Adele Ashworth (25 page)

Quite unexpectedly he reached for her toes as they peeked out from the hem of her gown. Tenderly he caressed them with his thumb and fingers, sending a marvelous jolt of tension through her body. He knew perfectly well just how much she
didn’t
hate him, even after everything he’d done, but she wasn’t ready for him to stray from the all-important conversation of the emeralds so easily. He could probably seduce her right now; he probably knew it, too, and that infuriated her. She needed to get to
her
point of attack.

Abruptly she pulled her feet from his grasp and stood, walking to the window and resting her hands palm down on the sill as she stared out at a cloudless, silver-blue sky. “Fecteau was in on it, too.”

“Of course,” he acknowledged quietly. “The comte d’Arles, or more precisely someone working for him, stole the necklace from the duke of Newark several months ago, Natalie. It’s priceless, once belonging to Maria Theresa of Austria, and he and other members of the French gentry believe it should have gone to her daughter when she married their king. The English purchased it legally—this is documented to the best of my knowledge—but there were several in this country who wanted it back for selfish reasons. They stole it from us; I stole it back.” He cleared his throat. “Now it appears you’ve stolen it from me.”

It was an open-ended statement. He wanted her explanation but was unwilling to ask outright, or perhaps pry into what he now began to perceive as a very private matter.

A deafening silence enveloped the room, the disquiet in the air invaded only by the sound of crashing waves on the distant cliffs, the whistling of a bird. The rich aroma of food made her stomach growl, but she didn’t feel like eating. She was too anxious, sensing his eyes on her back, her nerves prickling with the thought that she was about to reveal to him exactly why she’d come to France.

Finally she turned to face him squarely. He continued to regard her, cautiously, sitting comfortably in the wicker chair, chin in palm, one leg crossed over the other, waiting.

“I’ll give the necklace back, Jonathan.”

“I never doubted that, Natalie,” he returned almost at once.

Her skin felt hot, her mouth dry, and she clasped her hands in front of her, wringing them tightly in anticipation. It was time for truth.

“I-I suppose you’ll recall that I mentioned needing the Black Knight’s help.”

“Yes, I believe I recall that.”

His casual tone and flat expression made it excruciatingly difficult for her to get to the point. He wasn’t helping her along, either, by asking questions or showing even the slightest trace of curiosity.

“I need him to steal something for me,” she revealed through a shaky breath.

He never altered his features. “I think you mean you want
me
to steal something for you.”

She knew she blushed fully with that but she kept her eyes locked with his. “Yes, I do.”

He waited, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“Will you steal it?”

He looked at her strangely. “How can I answer that if I don’t know what it is?”

That made perfect sense, and yet it was the most difficult part of all. For months she’d thought about how she would disclose this to the Black Knight—a man she assumed would be impartial, unknowing, rational, and concerned for payment.
Never
had she remotely considered that the matter would involve a friend, and one for whom her feelings ran the gamut and yet were so difficult to define.

“It’s extremely important to me, Jonathan,” she confided faintly, “and highly personal.”

“I gathered that, or you wouldn’t have risked so much.”

His words were totally sincere, touching her because she knew he meant them. She grasped her elbows in front of her, rubbing them with her fingertips. “The situation could result in serious social consequences.”

He warmed from her troubled expression, the graveness in her tone. “Just tell me, Natalie,” he pushed soothingly. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The time had arrived, and she had no idea where to start. Pulse racing, she looked directly into his eyes. “My mother has not always been so . . . honest with my father.”

“Really,” he said blankly. Seconds later he added, “I imagine that’s common in many marriages.”

She fidgeted, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, leaning against the windowsill for support, hugging herself. “You don’t understand.”

His eyes widened, but he said nothing more.

Keenly embarrassed, she finally whispered, “I mean faithful—honest in the marriage bed. My mother has . . . been with someone else.”

She hadn’t felt so disconcerted in ages, standing five feet away from the man of her desire, exposing family secrets of an intimate nature. But he didn’t appear shocked; his expression remained neutral.

