England's Assassin (9 page)

“’tis not possible.”

“Why? Are you afraid of battle?” she scoffed, making him wonder what had happened to this woman, this girl who should be thinking of nothing more that the latest London fashions.

“No, I’ve often ached to fight on the Peninsula, but…” He closed his mouth, already giving her more information than he had intended. “What about you, Mademoiselle Beauvoire?” she blinked and he smiled. “How did you come to be in Paris?”

The angry light drained from her eyes, leaving them blank and lifeless.

“My husband.”

It was a kick in the gut and Daniel felt a bastard.

There were many wartime widows, many women grieving the loss of their husbands. But few women that loved so much, so deeply that she would avenge her husband’s death by killing those she thought were responsible.

Daniel felt a twinge of envy, yearning to be loved so well. But Sarah Duhearst had chosen another man and he had been left with an emptiness that was reflected in the beautiful eyes of a grieving widow.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he whispered.

Tears welled in her eyes and Daniel knew he had pulled them from her. He reached out and dried her cheek with the back of his fingers.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” She stared at him and he wanted nothing more than to put the life back in her eyes.

“Aye, I do. I’ve caused you pain and for that I’m sorry.” Daniel reached out and pulled her to his chest, letting her quiet tears soak the front of his shirt.

He stroked her back and her dark hair, soothing her with soft Scottish words whispered in her ear; words of comfort, words of consolation for this woman so deprived of nourishment, so starved for the tenderness of a loving husband that the lass clung to his tenderness as if she were drowning.

“I’m so sorry,” he lifted her chin so that she could see the sincerity in his eyes, the understanding in his heart.

His fingers disappearing into the soft curls of her ebony hair and he could feel himself warming with desire for this courageous woman. His eyes remained fixed on her lovely face as he continued his rhythmic strokes, his sympathetic caresses at the back of her head.

Their eyes held and Mademoiselle Beauvoire leaned ever so slightly toward his hand, the claret leaving her drained of all thought, all resistance.

The gesture was all the encouragement he needed. Daniel guided her toward him as he bent to taste her alluring lips. She was so soft, so sweet but he was shocked by the strength of craving that met him. The longing of a woman deprived of a man’s touch for far too long.

He parted her lips and delved into the heat of her mouth where he was greeted by the bold strokes of an experienced woman determined to extract every drop of pleasure from the embrace.

She reached up, cradling the back of his head and when her tongue swirled its way down his own, Daniel’s lust went spiraling with it. He wallowed there in the rushing current of mutual attraction as she darted deeper into his mouth, tasting, exploring, enjoying. Until, suddenly, she pulled her head back, suckling his bottom lip as she reluctantly released the sensual sensation.

Her eyes drifted open and he stared down at her, his blood bumping down his neck as it drained from his light head.

“I think you missed a spot, lass.” He grinned, his voice as rigid as his erection. “You best go back and get it.”

Daniel bent his head, looking forward to the second tantalizing round but the girl placed her fingers over his lips.

“No, I think that is enough practice for one day.”

“Practice?” His stomach tightened, preparing to be struck.

“Yes, for the masquerade ball tomorrow night. Minister LeCoeur is very experience and it has been quite some time since I have seduced a man of his caliber.” Mademoiselle Beauvoire stared at him, showing no signs of the heat that still surged through his body. “But apparently it is rather like riding a horse, one never quite forgets.”

The girl rose, taking his temper with her. “No, lass, I’d say you stayed yer mount quite nicely.”

“How kind.” She smiled politely then started toward her bedchamber. “I think I shall have a bath before Minister LeCoeur returns. Would you mind keeping watch in the interim?”

“I live to serve,
Madame
Beauvoire” Daniel said with a searing sarcasm that apparently missed its mark.

“Thank you,” she replied sweetly before disappeared behind the double doors of her bedchamber, leaving him a frustrated heap on the sitting room floor.

***

Nicole sat, shaking in the chair nearest her bedchamber doors.

Why had he touched her!
But she already knew.

She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and covered her mouth, smothering a sob. She pressed harder, clamping down on her self-control as she forced herself to swallow her distress, her hurt.

Daniel Damont had kissed her because he wanted to go home. He had been sent to retrieve her and his misguided chivalry was keeping him here.

