Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (50 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

August 18
^st
, 1815 – Paris

The courier mopped sweat from under
his hat band. It had been a dog day, and even with the sun below the hills the
air was swampy. He had been forced to cool his heels in the courtyard, baking
while monsieur stabbed his quill, murdering his inkwell with the same precise
strikes as he did his foes. Sheet after sheet of foolscap was sanded, set
aside. The courier watched impatiently through the open French doors, looking
for any sign that he was near to being dismissed.

Creasing, thumping. A seal,
perhaps. He must have been right. A moment later the pretty housemaid who had
greeted his arrival appeared on the steps, fiddling with her brown braids and
smiling at the ground. He made a mental note to pass by the kitchen stairs
another day when work was not so pressing.

Letter safely tucked away, he
mounted, wheeled, and charged from the courtyard into the lane. Right. A flick
of the reins took him around the fountain. Left, and left again, sweeping past
flower stalls that were closed for the night. His pace was so break-neck that
he would not have seen her, hunched almost on her knees at the mouth of an
alley. With the distraction of carts and pedestrians at midday, his horse would
have trampled her – thank goodness for empty streets. Even so, he would not
normally have stopped under any but the most extreme circumstances. Getting a
better look at her under the gas lamp, however, the courier decided that these
were extreme circumstances.

She was covered in blood. It caked
her face and hands, painted swaths through her wild blonde hair. The courier
readied to spur his horse. He wasn't meddling with a prostitute. A furious
pimp, perverted customer, either way he wasn't interested in trouble. But she
wasn't a whore, he absorbed on second glance. Her gown was crimson silk,
well-tailored. At first he thought it was wet, until he realized that the spots
were more blood, red on red. Fine embroidered gloves grasped a corner of the
wall, waved at his approach, her arm moving with all the fury of a dying moth.
Then she clutched at her throat.
Please.

“Whoa!” Jerking up on the reins, he
brought his horse up short at the alley.

She was stumbling toward him before
his feet could strike cobblestones. Then she clutched her throat tighter,
moaning, tottering backward into the side street. She fell, and he might have
left her had she been still. He did not need questions about a dead woman from
the gendarmes. But her legs thrust, one arm clawing the air above her.

She looked upper crust. If he
helped her, there could be a reward.

He dismounted and ran to the alley,
kneeling beside her, and looked her over. “Miss? Where are you hurt?”

The woman turned her head, rasped
out a cough, and spit two teeth onto his leg.

Still clutching her throat, she
pressed a hand to her belly. When he wrestled it away, he revealed a slit in
her gown, exposing something meaty and corded hanging free.
Guts.

He turned his head to wretch,
momentarily unable to grasp the polished boots filling his view. He opened his mouth,
to shout, to question. An arm pinched around his neck like a vice, and before
he could do anything, the world went black.

*          *          *

Ty reached down and helped Olivia
up. “You search him; I'll check the saddle bags.”

Nodding, she fed the intestine out through
a tear in her gown. “Guts, blood, teeth. Who knew pigs were such useful
creatures?”

Leave it to Olivia to be pragmatic
about animal entrails. Drawing back, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket,
dangling it in her face. “Allow me to help you.”

“Ridiculous!” She snatched the
pathetically small square from his hand, laughing. “Let’s get to work.”

And work they did. After weeks of
placating Fouche, elevating him, playing the long game and running out his
leash, Ty believed they would finally be rewarded.

Olivia bent down, sliding a hand
into the courier's clothes without hesitation. She rifled through his breeches
and shirt, and came up with a thin brown canvas pouch. “Here are the decoys.
Otherwise, he's clean.”

He nodded, pleased to have one
false lead eliminated. “Hold here a moment, if you would. You’re hardly fit to
be seen.”

Smiling, Olivia rolled her eyes,
glancing up and down the alley for any intruders.

He took the barest second to study
her, thrilled beyond reason that they were married
and
working together
again. He tossed her one more grin before slipping from the alley.

The horse paced anxiously where its
rider had left it. The animal snorted and shuffled back, rearing its head side
to side as Ty approached. Getting a fistful of the reins, he patted, cajoled,
and whispered. Circling a step at a time, he employed all the tricks he used
when Alvanley got cranky.

When the horse had calmed, he set
about searching it. Getting one saddle bag open, he rifled through lead ball
and paper scraps until his fingers reached the hard bottom. It pried up easily.
Too easily. He removed the papers, tucking them into his pocket. More decoys.

Where would an experienced courier
keep sensitive documents? Not on his person; he could too easily be
compromised. Saddle bags and pouches could be cut, torn free.

Ty looked at the horse, thinking
carefully. Bracing a hand on the animal's flank for reassurance, he leaned
close and slid fingers beneath the saddle just ahead of its pommel.