“I see,” he murmured at last.

She glanced at the wall, her eyes grazing over paintings, large and small, each an artistic mastery of color and charm, her gaze finally settling on a luscious landscape, expertly painted in watercolors of teal green and chocolate brown. “I’m not sure when this indiscretion began,” she continued, “but I do know it took place several years ago and went on for some months. I-I think it was a love affair.”

“Perhaps your information is inaccurate,” he said very quietly after a moment of consideration, “or nothing but a rumor overstating an innocent flirtation.”

She knew he was trying to be delicate with her sensibilities; how she wished very much that he were right.

“It’s not inaccurate, Jonathan,” she corrected, turning back to him. “Nor was it just an innocent flirtation. If I wasn’t so absolutely certain about this I never would have come to France to engage you.”

The wicker beneath him creaked as he placed his palms on his knees and pushed himself up from the chair. But he didn’t move toward her. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest, standing erect, regarding her thoughtfully. “Engage me for what?”

She inhaled deeply, raising her chin in a measure of obstinacy.

“The man of her improper affection was Paul Simard, a Parisian and an officer in the National Guard. My mother met him during the social season, on one of her many visits to the Continent, and they became enamored of each other. Eventually they . . . carried on.”

She didn’t know how else to describe it, and he was probably laughing inside. But she couldn’t think about that. The moment of truth had arrived. She had nothing to lose now.

“As I said, the affair went on for some time, after which my mother returned to England—and my unknowing father. But the problem, Jonathan, is that it didn’t end there. If it had, there would be no proof. As it was, there was.”

Now he looked confused. “There was what?”

“Proof.”

“Proof of . . . ?”

Her lips thinned irritably. “Proof of the”—she flicked her wrist—“liaison, the romance. That she was his willing mistress.”

He stared hard at her. “Natalie, what are you saying to me?”

She dropped her hands to her sides, forcing the calm within her. “Paul Simard died three years ago, in Paris. Roughly two months later my mother began receiving requests for money. It seems she and her French . . . lover had corresponded with each other for a while after her return to England, and now Paul Simard’s son, Robert, has the love letters in his possession and is blackmailing her with the threat of exposure. These letters are of an explicit nature, and she is in great distress over this, paying when she can, unsure what to do next, afraid to confront my father. I think you know, Jonathan, that this could be ruinous for her, scandalous to my family, and devastating for my father if the letters are read by others, or her indecent behavior is ever made known within society.”

She took a step toward him, lowering her voice to an impassioned whisper. “I need you to escort me to Paris, find Robert Simard, and steal my mother’s letters from him. Six of them in all. When that is accomplished, I will return the emeralds to you.”

Jonathan gaped at her, utterly incredulous. If he had been with any other woman he would have laughed himself silly at such a command. What had his life become that he now found himself in a situation so ridiculous, a farce of such unbelievable proportions? He was Europe’s most famous thief. Legends had been built around his cleverness, his unique style, his successes. He’d held priceless Chinese artifacts in his hands, smuggled thousands of pounds worth of diamonds from one country to another, helped right social wrongs, hunted and found political criminals, was even indirectly responsible for saving national governments from possible collapse. Yet she stood before him, elegantly poised, shiny, sun-warmed hair spilling over her shoulders, her exquisitely curved body tense with determination, demanding he take her to Paris to steal
love letters
? He’d underestimated her. She was devious in approach, beautiful of face and form, and most assuredly insane of mind. She was also deadly serious, and he was in trouble.

But it was Natalie herself, not her laughable request, that gave him pause. Jonathan could not recall a time in his life when he’d gazed upon anything so incredibly sweet as this innocent woman divulging her mother’s infidelity to a man she knew had been with many women. Her cheeks flushed pink from a shame she couldn’t even verbalize, her eyes vibrant with trepidation as she tried to put the action of sexual misconduct into words like “carried on.” She possessed a great bearing, an honesty of will he didn’t think he’d ever seen in another, a devotion to goodness and faithfulness in marriage rarely witnessed. And it moved him in a manner he didn’t exactly understand. He wanted to reach for her suddenly, to pull her against the hardness of his body, to comfort, to draw the warmth and sweetness from her lips in a breathless pursuit of passion. To feel her.

