England's Assassin (10 page)

Nicole turned her head and smiled playfully at Joseph LeCoeur as he walked toward her with two champagne glasses in hand.

“Is it, what?” she asked, making him work for the pleasure of her company.

The minister stopped, handing her a glass, his dark eyes memorizing every feature of her face. “Disappointing?”

She turned toward the ballroom and sipped the lively liquid, scanning the twirling couples as if accessing the evening’s prospects and then her eyes went back to his.

“It was,” she said.

“And now?”

They stared at one another and Nicole raised a brow, circling him as she took in every detail of his solid form until she stood before him once again, pronouncing, “Yes, still disappointing.”

At this decree, he laughed aloud, drawing several speculative glares from eligible young ladies.

“What is your name, Mademoiselle?”

Stepping back, Nicole held out both her arms theatrically. “I am Eris.”

“Ah, Goddess of discord.” He nodded, raising an amused brow. “It suits you.”

She curtsied. “Yes, I thought it rather did.”

The minister stepped closer, echoing his interest. “Why not Aphrodite?”

“Oh, Aphrodite. It’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think, declaring one’s self Goddess of Desire.” Nicole inhaled, drawing attention to her breasts. “And besides, there are a least five Aphrodite’s present… but only one Eris. “

“Yes, you are causing quite the stir and I am quite sure that many men will leave the ball very discontent.”

“As will you,” she informed him.

“You think so?” Joseph LeCoeur smiled, excepting the challenge. “I’ve been told by a very reliable lady that there are no less than five Goddesses of Desire present at the ball this evening. How about that one?” he, asked pointing to a blond Aphrodite spinning on the dance floor.

“Oh, no!” Nicole shook her head, appalled. “Far too domesticated for the likes of Julius Caesar. The poor girl looks as though she would lie on her back with her eyes closed throughout the entire interlude.”

“And what of Eris?” the minister whispered, wondering aloud if she would watch as he made love to her.

“Absolutely not!” Nicole titled her head to one side just in time to see his disappointment before adding, “I never lie on my back.”

He laughed, but it was more a lustful rush of air. Joseph LeCoeur turned to look at her, his gaze immediately dropping to her lips as they pulled into a seductive smile.

“Now if you will excuse me, I have an apple to drop. ‘For the fairest’ of the ball.” She repeated the myth.

“I suggest you keep it for yourself, Madmosielle...?”

“Eris, Goddess of Discord.” She reminded him. “And how you do flatter me, Julius.”

Nicole turned away but she felt his fingers curl around her upper arm, halting her progress. She glanced down at his presumption and her left brow rose before meeting his eye.

The minister released her arm, a flash of respect pulling at the corners of his mouth. “LeCoeur. Minister of Police, Joseph LeCoeur.”

He waited for his title to sink in, waited for her to see what a powerful protector he could be.

“Goodnight, Joseph LeCoeur,” Nicole purred unimpressed before leaving him alone in a sea full of people.

Daniel sat, waiting in Nicole Beauvoire’s darkened apartment while he contemplated the wisdom of attending the masquerade ball. He had aggressively and publicly courted the woman in order to hasten Minister LeCoeur’s pursuit. But had he been thinking clearly, had he not been so damn compelled to protect her, he would have realized the limitations he had now placed upon them both.

He had cast them in far too confining roles; her, the wanton vixen and he, the unwanted suitor. Gone in one impulsive act of protectiveness was his ability to escort the lady about Paris, gone was his ability to offer her a ride home from events in his conveyance.

Daniel sipped his brandy and repositioned the breast plate of his elaborate costume away from the edge of the settee. He had given his word to the manager of the theatre that he would return the uniform unscathed. In the end, however, it had been the money and not his word that had persuaded the man to temporarily part with the outrageous garment.

It had taken Daniel half the evening to find a costume that not only fit him, but that was suitable for a masquerade ball. He had hoped for something a bit more dignified than walking into a crowded ballroom in scarcely more than his drawers.

He cringed as the faces of the women in attendance flashed through his brandy soaked head. They wore masks, but if anything that made their gawking all the worse. As if he could not see their eyes as big as saucers behind a speck of flimsy silk. He could feel the wave of censure as it crashed over him, but there was nothing to be done but lift his head and wade into the water.

Because of her
.

Nicole Beauvoire was down there in that ocean of rakes and libertines and all he could think was to get her out of the water as quickly as possible, to help her make contact with Minister LeCoeur and then drag her out the damn door. But then he mucked things up and had been forced to leave her, with him. With a clever man whom she knew to be a murderer and a powerful member of the governing body of France.

Yet, she remained in harm's way, was there still, dancing toe to toe with the lethal LeCoeur armed, because of his stupidity, with nothing more than her an exquisitely conceived ball gown.