There it was. He pulled free an oil
cloth pouch, not much longer or wider than a letter. Lashing the horse's reins
to a nearby lamp post, he returned to Olivia, still concealed in the shadows of
the alley.

She stood up from the wall,
stretching. Next to her, she had kindly seated their still unconscious target.
“Success?”

He shook the pouch at her before
tucking it away. “Conspiracy letters or love letters. Either way, we will make
the most of our ammunition.”

“I approve of your methods.” She
tapped the courier with a toe. He inhaled sharply, but didn't rouse. “He'll be
all right. Probably. Let's go.”

They dashed to the far end of the
alley, where a hired carriage stood waiting for 'monsieur’ to acquire his
entertainment of the evening, or so their driver believed.

Dashing from the alley’s mouth, he
handed Olivia in before the driver or any straggling pedestrians could get a
look at her, then bounced up behind. Flush with success, he stared at her
across the cab, but she picked at the tear in her dress, not meeting his gaze.

“What's the matter?”

She shrugged. “This feels too easy.
A simple deception, and suddenly we have everything we need?”

Negotiating the carriage's bounce
and sway, he moved beside her, settling on the squabs. Taking her hand, he spun
her ring between his thumb and forefinger. “We've worked so hard, for so long.
Sacrificed. There cannot help but be some anticlimax.”

Olivia’s eyes were far away, a look
he’d grown to know so well over their time together. She was remembering.
“Maybe it's that I always saw the end coming with his death. I've wished for it
a thousand times.”

“There have been more momentous
occasions, times when a coup against Fouche would have been more satisfying. I
thought as much at Waterloo, when we took the field and found Napoleon already
gone.” He squeezed her fingers. “A victory is a victory, Olivia, whether
accomplished by a whole a battery or a single musket. We've won.”

She sighed and laid her head on his
shoulder, and Ty hoped just then that he was giving as much comfort as he was
deriving. “Happiness has never been a lasting thing, Tyler. It will take time
for me, learning to trust it.”

He raised her hand, pressing it to
his chest, and cradled her close. “In the meanwhile Dimples, trust
me
.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Despite her earlier reservations in
the carriage, since delivering the letters and leaving Grayfield's office, she
had felt ecstatic. A little disbelieving, but ecstatic nonetheless. After two
decades of surveillance, proscription, conspiracy, torture, and execution,
Joseph Fouche had improbably outlived his office. But not his legacy; he had
stained France with enough blood to last for centuries.

At least his rein was at an end.

Looking down at her arms and chest,
smeared with a brick-red crust of pig's blood, memories flooded back. Thalia's
blood on her hands, Philippe's blood on her face. She tossed them off, shaking
her head. Not tonight. After almost a year, she and Ty had completed their
mission. In some fashion or another, they'd won. For now, she would simply be
content.

Ty had whisked her from Ethan’s
office with a haste that had frustrated her, seeming to miss completely the
weight of laying Fouche’s letters into Whitehall’s hands. Letters deposited,
congratulations offered, and a nip of good port to salute the occasion;
suddenly they were in the hall, and Ty was feigning yawns in between his loud
fuss over his lodgings being so far from her own. He had informed Ethan no
fewer than six times of his displeasure at having to first ride to her house,
and then to his own.

Then understanding had begun to
dawn, and she’d retorted that Ty could walk if he was so opposed to her
inconveniencing him. He’d stormed to the carriage without a word, Ethan had
treated her to the briefest hug, and then she and Ty were bouncing along
Paris’s lamplight streets. She had declared her excitement for a bath, and he
had baldly stated his desire for what might follow. Ruined by his several
following promises for their night, she’d been unable to deny him, even in
jest.

Dipping a toe into a long copper
tub, she winced and leaned into the steam, then slipped under the water clear
to her shoulders. The house she shared with Ty on the Place Dauphine was
outrageous, with expensive furnishings, modern plumbing, and an efficient
staff. Even the view from their front rooms was ostentatious, with a clear view
of the white stone balustrade of the Pont Neuf spanning a lazy-drifting Seine.
All of it was worth a whole chest of francs, and then some.

It had been a gift of the Prince
Regent. Gratitude for Ty's bravery and service at Waterloo and his other
hair-pulling, aiding Paris in the building of a provisional French government.

Ordinarily, anything like charity
would make her uncomfortable, but they had both gone above and beyond for
England and for France, in ways that could never be acknowledged. She leaned
her head back against the tub's rolled edge and sighed, content with her
substitute reward.

A rapping at the door broke her
reflection. Ty didn't wait to be invited in – he never did – but he didn't step
much beyond the threshold either. “Are you decent?”

Snorting, she waved a hand,
ushering him in. “I think you know better than that by now.”

