Pale Moon Rider (10 page)

Just because the invitation had come wrapped in satin and moonlight did not mean the devil had not sent it.

Devil indeed. He had not known what he had expected to discover hiding beneath the cloak and shadows, but a tangled waterfall of silvery curls had not been of the first order. Nor would he have foreseen legs as long as sin, skin as pale as moonlight, and everything displayed before him in a shape-molding wisp of silken nothingness that had had a distinct effect on the way his blood had altered its course through his veins. Even now it was difficult to keep his thoughts focused above her chin, and harder still not to acknowledge the heat that was building in places that should have been able to show better restraint under the circumstances.

“I must confess, mam’selle,” he murmured finally, “you have left me somewhat bereft of words.”

“It is quite simple,
Capitaine.
I still wish to hire you— for the amount agreed upon—to steal the rubies.”

Tyrone gave in to the temptation and contemplated the shimmer of cloth where it molded around her breasts. Five of his six senses were warning him against listening to anything more she had to say. It was the sixth, located somewhere in the region of his groin, that imprudently encouraged him to let her go on.

“I am still listening, mam’selle.”

Very deliberately Renée unclasped her hands and positioned them on the arms of the chair. It was madness, pure and simple, and if Finn were here, he would tell her so to her face, sparing nothing in the way of deference to her gender or social rank. He would point out, quite emphatically and quite rightly so, the sheer insanity of trusting a rogue and freebooter. Nor would he hesitate to mention the thousand and one things that could go wrong, the very least of which would be Roth discovering her duplicity.

But what if this rogue and freebooter could do it?

He was obviously not afraid to take risks, not afraid of the night or the shadows. He was cunning and clever and handsome—yes, he was handsome behind all that darkness, she had determined it must be so. He was also bold and daring and probably as eager to humiliate Roth as Roth was to see him caged and humbled.

What if he could really do it?

“Colonel Roth has great respect for your skill as an adversary, m’sieur, and it would appear to be well deserved. This was something I did not realize until tonight. In truth, I thought you were nothing more than a common, petty thief who had merely been lucky in managing to elude capture thus far.”

“Is that an attempt to flatter me, mam’selle?”

“Flatter you? No, m’sieur, I only wish you to know that I agreed to do this thing in the first place because I believed you
were
petty and common, and that you would be caught eventually, if not with my help then surely someone else’s. Two thousand pounds is a great deal of money to someone who does not have two
livres
to spare.”

“It still is.”

“Yes,” she conceded, “and I would not blame you if you walked away and never looked back.”

“The urge, I will admit, is quite strong. I would have to have a damned good reason to ignore it. And an even better one to believe or trust anything you say from here on out.”

He was right. Of course he was right. Renée could scarcely believe what she was saying herself, let alone that she should be convincing enough for him to believe her. And yet, if there was the smallest chance it could succeed, it would be worth the risk, would it not? She was so tired of being afraid, so tired of being pushed and pulled and bullied and threatened. She was tired of seeing the haunted look on Antoine’s face, tired of finding him cringing beneath the bed or huddled in a corner waiting for the next person to betray him. Tired of feeling like crawling into a dark space herself.

“I agree completely, m’sieur,” she said quietly. “We must be able to trust each other before we can go any further.”

Without taking her eyes off him, she rose and took several tentative steps toward the shadows where he stood. When she was as close to him as she dared go, she reached up and very deliberately gathered her hair in two glossy fistfuls, pushing it into a haphazard mass on the crown of her head.

Shutting her eyes, she tilted her chin up and exposed the slender arch of her neck. “You did warn me, did you not m’sieur, what you would do if I lied to you again?”

Tyrone’s throat swelled shut. She was a glowing, gossamer figure bathed in the shimmering moonlight, and she was close enough to touch. With her arms raised, the sheer fabric of her robe molded snugly to the underside of her breasts, drawing his attention to just how lush and full and infinitely touchable they were. With her fair coloring, he knew her nipples would be as pink as a blush, the skin supple and smooth and warm. Even more tantalizing— and when he saw it, it was all he could do not to come out of his own skin—was the tiny heart-shaped mole that rode one soft white swell, rising and falling with each shallow breath, teasing him with dangerous thoughts of other luscious secrets that might be hidden in the pearly shadows.

If the devil had indeed sent her, he was a canny old bastard, Tyrone thought, for he had not been tempted with such a succulent offering in a long time.

He was quiet and still for so long, Renée risked a peek through her lashes. Seated with her back to the light, her eyes had gradually adjusted to the darkness, and whether it was because of this or because her robe was reflecting some of the light, creating its own glow to penetrate the shadows, she could see vaguely defined contours of his face. The topmost collar of his greatcoat was no longer raised like a shield to hide his features, and his jaw appeared to be square and clean-shaven. His eyes were wide and deep-set beneath an unbroken slash of dark eyebrows, his nose straight and firm, and although it was impossible to prove by these few blurred impressions, he
was
handsome. Shockingly, dangerously handsome.

Something stirred against Renée’s sleeve and the butterflies in her belly took a sharp swoop en masse downward. His hand had plucked a few hanging strands of her hair, and he was watching the sparklets of moonlight dance off the gleaming threads as he fed them through his fingers. At some point he had removed his gloves, and she could see his hands were masculine and well formed, with long tapered fingers. One of them, she suspected, could crush more flesh and bone than two of Roth’s, with half the effort.