A gown designed to fit her as tightly as her sensual gloves, accentuated by a mask that dared a man to glimpse her face. A mask that hinted at the lovely skin that lay beneath the black silk gown, flesh that would taste…

Bloody hell!

Daniel shot out of his chair, the leather strips of his tunic slapping together then swinging downward to create a solid, yet fluid, skirt of protection. He took a step toward the decanter and the garment flew out of the way of his thigh. It reminded him of a kilt and Daniel enjoyed the freedom of movement as well as any small reminder of home.

He was tired of the French and this bloody game of cloaks and daggers. If the woman has killed nine men then the lass was perfectly capable of seeing after herself. His misguided, and unwanted for that matter, chivalry was not needed. He could do more good for the war effort at home.

He would just have to avoid the Duke and Duchess of Glenbroke until he had time to heal from his pain… and his guilt.

***

“Oh,” Nicole was startled to see Daniel Damont sitting in a saloon chair nearest the window, his bare legs and an outstretched arm were illuminated to a pale violet by the moonlight streaming through the half drawn curtain. “You’re awake.”

“Aye,” he grunted, a flash of light glinted near his chest and she heard him swallow the contents of the tumbler. “I’m awake.”

His thigh muscles flexed and his knee bent, causing his right shin to disappear into the shadows clinging to the base of the wing back chair, shadows that still hid his handsome face from view.

He said nothing and Nicole felt the need to fill the awkward emptiness.

“I wanted to apologize and to thank you for your help this evening. You were correct in your assessment of Minister LeCoeur’s character. The minister did indeed respond to your…”

His leather chair squeaked and light from a match flooded the room, saving her from trying to explain the effects of his kiss. Nicole blinked several times, having just become accustom to the dark, before he finally came into view as he touched the match to candlewick.

“Mind my breast plate.” Monsieur Damont pointed to the settee were the golden metal pieces lay cradled between two cushions. “I’ve to take the damn thing back tomorrow mornin’.” The man leaned forward and lifted himself from the chair, which, with his excessive height, seemed to take an eternity.

“I’m not sure…” Nicole had to concentrate on her words, not him. “That you should take it back. You caused quite a stir amongst the ladies at the ball and I had no less than three women ask if I could give them your direction.”

Daniel Damont bent down, his boyish grin holding the tiniest hint of embarrassment as he lifted the breast plate off the settee then set it carefully against the outer wall.

“And what did ya tell them?” he asked, standing before her with his crystal glass still in hand.

“I…” She hesitated and he raised a brow. “I told them ‘that I’d no idea of your direction and that my tastes ran more toward men of ‘subtle refinement’.”

“Aye, ‘subtle refinement’?” The man tossed back the remainder of his brandy then grinned and her heart bumped so markedly that it startled her. “Yes, I’ve never been described as man of ‘subtle refinement’, but I’d lay six to one at White’s that Joseph LeCoeur has.”

White’s? He was a member of White’s?

Nicole looked at her gloves, away from him, and tugged at the black fingertips. The tips elongated slightly, but the heat of the ballroom had caused the satin to adhere to her skin. The irony being, that she would have no difficulty removing her gloves if her hands were not encased in them.

She sighed, taking firm hold of the index finger of her left hand and wiggling the tip of the glove to no avail. It was then that Nicole heard Monsieur Damont set down his glass. His beautiful legs coming into view as he stopped before her with his weight supported by the hardened muscles of his left leg.

His right foot thrust forward, splitting the leather strips that hung about his hips to give her a tantalizing glimpse of the man’s power.

“Here, let me help ya, lass.” The Scot grabbed her right wrist with his left hand, but rather than pull on the fingers as she expected him to do, he reached for her upper arm.

Nicole watched helplessly as one long finger slipped beneath the diamond studded fabric, caressing her arm. Sensations from the previous night rekindled beneath her skin. She held her breath to contain the fire as his thumb and finger met before he flipped the satin over on itself. Monsieur Damont pulled downward and they both watched the satin siding ever so slowly down her arm.

“Are ya determined to go through with this assassination?”

“Yes,” she breathed, as the gloved peeled its way past her elbow.

“Right,” he whispered, his mind split by two tasks. “Then I’ve made a decision.”

“Yes?” she asked, but when he did not answer Nicole looked at his face.

His striking eyes were staring at her arm the way that she stared at his, and when the glove finally gave, his breath caught. She could see his back tense as he fought with the need to touch her. But unlike other men she has known, Nicole knew that he would not unless invited to do so.

An invitation her body begged her to make.

“You’ve made a decision?” she repeated, helping him… and herself regain some semblance of self-control.

The man cleared his throat and reached for her other arm, both of them pretending that she needed his continued assistance.

“Aye, while I’ve hastened your association with Minister LeCoeur, my continued presence would do nothing but lead to speculation as to the true nature of our relationship.”