“Always happy to be wrong,” he
teased, straddling a chair at the tub's foot. He glanced around, shaking his
head, then tugged at the blue silk bath curtain. “This place is a damned sight
more posh than my house in London.”

“That’s concerning news, since it
is now my house, too,” she quipped, frowning for added effect. She hadn't seen
his house during their brief visit home to care for Webb, but she sincerely
doubted anything of Tyler's was other than first rate.

Grinning, he hooked a thumb over
his shoulder. “They've given us separate bedrooms.”

Now it was her turn for teasing.
Eyes wide, she shrugged. “So?”

He waved a finger between them.
“Each of us. Our own bed chamber.”

“That is usual for a husband and
wife. What did you expect?”

Ty's head was already shaking. “No.
No. How do you… Do you just get up and tip toe back and forth whenever you wish
to…?” He made an awful face. “Do you knock and leave a calling card?”

She couldn't last when he
shuddered. Laughter doubled her over until it turned to gasps, and she fell
back against the tub under his scowl. “They can give us ten bedrooms, Tyler. We'll
put them to use.”

Suddenly thoughtful, he dipped
fingertips into the water, trailing a damp path up her breast to the hollow at
her throat. “I love you Olivia.” He brushed her cheek. Olivia closed her eyes,
drinking in every moment. Ty leaned down until his breath whispered over her
ear. “Even if you did try to kill me.”

Giggling, she smacked at his shirt
with wet hands until he was forced to abandon his chair in retreat.

“Let's settle this once and for
all. If I had been
trying
to kill you, you would be dead.” Her eyes
narrowed. “That holds true past
and
present.”

Ty held both hands aloft. “I'm more
than happy to prove my usefulness. Again.”

Hanging one leg over the tub,
Olivia dangled a foot, lacing arms behind her head, arching her chest. “And I
am more than happy to let you.”

*          *          *

They rushed the darkened hallway.

“Hurry up!” Olivia's whispering was
ruined by her own giggling. “We can't go running through the house in a bath
sheet.”

“
We
are not. You are. And
shame on your bad manners!”

She swung, aimed a blow for his
shoulder, discovering too late she’d misjudged.

Grabbing her wrist, he threw open
the door and pulled her inside in one fluid motion. “There. Now we're not in
the house. We're in a room.”

“Which room?” she provoked. “Yours,
or mine?”

Pulling her by a fistful of the
giant ivory bath sheet, he towed her across the room. “Dimples, a few minutes
from now, you won't give a fig about the difference.”

Olivia couldn't recall a single
encounter, not even their wedding night, when she had been permitted complete
and unhurried access to Ty. No sunrise curfew, no sentries or advancing armies.
Just the two of them, alone. A bed, a room, and privacy for days

She took a deep breath in and then
out, looking him over. Her eyes roamed from his crisp linen shirt to the soft
nap of his trousers. His flesh was bare at the arms and throat, bronzed by
weeks of command under the summer sun. He was gorgeous, though she couldn’t
tell him that. She’d never hear the end of it.

Her fingers itched at the
possibilities.

“Olivia,” groaned Ty, “You cannot
sit here half the night with a layer of clothing separating me from sanity.”

And then, a wonderful thought
occurred.

She began, a button at a time, down
his breeches. Pinching, thumbing each one through its grommet; that was easy
enough. Taking her time, on the other hand...

Ty's forehead crushed her shoulder,
his breath fanning her bare breasts while she worked. His hands braced against
the table on either side of her hips, and Olivia moved against them at
intervals, pressing them with her own flesh, curious to see how long his
resolve could hold.

“I've thought of something, from
time to time,” she offered, freeing one of two remaining buttons.

“Mmm?”

“On the comte's estate.” Working
fingers into his waistband, Olivia slid a palm over his shirt tail, tracing his
thigh. He tensed, and heat fanned faster down her shoulder. “Would you have
dared, had we not been interrupted?”

His head jerked up, eyes wild.
“Knowing what I know about you now, not a chance.”

Not afraid of bullets or blades,
but terrified of virginity.

Laughing, she brushed fingers
inside his thigh. “If you did
not
know
that
.” Grabbing a fistful
of linen, she yanked. Ty yelped and leaned further between her thighs.

“All things being fair and equal,
Olivia, you have always had a hold over me,” he ground out. “In that moment, we
could have been anywhere. The opera. A battlefield. Without interruption, I'd
have managed.

“Impressive.”

“Mm.”

Her fingers played against his rib
cage, raking the linen until the shirt was over his head. Olivia snatched it,
tossing it over herself and settling her arms inside a length of sleeves.

“What… Are you doing?” His words
came out as a strangled gasp.

Her chest strained at the hint of
real fear in Ty's question. She choked back laughter and shrugged. “Now we're
fifty-fifty. Bit more even.”

