Rendezvous (9781301288946) (13 page)

Belle added thoughtfully, "It will be
interesting to see what happens when Victor and Lazare cease to be
of use to each other."

Sinclair pinched the bridge of his nose
as though the information she had given him was too much to
assimilate. "It's enough to give one a headache," he complained.
"This gets more confusing all the time, like reading a book with
too many of the pages gone." He leveled a stare at her. "Some of
which I think you hold."

So he was back to that again, probing
into her own past concerning Lazare. Belle clamped her mouth shut.
She hated questions regarding her own life. She had told Sinclair
that at the outset. If Sinclair was going to be her partner, he
would have to learn to tolerate her reticence, just as she was
learning to put up with his infernal habit of calling her
Angel.

Yet in this matter of Lazare, perhaps
she was merely being stubborn. Belle exuded a weary sigh. Sinclair
did have a right to know the whole tale, especially if he was going
to be working with Lazare. He ought to be warned how dangerous
Lazare could be.

As though he sensed her yielding,
Sinclair remained patiently silent, stroking back the strands of
night-dark hair the wind whipped across his eyes. Belle stared at a
flock of sea gulls wheeling overhead, their strident cries breaking
the quiet morning air, but she charted not so much their course as
the course of a memory, a memory like too many others she
possessed, painful, better forgotten.

"Two years ago Lazare and I were on a
mission together," she began at last. "It was a simple enough
assignment, to gain information on French troops, where they would
be likely to strike next against the allied forces."

Belle shook her head dolefully, rubbing
her arms. "But the expedition seemed ill-fated from the first. I
took sick soon after we were set ashore in France. I became
feverish, almost delirious. Lazare should have just left me, went
on himself. But he insisted on nursing me back to health. I should
have died but for his care."

"The man strikes me as being a most
unlikely nurse." Sinclair only echoed what Belle had thought
herself at the time. She struggled to account for Lazare's
unexpectedly noble behavior.

"I seemed to hold a strange fascination
for him. The streak of cruelty in him was not as strong as his
vanity in those days. He was very conscious of his looks, and in
me, I believe, he thought he had at last found a fitting
mate."

"Him and you?" Sinclair growled. "It's
enough to make my flesh crawl just thinking about the possibility.
So he took care of you until you recovered. Then what
happened?"

"We went on with the mission. It went
well enough until we were surprised by two soldiers and forced to
take them captive. They were both so young." Belle closed her eyes
briefly and could again envision the two lads, peasant farm boys in
their ragged, ill-fitting uniforms, doubtlessly farther from home
than they had ever been in their lives and so scared.

She opened her eyes and continued
briskly, "We had them well trussed up, hidden in a ditch by the
roadside. We would have been long gone before anyone found them. I
saw no need to silence them permanently, but Lazare did not agree.
He kept sharpening that damned knife and eyeing their throats. He
used to be a knife grinder by profession. He would stroke that
blade of his the way most men caress a woman."

Sinclair looked sickened. "Good God!
The two soldiers. Lazare didn't—"

"No, he didn't, but only because I drew
out my pistol and threatened him. Lazare tried to take the weapon
away from me, and somehow it went off." Belle caught her breath. It
was as though she could yet see Lazare clutching the side of his
head, the blood gushing between his fingers, and she could still
hear his screams, his horrible inhuman screams.

Belle became aware that Sinclair was
grasping her hands. Her fingers felt cold even encased in kid
gloves, but Sinclair's warm strength penetrated the thin leather,
dispelling the chill that coursed through her. Lazare's screams
faded to become nothing more than the cries of the gulls circling
the pier.

"Somehow I got Lazare away from there,"
she concluded, "and found him a doctor. There was no possibility of
saving his ear. Indeed it was a miracle he lived at all,
considering the severity of his wound, the powder burns to his
face." Wearily she shook her head. "I felt so guilty. I never meant
to shoot him. I only wanted to stop him."

"The only thing you should be sorry for
is not having had better aim. You should have killed that
blackguard, Angel."

Belle glanced up at Sinclair, startled
by the vehemence of his words.

"There is nothing more dangerous than a
wounded jackal. When Lazare looks at you-.” Sinclair's jaw tensed.
"You should never have agreed to his presence on this
mission."

"Perhaps not.” Sinclair told her
nothing that she had not repeated over and over to herself this
past week. "But he did save my life once, and considering how badly
he was injured by my hand, I fear Lazare is right. I do, at least,
owe him another chance."

Sinclair did not look as though he
agreed, but he vented a sigh of frustrated acceptance. "You just be
careful around that man, Angel. Do you hear me?"

Sinclair's commanding tone should have
irritated her, but strangely it did not. She gave a shaky laugh. "I
am always careful, Mr. Carrington. But if Lazare wanted vengeance,
believe me, he would have tried to take it long ago. He is not a
subtle man."

"All the same, I would never turn my
back on him for long, especially on board the packet. I don't want
you anywhere near him on that open deck."

"No fear of that. I will spend the
entire crossing below in one of the cabins." Although it hurt her
pride to admit to what she considered a foolish weakness, Belle
said, "I am frequently prey to seasickness."

Sinclair's grim expression softened.
"So is Admiral Lord Nelson," he told her with a grin.

"Truly, is he?" Belle asked eagerly,
then eyed him with suspicion. "Sinclair, you made that
up."

"No, upon my honor, I did
not."

Whether Sinclair had or hadn't, it
didn’t matter. Once again he had lightened her mood and charmed a
smile from her. She became aware that he was yet grasping her
hands. Rather reluctantly she disengaged herself.