She was keeping him here.

But if he could lure her, get her to accompany him willingly then his task would be complete and he could, with a clear conscience, return safely, triumphantly to the bosom of Britain’s haute ton.

And, God, she had been willing. She had allowed the claret to lower her defenses and he had capitalized on her weakness, swooping down to exploit a woman’s vulnerabilities, her need to be loved.

Well, not all women were so weak, so foolish as to believe a man’s lust was anything more than that. A base need to spill his seed as often as the opportunity presented.

But the manipulation was not entirely his fault. Nicole had allowed him to detect her weakness, her attraction to him and he had used his sensuality against her. No, she was not angry with him but rather with herself. She had not guarded herself against his sensory attack.

She should be thankful, she supposed, that he had not simply drugged her and thrown her on the next ship to Honfleur. No doubt that would be his next tactic once he realized that his seduction had failed.

He would try again, she was sure, after her wanton response to his caress, it was inevitable. Nicole took a deep breath and mentally girded her loins, preparing herself for his further advances. She had played him well, had confessed to a carnal curiosity as pertaining to her work, her assignment.

Minister LeCoeur was indeed a young man, not such a buck that any lure would entice. No, the minister was of an age to know what he preferred, to know what type of bed sport would arouse him. She would have to spend the evening in thoughtful consideration of the best means of breaching the minister’s sensual defenses, of embodying Joseph LeCoeur sexual fantasies.

All the while, avoiding Daniel Damont and her own.

Paris, France

October 24, 1811

An invitation to masquerade ball hosted by the Marquis La Roche was very difficult to procure, but Nicole had managed, as she always did. She had to. Prudent ministers rarely ventured out in public and when they did they were surrounded by highly trained guards.

However, for the powerful marquis, exceptions were made. Her target had become a minister by knowing with whom to align himself and by knowing which men to appease. He was cautious, clever and never made a move without considering every possible outcome of that decision.

But the minister did have a weakness.

He enjoyed competing.

A virgin was no match for his prowess while forcing a woman to his bed would be equally disappointing. No, she suspected, after hours of discreet observation that a woman equally matched would arouse Minister LeCoeur interest far more than the virtuous lady.

Competition was fuel to his fire and Nicole dressed accordingly. She had ordered a black lace mask cut in the shape of a butterfly and edged all the way around with small diamonds. But she had chosen not to line the mask with satin so as to leave the pliable lace to reveal provocative glimpses of the woman beneath.

Her eyes had been decorated with the kohl she had asked Monsieur Damont to purchase and the black cosmetic had the effect of intensifying the violet color.

Anxious, Nicole reached into the bodice of her gown and adjusted her breasts, lifting them to give a more titillating view than was provided by the low slung neckline of her distinctive costume.

Mademoiselle Beauvoire sat back as the carriage rolled steadily toward the masquerade ball where she would make her first contact with Joseph LeCoeur. She closed her eyes, rehearsing what she would say, what he might say in return as she rolled her head from side to side, trying to lessen the tension pulling at her neck.

However, her anxiety returned the moment the carriage came to a stop. Nicole reached down and gathered her capacious skirts then stepped down from the luxurious carriage. The crisp autumn air stung her cheeks as she looked up at the enormous Château which was artfully lit by hundreds of flickering torches.

Glancing at the arriving guests, Nicole adjusted the yards of black tool which her modiste had painstakingly sewn in confusing swirls to the black silk of her skirt. Satisfied, she tugged at her long black gloves, taking care not to dislodge the ring of diamonds capping the gloves well past her elbows.

Her carriage clattered down the drive and Nicole swallowed her distaste of the task before her then walked up the pretentious staircase into the enormous home of the Marquis La Roche. Nicole smiled contentedly as she looked down at the dancing couples, noting that she was the only woman in view dressed entirely in black.

Heads turned with curious interest and Nicole took a deep breath as she descended the marble stairs to the ballroom below. She smiled politely at the gentlemen, who behind the shield of their required masks, stared at her décolletage in open appreciation before lifting their eyes to meet her disinterested gaze.

A brave young buck approached, wearing a black domino and mask and she was too busy trying to divine his identity to note the blonde Zeus approaching from her right. The gentleman opened his mouth to speak but his eyes darted to his left and he promptly shut it, bowing to the fair man now standing at her side.

