Adele Ashworth (11 page)

For a second or two he watched her with a face void of expression. Then slowly, levelly, he shook his head in wonder. “How did you guess?”

“How did I—” She stopped talking abruptly and gaped at him in mounting disbelief. “You’re here to buy a
weapon
from the comte d’Arles?”

His brows rose innocently. “A sword, actually.”

“A sword,” she repeated flatly, her hands now resting on either side of her waist. “You came all the way to France to buy a sword for your wall.”

“Yes, I did.”

“From the comte d’Arles.”

“Yes.”

“And the lovely Mrs. DuMais is arranging it all.”

He shrugged. “I think we’ve covered everything.”

“I think I’d like to see this sword of yours,” she demanded suspiciously.

He grinned wryly. “If and when the time is right, Natalie, I will allow you a very good look at it.”

Even now he was so arrogant. Natalie had no idea what to say to him, if he was lying outright, teasing her, or making excuses to conceal his romantic affair with the beautiful Mrs. DuMais. She couldn’t begin to imagine any man, even him, a gentleman with too much time and money on his hands, traveling abroad simply to buy a sword to hang on a wall. But if he was fabricating an incredible story, she would never recognize it because she just couldn’t read him, and that’s what truly made her mad. He always seemed to be able to tell what she was thinking.

He turned toward the bed, reaching for his suit. “We’re invited to a ball at his estate Saturday,” he continued indifferently, moving in the direction of the small wardrobe closet. “I assume you have an appropriate gown hiding somewhere in the piles and piles of things you brought.”

It was a statement, not a question, and Natalie ignored it. Her inability to travel lightly was somewhat of a touchy subject between them.

“And before you ask,” he went on, now kneeling before his only trunk, “I’ve sent a message to the Black Knight.”

“You waited until now to tell me?” she blurted.

He brushed over that. “He hasn’t replied, but there’s a rumor he’s also planning to attend the party.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why is he attending this particular function?” she clarified, exasperated.

He lifted his shoulders negligibly but didn’t look at her. “I should expect he has a worthy reason, though I really have no idea.”

“No doubt to steal the count’s precious sword,” she offered sarcastically.

He smirked. “Maybe he’ll carry you off instead, my sweet Natalie.”

His lighthearted words didn’t register. Her mind was already racing with possibilities, her heart pounding with anticipation, and suddenly she didn’t care about Mrs. DuMais or the count or swords or France. It was now only days until the meeting of a lifetime.

Jonathan walked up to stand before her, gazing down at her face, his excellent eyes turned pensive. Then quite unexpectedly he raised his palm to her cheek, momentarily startling her with the feel of his warm skin against hers.

“Meeting him is extremely important to you,” he said softly, thoughtfully.

She inhaled deeply but didn’t pull away. “Yes, it is.”

He was quiet for a long moment, studying her, gliding his thumb along her jaw.

“You’ll like Madeleine, Natalie,” he carefully maintained. “She’s refreshing and experienced, and those qualities make her interesting.” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “But your innocence and passion for everything life has to offer make you far more beautiful than she could ever be.”

Her breath caught in her chest from the look of honest disclosure in his stunning gray-blue eyes. But before she had the chance to pull away, or to grasp exactly what he’d said, he dropped his arm and strode to the door.

“Pack up your things,” he added without glancing back. “I’m going downstairs to find transportation large enough to carry your incredible wardrobe.”

With that he walked out, leaving her once again to feel that same tingling inside, that overpowering sense of helplessness and confusion Jonathan Drake had a genius for exposing in her.

Chapter 6

T
he whole Black Knight issue was beginning to annoy him. For years he’d played the part with perfection, if not enjoyment. He’d invented the character himself, and yes, the purely egotistical part of him took pride in the amazing popularity he’d achieved throughout Europe during the last six years. What had always made it nice, however, was that so few knew that Jonathan Drake, second son of an ordinary English earl, was himself the legend.