Ty glanced between them. “No. I've
got boots yet. Socks.”

Pleased with her coup, she leaned
back, bracing palms against a table, and grinned. “Then we must even the
score.”

He stalked closer, and her heart
pounded in earnest. “Meaning?” he drawled.

“Meaning that's hardly fair. They
must come off.”

Ty's hands darted for a boot, but
she grabbed his wrist. “They have to come off when I am
done
.”

“When I am dead,” he muttered,
softening his displeasure with a wink.

Grabbing up fists full of his
shirt, Olivia gathered them to her nose, inhaling deeply of all the things that
were Ty. Coarse weave raked across her nipples and the wide hem brushed her
hips. Her resolve began to melt away.

She rested a hand on each of his
shoulders. “I'd pay good coin for a bed and some privacy,” she mimicked.

“I would,” he protested, eyes
following the path of her fingers. “Tomorrow. Next week. But not now, Olivia.
Right now, I'll have you on this table and not complain a bit.”

“Our bed is right there,” she
protested.

“We are already right
here
.”

“Why are you in such a hurry?” She
studied him with narrowed eyes, a shiver running up her spine. “You want
something.”

Fingers brushed her breast. “An
accurate statement.”

She swatted him away. “Not that.
You want something, and you know I'm going to protest.”

“Not,” Ty murmured into her neck,
“if we conclude this diversion first.”

Shoving a knee between their
bodies, she planted a foot in Ty's gut, putting space between them.

He shrugged, grinning ear to ear.
“You're always more agreeable, after.”

“That’s to your credit, but don't
let it go to your head.” She lowered her foot, letting him close again and
draping arms around his neck. “Let's have it.”

“London,” he announced, needing to offer
no more explanation.

“When?”

“
He
desires within a
fortnight.”

He
being Ty's father, of
course. The idea made her nervous. Court life, what little of it she'd been
forced to swallow since fleeing to England, was not to her taste. As a bastard,
Ty was free to consort with whomever he chose, but the thought of even that
small sliver of scrutiny made her stomach churn.

“You'll come with me?” His plea was
soft.

She bit her lip, praying Ty would
understand. “I need to be here, when things are settled with Fouche.”

And of course, he did. “I can give
you that much time,” Ty assured, tracing her cheek with the tip of his nose. “I
can wait.”

Ty's promise stole the breath from
her chest. She pressed her lips to his in a gesture bereft of words.

Damp palms pressed heat through the
shirt at her back. Ty slid her from the table, catching her hip when her
uncertain feet struck the floor. Not until he'd twined their fingers together
did Ty break their kiss. He met her eyes, pulling her one step at a time across
the rug. “How can I deserve you?” he whispered.

“We deserve each other,” she
teased, breath coming faster.

He didn't laugh or even smile,
making clear he was in no mood for a jest.

She relented when they reached the
bed. “I don't think it works like that. We're not prizes to be awarded.”

“Then what?” he asked, settling on
the white coverlet, creasing its blue needlework.

“Two halves of a whole?” She
shrugged, stepping between his knees and forcing him to lean back.”

His hand traced the curve of her
thigh, raising his shirt hem in its path. “That simple?”

Olivia snatched the linen, jerked
the shirt off over her head and let it drop. “Nothing simple about it.” She
worked one knee beside him, sucking in a breath at his calloused palms weighing
her breasts.

“Simple enough, at the moment.”

Her other knee up, and Olivia
straddled him, enveloped in citrus. Wool trousers scraped her thighs,
transferring heat between their bodies. “How is that?”

“I'm going to lie back,” Ty raised
both arms, then fell against the mattress like a downed oak, “and you are going
to make love to me, and we’ll be whole.”

Yanking at his waistband, she
nodded. He was right; it
was
simple.

*          *          *

After, she
pulled away from Ty, wriggling up the bed and opening her bedside drawer.
Olivia fished in dim light for the folded paper she’d put there earlier. “I
claimed this for you, when I was in Antwerp. A memento.” She held out the
ledger page, creased neatly in half. “A poor one,” she admitted, “But I thought
you should have something.”

First he skimmed the page. His
brows furrowed and his frown seemed stuck. Then he pulled away, wriggling up
the bed until he was sitting. “What is this?”

“A passenger manifest?” She assumed
it would be obvious. Leaning over, she pointed to Kate's signature near the
bottom of the page, scrawled across two lines.

“I don't understand.” She watched
his eyes search the words again. “I took the manifest Kate signed. I took it to
Webb. Showed it to him.”

“That's not possible. I found this
in the customs office in Antwerp. A different Katherine Foster, perhaps?”

“No.” He waved the paper at her.
“The handwriting is the same. I would know it anywhere. And anyway, I found
my
copy in the customs office in Antwerp.” He looked at her, confusion
written across his face.