Nicole turned her head to the right and smiled at the tall gentleman donning a white, silk robe and a golden mask fashioned in the shape of a lightning bolt.

He smiled, small wrinkles appearing at the corner of his brown eyes when he said, “Good evening, Mademoiselle, and welcome to my home.”

“Marquis La Roche,” Nicole curtsied, making sure to leave her head up so that the marquis would be able to view her breasts which were threatening to burst from her intricately embroidered gown. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Did I?” The marquis quirked a fair brow.

“Did you what?”

“Did I invite you?

Nicole laughed at the bluntness of his question. “Well, I must confess that I am newly arrived in Paris, but when I received this invitation…” She withdrew an invitation from a pocket hidden in the folds of her gown. “I assumed that you wanted me here.”

The marquis could not help but glanced her over, saying, “I very much want you here, Mademoiselle, as I feel resourcefulness should be rewarded.”

Nicole grinned, knowing that she had been caught and appreciative that the man had not thrown her out on her ear. “How very progressive of you, Marquis La Roche.”

Her host bent his head in acceptance of the compliment. “If there is anything you require, Mademoiselle, please do not hesitate to seek me out.”

“You are quite generous.”

The marquis laughed, saying, “Generosity has nothing to do with it, my dear. Enjoy your evening.” He kissed her gloved had but before he could release her a small murmur drew their attention to the head of the staircase.

Nicole’s mouth fell open and her eyebrows rose. She stared, along with everyone else in the room, at the unmasked figure of Daniel Damont dressed as a Roman general. The Scot wore a golden breast plate stamped with the Eagled Crest of the Holy Roman Empire and while that was wildly impressive it was the shocking amount of flesh not covered by the costume that held the guests to the floor.

Strips of leather cut to points hung around his narrow hips and upper arms, leaving every woman in the ballroom with a clear view of the man’s beautifully muscled arms and thighs.

And view him they did.

No woman could help but gawk at the man as he was a roman sculpture come to life. But this sculpture was very real and just to emphasis his mortality, the stunning man surveyed the ballroom and then grinned as if he approved of what he was undoubtedly about to conquer.

He sauntered down the staircase. The brown, leather stripes flaring and drawing all feminine eyes to his flexing thighs.

“I am quite certain, I did not invite him,” the marquis muttered, bringing Nicole’s mind up to pace with her racing heart. “Excuse me.”

Marquis La Roche made for the base of the stairs and Nicole grabbed the arm of the young buck that had approached her moments a go.

“I do so enjoy a waltz,” she said not giving the boy time to think as she led him through the crush and away from Daniel Damont.

She needed time, needed a moment to wrap her mind around Monsieur Damont’s reasons for following her to the masquerade. He was compromising her mission by distracting her at the very moment when she needed all of her faculties to seduce Minister LeCoeur.

He did not know he was distracting her, of course, but how could he not. She glanced over her partner’s shoulder as they spun the length of the room. The man’s handsome face was clearly visible over the heads of the other guests and he was looking for something.

Her!

And then Nicole smiled to herself, remembering that she had gone to the modiste to receive assistance in dressing. He had not seen her gown. She sighed with relief and ducked behind her partner, knowing that Daniel Damont would have no way of identifying her. Nicole was wearing a mask and although he could see her black hair there were many women present with ebony coiffures.

If she hurried, she would be able to contact Minister LeCoeur and leave the ball before…

“Good Evening.” Nicole’s heart stopped and apprehension bleed into in her chest. “Might I have the pleasure of cutting in on this set?”

The boy she danced with was clearly taken aback. He stared at Daniel Damont as the man stood in the middle of the ballroom floor waiting for the upstart to relinquish his partner as if it were inevitable.

“Keep dancing,” she whispered to the buck.

They turned away from Monsieur Damont, but her eyes met the Scot’s before she spun to the far side of the wooden floor. He watched, a Roman warrior waiting for the perfect moment to attack. He crossed sculpted arms over his chest and smiled, oblivious to the disapproving stares of the couples forced to dodge him as they waltzed.

They continued to dance, but as the waltz swept them toward Monsieur Damont, her partner tensed, spinning them a shade too early in hopes of avoiding the unavoidable.