Once, twice he wound the curl around the palm of his hand, drawing so close she could smell the lingering scent of leather and horseflesh that clung to his greatcoat. When the slack and the distance between them was taken up, he paused. His long fingers stretched out to touch the bruise at the juncture of her jaw and neck, and, almost as an afterthought, he traced a feather
-
light line from her ear down to her collarbone. There, he followed along the collar of her robe, pausing to edge it aside so that his thumb might caress the dark blush of the mole and verify it was real.

His hand radiated heat like the intense warmth from a candle flame held too close, and she was aware of her flesh responding. There were tremors racing through her belly and the skin across her breasts had tightened with each careless stroke. Her nipples had risen taut and erect beneath the satin, their impertinence as obvious as the quivering folds of her robe where the satin shivered and shimmered around her legs. She had struck a brazen pose, hoping to assure him of her sincerity, but instead she was melting in waves, trembling like a loosely set syllabub inside and out, and if he did not say or do something soon to ease the tension, her knees were likely to buckle beneath her.

“I do not recall seeing any other lights on this floor,” he murmured. “You have no maid?”

She had to swallow before she could answer, and even then the words came out dry and thready. “Finn has a room across the hall. The—the housekeeper and the rest of the servants are all in the west wing.”

“All
of them?”

She stared at his hand. No more than the width of a drawn breath was separating it from her breast. The palm and fingers had already assumed a curved shape, as if he meant to cradle her flesh to test the firmness and weight, but at the last possible instant before contact, he lifted it away, and his thumb retraced the route from her breastbone to her collar, up to where the fine blue veins below her ear betrayed the erratic flutter of her pulse.

“There is no one else?” he asked again.

The thought came on a rush of hot and cold sensations: Did he know about Antoine? Was this a test of her commitment to the truth?

Before she could debate the wisdom of answering one way or the other, he was leaning closer, his breath warming her ear. “This Mr. Finn of yours … is he a sound sleeper?”

It was then, between one heartbeat and the next, before the last breath and the one not yet taken that she remembered something else she had told him—something she had declared so offhandedly he might think it meant nothing to her. She had told him she was no longer a virgin, and that no price was too steep to pay in order to win her freedom.

His fingers caressed her neck and she raised her lashes, shocked to see his face was only an inch or two from hers. She could see the shape of his eyes, quite clearly; they were large and thickly lashed and glittered with pinpoints of light.

“He hea
rs me when I cry out, m’sieur.”

“When you cry out?”

“I … often have nightmares,” she whispered. “I dream I am back in the streets of
Paris
, in the
Place de la Revolution
where they took my father to be executed. I see the guillotine, standing so tall and thin against the sky, and I see the blood that drips from the blade and runs in rivers from under the stock to stain the feet of the citizens who have gathered to watch and cheer.”

She saw no reason to confide any more of the horror that waited for her in the dark, and he held her gaze for what seemed like half an eternity before he straightened and started untangling the captive curl from around his hand. He seemed reluctant to let it go, but even as the last glossy strands slithered out of his fingers, he had retreated several steps into the shadows again, turning his face from the light.

“Exactly how much do you estimate these rubies are worth?”

The question, coming while her body was still taut and vibrating, produced answers that did not have the benefit of thought or subtlety. “Fifty thousand pounds, perhaps more.”

“Fifty thousand?” He whistled softly under his breath. “For a few pieces of jewelry?”

She sensed more than just doubt in his voice now and she let her hair drop back around her shoulders.

“They are not just any jewels, m’sieur. They are known as the Dragon’s Blood rubies.”

“For fifty thousand pounds, they should be Christ’s blood.”

She ignored the blasphemy and pushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen over her cheek. “They belonged to a very old and very noble family of France, one whose bloodlines were founded on the courage of those who conquered this damp and miserable island of yours. Like so many others who began to fear they could lose everything to the revolution, the Duc de Blois made arrangements to transfer much of his family’s wealth out of harm’s way. The Dragon’s Blood rubies, along with other irreplaceable heirlooms, were smuggled out of
France
and were to be kept safe in a bank vault until the
duc
or his heirs could escape and claim them.”

“I gather the
duc
did not escape?”

“He was betrayed to the Committee and executed for treason, as were his wife, his sons, his grandchildren, even a baby who could have been no more than a month old at the time. Robespierre,” she added tautly, “was very thorough.”

“How did the rubies come to be in your fiancé’s possession?”

“He was the one who arranged to take the jewels, the hoards of gold and silver—not just from the Duc de Blois, but from several others—and promised he would safeguard their wealth until they could escape with their families. Indeed, he safeguarded it in the vaults of his own bank until he received word they were imprisoned and executed, then it was a simple matter to claim the treasures as his own.”

“How enterprising of him,” Tyrone mused.

“Enterprising,” she agreed, “if it does not trouble your conscience that your profits are stained with blood.”

Wary of her growing agitation, Tyrone raised his hands in a gesture meant to placate. “I am hardly in the position to offer any defense on your fiancé’s behalf, but—”

“There is no defense,” she snapped. “These men and women trusted him to secure their future, to protect their family’s heritage. They paid him enormous sums to smuggle their wealth out of
France
before Robespierre and his greedy minions confiscated it in the name of
liberté, égalité
, and
fraternité
, and then he turned around and stole it out of their graves.”

“And now you plan to steal it from him?”

“If I can, yes.”

“And the, ah, moral ambiguity does not trouble you at all?”

"
Q
ue signifie-t-il
?”

“Ambiguity? In this instance it means condemning someone for doing something you are about to do yourself. But never mind, you don’t have to answer that. I am more curious about something you said earlier tonight, that you can sell the rubies without suffering any loss of value?”