But for the first time ever he was troubled by his notoriety. It was clear from Natalie that he’d become almost superhuman, at least to her. Because of her obsession with a myth, she’d been detached if not impervious to his presence since leaving England. She was powerfully affected by his kisses, his touch, which he’d held in check at her request. But beyond that she didn’t appear at all impressed with
him
—Jonathan Drake, the man. As he thought about it with growing displeasure, failing miserably to charm a woman had never befallen him in his entire life.

For the last three days this irritation had been stewing in the back of his mind. He had an odd notion of trying to please her, a woman he
wasn’t
bedding, by making her comfortable and taking her to interesting local places to pass the time. He’d spent a small fortune to find them lodgings upon a cliff on the Mediterranean shore, with a spectacular view of the midnight blue ocean and a continuous breeze to keep her cool. That it was somewhat intimate and located only half a mile from the count of Arles’s property was to his advantage, but just watching her eyes light with joy when she first walked inside the cozy, newly decorated bungalow gave him enormous satisfaction. For three days she’d been dazzled by the beauty around her—and totally unaffected by the man who did his best to attract her attention. For all his trouble she didn’t exactly ignore him, she just appeared completely consumed with a man who didn’t exist. And what did that mean? He was jealous of himself? That was amusing.

But what made him so damn curious was that she didn’t act at all like a woman in love, and he very well knew the look of a woman in love. Natalie didn’t dream about the Black Knight, she focused on the man like a puzzle, which didn’t make sense. Jonathan could understand her passive regard for a male traveling companion if she were infatuated with another, even a legend, but it was becoming clear to him that she wasn’t. She’d risked her reputation, which was everything to an English lady, to journey to France to meet a man she didn’t know or adore. So was she lying to him about wanting to marry the thief? And what about her reaction the other day when he’d met with Madeleine? At the time Jonathan was so certain she was jealous, but he was now beginning to believe it was simple annoyance at him for wasting her time by not introducing her to the Black Knight sooner. The whole situation gnawed at him because he didn’t understand it.

He now had to admit he was becoming anxious to court her affections, but doing so would be very tricky, indeed. He knew he could probably seduce her but only at the risk of his freedom. Until just recently, he’d considered marriage far off into the distant future, if at all. He had female companionship when he wanted, on his terms, and he’d never been interested in being tied to one lady for the rest of his hopefully long life, however beautiful and charming she might be. But now, for a reason unclear to him, he’d begun to give it serious consideration, knowing that if he chose to succumb to that choking estate for the sake of fulfilling his need to stay his growing loneliness, he could choose from any number of women in love with him at the time. If he bedded Natalie he would have to marry her, and she was the only woman he’d ever known who desired him physically but didn’t want him for the person he was. And
that
was so irritating and confusing he didn’t even know how to digest it. It was true he was probably just as arrogant as the next man, assuming he’d be able to select any woman he pleased, especially with his wealth, excellent breeding, and high social standing. But he also had enough honest pride to realize he didn’t want to marry someone who didn’t enjoy him, someone indifferent to his personality, no matter how passionate she became in his arms.

Part of him wanted to give up, tell her who he was, and ship her back to her parents so he could forget the entire bit of nonsense. But he couldn’t, partly because he was growing increasingly curious about her intentions, and partly because he just plain liked being with her. He found her amusing and clever, warm and comforting in bed, and respectful of his individuality; she was a breath of fresh air.

So this morning, after days of ceaseless contemplation, he drew some conclusions. He was a better thief than a spy, but he could be as deceitful as she. He would learn her secrets. Where that would take them personally, he couldn’t guess, but he wouldn’t push her sexually until she was ready, if ever, and he wouldn’t bed her at all until he was absolutely certain he could trust her. He wanted her very badly, more desperately each time she sashayed by him, smelling of bubble bath and flowers, or in bed when she so sweetly stuck her feet between his legs and pressed her bottom against his rigid erection with little or no understanding. Eventually, if he wasn’t careful, she would realize her power over him and she would use it. Women always did, and he could never let that happen. He wanted her to want him first, to desire him for the man he was, to beg him to make love to her. And that, he was beginning to fear, might remain his greatest unfulfilled fantasy. Still, he had to try.