Daniel Damont anticipated them, stepping to his right and blocking their progress. He stared down and informed her partner, “I’m stepping in.”

To his credit her partner paused, thinking to defend her. The buck’s eyes slid to hers and his mouth opened, but she cut him off, saying, “Don’t bother, you won’t win and I shall be perfectly alright. He’s not dangerous.” Nicole meet Daniel Damont eye. “Just insufferable.”

Monsieur Damont chuckled and then bowed as the boy skulked, embarrassed, to the edge of the ballroom’s oak floor.

“My dance I believe,” just as the opening chords of a second, much slower, waltz began.

Nicole went into his arms, her lips pinched as she glanced at the aghast guests.

“You have drawn the attention of everyone in attendance.”

Monsieur Damont’s large hand slid further around her waist and he smiled suggestively, saying, “You had done that already.”

His gaze slipped to her low cut gown and Nicole felt the ache of disillusionment blossom in her chest, tightening the back of her throat. Men had always been obscenely drawn by her abundant breasts and why she expected Daniel Damont to be any different she could not fathom.

“You look stunning, Mademoiselle Beauvoire.”

Nicole snorted in disgust and stopped dead on the dance floor, causing the unsuspecting couple behind them to crash into Monsieur Damont massive back. She yanked her hand from his and storm off toward the balcony on a cloud of indignant black silk.

She needed to be alone, needed to remember that she was alone, needed to remember the reason she had come to this sad state in the middle of a Parisian ballroom.

“What did ya do that for?”

Nicole turned, her eyes darting about the balcony to verify that they were alone. 

“How dare you follow me,” she hissed. “Have you any idea of the position you have just placed me.”

Monsieur Damont’s masculine lips pulled into a seductive grin and he walked toward her, placing one hand on the balustrade and the other on her right cheek.

“I can only image the position I’ve put you in.”

Nicole swallowed, asking, “Who are you supposed to resemble?” as she turned from his scorching touch.

“Marc Antony. Who better to compete with Caesar?” Daniel Damont tossed his auburn head toward the ballroom. “Do you see him?” he whispered down at her. “The minister is wearing a red robe.”

Nicole slid her eyes to the right and saw Joseph LeCoeur standing at the edge of the ballroom nearest the open glass doors.

“He has been watching you the entire time that I’ve been here.”

“You’ve only been here twenty minutes,” she said with utmost sarcasm.

“Ah,” he took a step closer. “But I, like Caesar, know which women are worth seducing.”

Before she had a moment to react, Daniel Damont had grasped the back of her neck and bent his head, seizing her in a carnal kiss meant to conquer and claim.

Stunned by the Scots very public display, Nicole jerked her head back and voiced her incredulity in the form of an offended exhalation.

“Are you mad?”

Monsieur Damont smiled, unrepentant and sure of his sensual appeal. But what was even more irritating than the man’s arrogance was the fact that his confidence was warranted as evidenced by her less than stable knees.

“Competition should hasten the minister’s pursuit of you.” Monsieur Damont was correct. Damn the man. “Now, all you need do is slap—“

The Scot’s head snapped to the right with the force of her enthusiastic blow to his left cheek. His jaw clenched and she could see the anger burning in his bright eyes as he struggled to regain his amiable façade.

“You needn’t have struck me quite so hard, lass,” he growled, his compressed lips scarcely moving.

Guilt flooded her. Nicole stared at his perfect profile, knowing that it was her inability to control her desire for Daniel Damont that had caused her fit of frustration.

“Is Antony disturbing you, Mademoiselle?”

Nicole drained the remorse from her features, forcing her face to harden with contempt before turning toward the minister and saying with utmost disappointment, “No, I’m afraid that is the difficulty. Antony disturbs me not at all.”

Minister LeCoeur chuckled and Daniel Damont threw him the most menacing of glares before turning his cold eyes on her.

“May tonight’s ball provide you precisely what you deserve,” he growled in aristocratic French.

The Scot spun on his Roman sandals and marched inside, the crowd parting as if he were indeed Marc Antony and they, his compliant troops.

Nicole smiled, knowing that her target was watching carefully when she added to Daniel Damont’s impressive back, “Thank you for your concern, Monsieur, as the evening is proving rather disappointing.”

“Is it?” She heard to her right.