“What are you thinking, Jonathan?” she murmured with only the slightest hint of apprehension.

For a long, silent moment he looked into her eyes. Then he smiled faintly, acknowledging defeat, and raked his fingers through his hair. “That I really don’t want to go to Paris.”

She bristled, fisting her hands at her sides, her eyes flashing with hot anger. “I thought certainly you’d do it for the emeralds,” she charged, “but I was also prepared for the fact that you’d find my situation foolish and unimportant—”

“I don’t think it’s foolish or unimportant,” he cut in frankly. “I think this is just another form of blackmail.”

That stopped her for a second or two. Then her lids thinned with deliberation anew, her mouth twisting in a smile of ultimate triumph, and she began to saunter toward him. “If you take me to Paris, I’ll give you something more, Jonathan.”

She’d misunderstood him. He hadn’t exactly said he wouldn’t go. But now he found himself intrigued, which in turn compelled him to keep his intentions silent.

“More?” he prodded.

She stood directly in front of him now, her breasts nearly touching his chest, her expression exuding shrewdness with the thought of her objectives.

“If you take me to Paris and retrieve my mother’s letters,” she intimated guardedly, “I will give you something you can use. Something you want. Something priceless to you and your . . . convictions.”

It wasn’t her manner but her unusual words that dazed him. “What could you possibly have that would be more valuable to me than the priceless emerald necklace?”

Her brows pinched negligibly, whether in speculation or confusion he wasn’t sure. Then her entire countenance became grave. “I think that’s for you to discover,” she said in a most sensual whisper. “But I won’t disappoint you, Jonathan.”

Perhaps it was her tone of absolute certainty, perhaps just the expectation in the air, the anticipation of things to come, but with a raw surge of an indescribable physical hunger, he understood her at last, dared to imagine the possibilities. He knew, and it shook him deeply.

“These letters are that important to you?”

“They mean everything to me,” she replied resolutely.

His eyes skimmed over every feature of her face—from her long, thick lashes and arched brows, to her forehead, temples and high cheekbones, to her perfect lips and the gently carved line of her chin and jaw. Then he reached out and touched her hair, running his fingers through the silky strands, marveling in the softness, the texture of it, longing to feel it against his cheek, his neck, and chest. Taking her at her will, cradling himself inside her warmth, holding her against him in the heat of rapture would mean everything to him. She knew this, too.

“How can I trust you to keep your end of the deal?” he asked in a raspy, quiet voice.

Her eyes melded with his. “Because you said you already do, and I believe you.”

It was the cleverness within her that enchanted him, he realized now, her quickness to take matters into her hands, to experience the adventure that was life.

Smiling vaguely, Jonathan dropped his arms to his sides. “Maybe I can’t accept that, Natalie. Maybe I’d rather just search you for the emeralds.”

She knew he was teasing her, and still it wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. She pulled back from him a little, unsure.

“You’ll never find them in my trunks—”

“I’ve no doubt,” he cut in pleasantly. “It would take me weeks to go through them all anyway.”

Stiffening, ignoring that, she asserted, “And naturally you wouldn’t dream of searching my person. I think, then, Jonathan, you really have no choice.”

Her confidence thoroughly amused him. But he didn’t have to comment verbally. The look he gave her implied most certainly that he would indeed search her person, slowly, caressingly, enjoying every second of it with indescribable pleasure.

“I will take you to Paris,” he whispered richly, “and once there you will give me everything of value you’ve promised me.”

It was a demand, and she understood the significance of it, wavering a little as relief visibly flooded her, as she stared into his unyielding eyes so expressively conveying his desires.

“I agree to your terms, Jonathan,” she said in a sudden rush of eagerness. “We’ll leave this afternoon—”