Anne O'Brien (29 page)

Until the heat and urgency and arousal began to build under the onslaught of mouth on mouth, of searching fingertips, heightening their breathing until they shuddered in each other’s arms, limbs tangled where they slid and pressed one against the other. Joshua found himself sinking, his mind overturned by his need to show Sarah his love. What use to deny it? She had, in some mysterious, incalculable way, become everything to him, become the one certainty in his life with all its shifting sands and outrageous demands. He pressed his lips to where her heart beat heavily in unison with his. So strong and loyal. So brave despite her fears. Why had he fought this acceptance of his love for her for so long? Of course he loved her—a man would be an utter fool not to. But what of her? If Sarah could not find it within her to love him with his tarnished reputation and shady past, the loss would be impossible to live with. If all she could offer was a gentle affection and tolerance… His heart felt the sharp piercing of an edged blade. That his happiness should be dependent on this one woman whom he now cradled in his
arms. All he could do was banish thoughts of so terrible a future without her love to the distant recesses of his mind and let his body rule.

When he took her it was a long slow glide and she held him tight. Fire flared now to scorch and burn, ripping through both of them with heady passion. Rhythm matched to rhythm with absolute perfection as they carried each other on, driving toward oblivion. Her eyes were wide and clear on his at the culmination so that he might glimpse her soul. She remained with him until the end as he waited for her, when they reached the edge together, shattered and fell together, to lie together in that most intimate exhaustion.

Eventually Joshua raised his head from her breast.

‘Sarah. I…’ Words stuck in his throat. He brushed back her hair and let his fingers move with infinite lightness over her features, letting them wind into her ruffled curls. And Sarah smiled at him, eyes steady, welcoming. Joshua felt the instant response lance through him again, felt himself harden again. As did she. And moved beneath him in luxurious and sensual delight in recognition of her power.

‘What?’ He read a glint in her eyes as he lowered to take her lips.

‘Let me give you the pleasure you give me.’

‘But you do. Have you any doubt?’

‘I can do better.’ A flirtatious whisper, which for Sarah was a shout from the roof tops. It shook him to the core, to obliterate any further thought from his mind.

She slipped from beneath him to reverse their positions with glorious agility. Quick to sense her intent, he lifted her up, guiding her as she lowered herself to take him in. Hot. Slick with need. Silken-smooth. She rested her hands on his chest, shook back her hair. An action that should have appeared wanton, but in Sarah still had the gloss of charming innocence. The candlelight gilded her shoulders and breasts, the sleek line of hip and thigh as she looked down at him, all
slender elegance. And began to move. A slow seductive rhythm against which he had no defences. The smile on her lips was all woman. He tensed his muscles against the spectacular assault.

‘You make me feel so beautiful.’

‘But you are.’

‘Tonight I feel it. And powerful.’

The energies, the conflicting emotions that had whipped through her in a storm throughout the evening now settled, now centred in this one act of intense love. Focused on this man who had stolen her heart for no other reason than that he existed and that their paths, guided by some miraculous fate, had crossed. The man whom she loved and would always love until the day of her death. Sarah did not speak it. She could not put the burden of her love on to his shoulders if he felt unable to return her sentiments. But her body proclaimed it, a shining banner if he could but read it, as she took him and herself to distraction. Until all thought, all senses were submerged beneath their ultimate possession of each other. Until they lay spent once more in each other’s arms, breathing overturned.

‘Joshua?’ Sarah still lay with her head pillowed on his chest, her limbs heavy and relaxed, her hair covering him in a golden skein.

He turned his head to kiss her, banding his arms tighter around her.

‘What will happen now?’

‘Nothing very dreadful. I will put things right for us.’ He rubbed his chin gently against the top of her head. Her voice was slurred with sleep. She did not need a detailed account. Not that he was capable of giving one, not knowing what the future would bring. But Sarah, being Sarah, would need to ask. His smile was a little sad.

‘I just thought…’ Her voice trailed off on a sleepy sigh.

‘Hmm?’ He looked into the dark as the candles guttered and
burned out. He doubted that she was doing any thinking at all. He held her safe in his arms and that was all that mattered.

‘Joshua?’

‘What is it?’

‘I love you.’ Her tired mind forgot to keep its guard. ‘I love you. I thought I should tell you…’ And then she drifted off to sleep.

He tensed at the words, whisper soft against his skin, but not enough to wake her. His heart leapt powerfully beneath her cheek, but not enough to prevent the drag of exhaustion pulling her under.

‘Oh, Sarah.’ He turned his face into her bright hair. Those words had silenced all his doubts. It was more urgent than ever that he extricate himself from this life that demanded his silence, his absences, his practised deceits. Then when all was swept clean between them, he would tell her what she needed to know—that she held his heart in her hands.

But for now, ‘I love you too,’ he whispered against her temple. She would not hear, of course. Would not remember, but it was important none the less that he tell her. ‘I love you too. Darling Sarah.’

