that difficult conversation became necessary.

It was early evening when they docked in the little fishing town of Yarmouth. Clear across the narrow strip of water, they could see Hurst spit, with its grim castle guarding the entrance to the narrow waters of the Solent. It was a familiar sight for the Fanshawe twins, who had sailed these waters since they were children, and for a moment, as they stood at the railing of the fishing boat, their hands touched in recognition that they were home.