With a clear sense of at least where he stood on the matter, he’d planned an intimate twilight picnic for them on the cliffs above the shore—in a cove, actually—just inside the count’s private estate. He was hidden well enough not to be noticed by anyone at the house, but close enough to watch the premises above and study the structure from the outside, which appeared to follow Madeleine’s description accurately. He’d purchased them an excellent, outrageously priced dinner of white wine, goat cheese on toast, Sole mousse, veal cutlets in mushroom sauce, fresh oranges, and a surprise he had yet to give her: strawberries dipped in chocolate. If Natalie did nothing else for him while they were in France, she would drive him to the poorhouse.

She sat across from him now, atop a blanket, in a pale lavender skirt and white muslin blouse that reflected a glowing setting sun off her shoulders. She’d finally managed the courage to blend in a little with the locals, working with the hot summer weather instead of against it, foregoing her binding stays and layers of material for a simple, almost peasant look. And she’d pulled her hair from the tight, menacing plaits she usually coiled around her ears and head so that the reddish-gold curls fell loose and free behind her, secured easily with just a simple ribbon at her nape. It was a look he liked immeasurably on her, only to be surpassed, he was sure, by her naked form writhing beneath him.

Jonathan shifted his body and stretched his legs out fully, one ankle crossed over the other, sipping from his glass as he attempted to concentrate on the conversation. They’d finished their meal, she her only glass of wine, and she’d been talking without interruption for ten minutes. He couldn’t for the life of him remember a word she’d said but decided her choice of topic—a recent trip to Brighton for a poetry reading by one of England’s finest—was altogether boring; silly withdrawing room conversation that had no place on such a gorgeous summer evening by the sea. Finally she paused, smiling at him, and he took the opportunity to change the subject.

“I’m having trouble with something, Natalie,” he broached with an intentional air of seriousness.

Her brows arched delicately. “Trouble with what?”

He focused intently on her face. “Trouble believing your story about wanting to meet the Black Knight.”

He noticed her eyes widen negligibly, her cheeks pale, and those slight indications of surprise and concern about the comment told him much. She was hiding something, and he had acted foolishly by not being more astute from the beginning.

Looking out over the shimmering water to his left, disgusted at his own inner blindness, he added with daring, “I’ve been paying attention, sweetheart, and you’re very calculating. You’re not in love with him, have no idea who he is, and yet you leave everything you know to come to France with a perfect stranger to meet him.” He stole a glance back at her. “Why?”

“You’re not a perfect stranger.”

Her words were husky and cautious, and Jonathan almost offered his congratulations on the decent attempt at evasion. But they also had meaning behind them. He could tell that as she watched him, expression guarded. Suddenly he wanted to dig deeply.

Smiling, he challenged, “Not strangers because we have a past?”

She hesitated, then sat back and dropped her lashes. “We don’t have a past.”

That irritated him, too, her refusal to discuss their little rendezvous in the garden years ago. Eventually she would talk about that night, about the unusual if not enlightening encounter between them, because he’d force her to. But for now he was content to wait, searching instead for answers to a situation more immediate.

“Do you imagine yourself in love with the Black Knight, Natalie?” he asked more sternly than intended.

She played with the soft wool at her fingertips, quiet for so long his patience began to thin. Finally, through the offshore breeze, she whispered, “Have you ever been in love, Jonathan?”

He was completely taken aback by that, as she knew he would be. She looked up again, staring frankly into his eyes. She was honestly asking, and he relaxed a little.

“Yes,” he admitted, grinning sheepishly. “Her name was Miss Featherstone, my governess of two years. I was madly in love with her for seven full months until she left for Brunswick, right before my thirteenth birthday. She was the first woman to break my heart.”

Natalie smiled. “The first?”

“The only,” he amended quickly. “And I don’t imagine it will happen again.”