“Yes,” she said, her left glove slowing its decent the closer it came to her wrist.

“Therefore,” he continued as she watched his large hands slowly work the silk from her fingers. “Therefore, I think if you’ve any chance of survival, it would be best if I were to acquiesce to your demands.”

“Yes,” she watched him toss the second glove on top of the first.

“And return to England on the next available ship.”

“Yes.” Nicole blinked, shaking her head. “No. What?” She looked up to meet his turquoise eyes.

His forehead furrowed and he reached around her head, saying, “Take off that bloody mask so I can speak with ya.”

Nicole closed her eyes, knowing that if she leaned forward a mere few inches she would be cradled by the temping muscles of his chest. His arms were surrounding her, he was surrounding her as Daniel Damont picked at the ties at the back of her head and all she wanted to do was reach up and hold on to his strength.

“Damn,” he muttered and her heart warmed at his gentleness. The man had not so much as pulled a single strand of her hair. “I canna protect you, lass. It pains me to admit it, but I’ve never been one to view things as pretty pictures.”

He leaned forward, and Nicole was overwhelmed by the heat of him, the masculine smell of the man as he peered over her head to view the obstinate knot. The ties gave and she felt the mask fall from her face, but the man surrounding her did not move. 

Their desire mingled and she watched his broad chest take several unsteady breaths before he whispered in her ear, “I’ll go down to the docks tomorrow and book my passage home.” Daniel Damont lifted his head and took a step back, staring down at her with the black lace mask dangling from his elegant fingers. “You’re free.”

Nicole glanced at the mask not entirely sure she wanted her freedom, but heard herself say, “Thank you?”

“Just answer me this, lass.”

Nicole looked up, feeling flushed, heated. “Yes.”

“What would you do if you knew you had but two weeks to live?”

They stared at one another for the beat of one heart and then she wrapped her arms around his neck saying, “One week,” just before kissing him like a woman condemned.

His tongue fit her mouth like a missing puzzle piece and she groaned, willingly succumbing to his sensual siege. He grabbed her backside. Lifting her with his right hand as she rose on her tiptoes, both of them mature enough in years to know what they wanted, what they needed.

Monsieur Damont leaned her backward, but rather than kiss her breasts as men always did, he kissed her on the neck just behind the ear.

“Yer so soft, so beautiful, lass. I’ve wanted to taste ya since the moment you opened that door in nothin’ more than a bath towel. Yer beautiful hair…”

His light eyes followed the movement of his fingers as they combed out the pins holding her coiffure, causing her hair to fall into his hands, causing her to fall more deeply into his arms.

”Yer hair tumblin’ about yer shoulders as if you had just made love.” One long finger traced her left shoulder, taking her gown with it. “God, how I envied Scorpion.”

Her right shoulder was next and he was lifting her, kissing her as he carried her to the burgundy settee. He tugged insistently and her bodice gave exposing her breasts to his gaze. Nicole inhaled sharply, aching to be touched. And he obliged her, lowering his head and taking her nipple in his mouth, suckling gently, rhythmically.

The heat of his mouth continued up her neck and he persuaded her with his lips, whispering, “Make love to me Nicole,” his hand holding the back of her neck. “Make love to me, Nicole, and I shall gladly follow you to this assassination and die a happy man.”

No, that was wrong.

Her mind began to clear as his hand descended on her back.
She did not want him to die at all. She was the one that would die. She was the one--His hand!

“Stop!” Nicole shouted, lifting her elbow to knock his heavy arm away from the scars that he had been precariously close to feeling. Daniel Damont stared at his muscular arm as if he’d no idea how it had gotten there and then turned to meet her eye.

Nicole stood, her right hand yanking up her left sleeve as she sought a reason for her outburst. “I don’t want your help with this assassination, Monsieur Damont.”

If this were, and it most likely was, a trap set by the French, she could not bear to be the cause of another innocent death.

Not again, not him.

“Right then,” she could hear the frustration, the anger in his voice. “I shall return to Falcon and tell him that you have thing’s, well in—-“

“Excellent!” Nicole nodded vigorously. “Yes, you should go back to England.”
Where you will be safe.
“And tell Falcon that I have been warned of the danger and will plan accordingly.”

“Right then.” He stared at her.

“Right,” she stared at his chest.

“I could seduce you.” Daniel bent his head so that he could look at her stunning features, feel her heat drifting up to him on a lavender tide.

“I know,” she whispered.

But he would not seduce her.

The girl wanted him, he knew it, had tasted it in her mouth, on her skin. But he wanted her willing, wanted her to come to him, give herself to him so that he might give himself to her. Daniel knew all too well the pain of wanting, but not being wanted in return, and he was not about to feel the sting of it again.