They strolled some little ways along
the dock together in companionable silence. Having resisted
accepting Sinclair as a partner, it occurred to Belle that she had
learned to be comfortable with him in a short space of time. He was
so easy to talk to—

Too easy, she thought, frowning. What
other man had ever induced her to reveal painful episodes of her
past or to expose her weaknesses? Especially a man who was a
virtual stranger to her. What did she truly know of Sinclair
Carrington? Belle cast a sharp glance at him. He gazed out across
the rough channel waters, making no effort to shield his already
sun-bronzed features from the elements, seeming to take a keen
enjoyment in the wind that tousled his hair and snapped the ends of
his coat. His face indicated nothing to her except the countenance
of a handsome rakehell, too damnably attractive from the lazy
arrogance of his smile to the heat that radiated from his eyes when
he looked at her.

Perhaps it was time she posed a few
questions of her own. Belle halted so abruptly that Sinclair
outstripped her by several steps, his boots ringing against the
weather-beaten boards of the dock. When he realized she was no
longer with him, he turned back, his thick brows arching an
inquiry.

"Sinclair, I have been thinking-" she
began.

"That sounds rather alarming,
Angel."

She refused to be put off by his
teasing. "You have learned some things about me these past ten
days. Yet I still know next to nothing about you."

A certain wariness crept into his eyes.
"What did you want to know?"

"To start with, you know my motive for
working for Victor Merchant, but what about yours? And don't try to
tell me you are a devoted royalist, because I don't think I will
believe it."

"I wouldn't dream of trying to humbug
you, Angel. Quite simply, I work for the money. I am a soldier of
fortune, an adventurer, the same as you. Didn't I tell you at the
outset that you and I have a great deal in common?"

His voice had dropped to an intimate
pitch that she found as warm as a caress. Belle tried to ignore the
way her pulse quickened in response.

"But despite how much money Merchant
was offering," she said, "you seemed most reluctant to accept this
assignment, traveling to France—"

"Speaking of traveling-." Sinclair
reached inside the flap of his coat. "I have our passport right
here."

Was he trying to distract her? It was
not going to work. He would soon discover she could be as
persistent with her questions as he. When Sinclair offered the
traveling papers to her, Belle snatched them and subjected them to
the most cursory inspection, intending to thrust them right back at
him.

She hesitated as one line of the
scrawled print leaped out at her. Issued to Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair
Carrington, accompanied by one maidservant, Paulette
Beauvais.

"Mrs. Carrington?" She subjected
Sinclair to an icy glare. "I wasn't aware that you were bringing
your mother along."

"You know full well that refers to you,
Angel. I decided it would be best if you pretended to be my
wife."

"You decided! It is my habit to select
my own roles, Mr. Carrington." She slapped the passport back into
his hand so hard that he winced. "And if you think for one moment I
will—"

"Hold a moment, Belle, and reason it
through clearly. If we hope to get near Napoleon, we will have to
invade the upper reaches of French society. To do that we have to
appear respectable."

"I could pretend to be your
sister."

Sinclair's eyes drifted over her in one
of those lingering appraisals that never failed to set her nerve
endings a-tingle. "I would never be able to make anyone believe you
were my sister. We look nothing alike. Besides, as a married woman,
you will have greater freedom of movement."

She hated to admit it, but Sinclair's
arguments made sense, although she still distrusted his motives.
Exactly how far would he try to take this pretense?

While Sinclair returned the offending
document to his pocket, she grumbled, "Do you truly think you can
carry it off? Frankly, you strike me as too much of a rake to
convince anyone that you are a married man."

A mischievous glint appeared in
Sinclair's eyes. "You can always give me the opportunity to
practice."

Belle stiffened. That was exactly the
sort of attitude upon Sinclair's part that she feared. Before she
could prevent it, he had slipped both arms about her waist and was
drawing her closer. Belle splayed her fingers defensively against
his chest. Even through the layers of fabric, she could feel how
tautly honed were the muscles beneath.

"This is not how respectable married
people behave," she said, her heart beating erratically.

"No? This is how I would behave if you
were my bride."

He was teasing her, as he was so fond
of doing. Perhaps it would have ended there if their eyes had not
chanced to meet. A spark of attraction coursed between them as
undefinable as it was irresistible. Sinclair's easy smile vanished,
his expression becoming more intent as he drew her closer. Her
hands suddenly seemed too weak to hold him at bay.

As his mouth slowly descended to claim
hers, a tremor shot through Belle. His lips tasted of the salt sea
air. Her resistance melted, and her lips became soft and pliant,
allowing his questing tongue to explore the sensitive recesses of
her mouth in slow, fire-wrought circles. Desire flickered to life,
stirring a sweet ache deep within her, a need that she had denied
for far too long.

She retained enough sense to break free
of Sinclair's all too seductive kiss and turn her head aside. "No,"
she said as his lips caressed her temple, the side of her cheek,
his breath hot upon her skin. "We agreed that we should not- This
is not wise— I—oh!"

Her protest ended in an exclamation of
dismay. She found herself staring deep into a pair of wide gray
eyes that peered up at her from beneath the brim of a straw hat.
Bare yards away, a small boy with wind-tossed sandy curls watched
her and Sinclair with unblinking fascination.

"Sinclair!" Belle wrenched out of his
arms. "We have an audience."

"Hmmm?" Sinclair's ardor appeared to
wax too hot for him to make sense of her words. Then he saw the
boy, too, and grimaced as though just doused with cold water. A
blush surged into Belle's cheeks. If their passionate embrace had
attracted ribald comments from one of the dockhands, that would
somehow have been less embarrassing than the child's innocent
regard. For once, even Sinclair seemed at a loss for
words.

It was the boy who broke the tension.
His snub nose crinkled like a rabbit's. He scratched it and broke
into a grin whose charm was enhanced by a missing tooth.