W
hen Sarah awoke next morning, her lord was gone, the bed linen beside her cool as if he had never been there. Even the pillows failed to bear the indentation of his head. Yet she was aware of the scent of him, felt the ghosts of his arms around her as he had held her through the night. And loved her. Surely he loved her. He had never said those words to her, but she shivered, a delicious tremor, at the vivid memories. So tender. So caring. So passionate and arousing. Her fair skin flushed from her toes to the crown of her head at the image that sprang before her eyes, of her response to the touch of his hands, the caress of his mouth against her. The intoxicating slide of his hard body over her soft curves. Until at last she had fallen into a deep sleep, suffused with unimaginable pleasure, his arms holding her secure against him.

Completely unsettled, she blinked against the images, turning in her sensible manner to more immediate matters as her maid arrived with her morning cup of chocolate. But the immediate matters proved to be just as disturbing. Her thoughts tripped over the facts that she now knew—which she now hoped!—to be true. And skated over the areas where she was still quite as ignorant as before. And frowned at her absent husband who had left her in such a state of turmoil.

She had no idea where he had gone or where he would be for the remainder of this day. Or when she would see him again. Her frown deepened and her fingers tightened around her cup.

Because Sarah was forced to acknowledge that if she were not very much mistaken, Joshua was just as much engaged in espionage as Marianne had been. He might not be free to speak to her of such matters of national importance and security, but anyone of any sense could put two and two together and come up with the correct answer. It could be the only answer! And, having accepted that she had a husband who was a spy, she dare not contemplate the dangers with which he lived, day after day, dangers that he had denied even existed. Her heart lurched at the realisation. And it led her mind on. Just how had he acquired the injuries from which he had been suffering when he had returned home to England? The damaged hip and ribs. Sarah shrugged against her lace bedrobe. The rumours of duels and irate husbands now seemed to hold very little water.

And it would explain the concern over her own marriage to Joshua in
certain circles
. The certain circles were becoming plainer by the minute! A republican spy indeed!

Sarah finished her cup of chocolate with more haste than enjoyment, and considerable inner debate. She must decide how much to tell Thea, knowing that her sister would be avid for detail.

And also what she would say to Joshua when he finally returned. Because another thought struck home with the force of a lightning bolt as she pushed back the covers and prepared to dress for the day. Joshua had given her the deeds of a house, had he not? Just before they had left for Paris. Now she knew the reasoning behind it. Not simple kindness. Not a generous fit of philanthropy. But because he did not know that his own life was safe. And, being Joshua, he had taken steps to ensure that she would not suffer in the event of his death, but would have a home of her own, separate from the Faringdon estate. A
lively fear gripped her throat, a slick of greasy panic coating her skin when she realised what he had done.

But for the rest of the day Lord Joshua was absent. Sarah was forced to deflect Thea’s demands for enlightenment, contain her own impatience and torment—and accept her desire simply to see the man whom she loved, safe within their four walls again.

When he finally returned, tired and thwarted in his attempts to discover any further information of merit or importance, it was late and the house was quiet. He met up with Nicholas, who was dressed with austere elegance, suitable to grace the social scene.

‘Where are they?’ Joshua’s question was brusque, but he was too weary to care and made no apologies.

Nicholas read his expression and made no comment. ‘At Madame de Staël’s salon in the Faubourg St Honoré for some intellectual discussion until an hour ago. I escorted them there as you requested. I left them comfortably ensconced with wine and sweet biscuits discussing the social position of writers before the revolution. A fascinating topic to be sure. I was delighted to leave them in such erudite company.’ There was a sardonic curl to his lips. ‘And from there they were engaged to join a party, well chaperoned, I assure you, to go on to the theatre. Where I am about to go, again at your request, to escort them home.’ He grimaced at the prospect. ‘You can do the honours instead, if you wish. A ballet or two, followed by an opera. Not an evening to my taste.’

‘No. Nor mine. But you have my gratitude, Nick. I need to know that they are escorted.’ He made his way into the library to pour a glass of brandy. And drank it down as if his life depended on it. Poured another.

‘Some interesting family history surfaced last night, dear Sher.’ Nicholas helped himself from the decanter, eyes alight with gentle mockery, unable to resist.

‘I thought you would have something to say about it!’ Joshua
picked up a letter that lay on the desk, opened it, quickly scanning the single sheet. Then flung up a hand to stop his cousin in any further facetious comment he might be about to make.

‘When did this arrive?’

‘I have no idea.’

It was a short letter. A mere few lines. Unsigned. But its effect was instantaneous. Joshua crumpled it in his fist and put down the glass with considerable force, the brandy forgotten.

‘Hell and damnation, Nick! This is the last thing I needed. Where did you say they had gone?’

‘The opera.’

‘In the rue de Richelieu?’

‘Well—yes.’

‘Come on.’ He started toward the door. ‘I need to get them home. Now.’

‘But it will be in the middle of the performance. Thea will not thank us for making a spectacle of them—’

‘No matter. I think it would be unwise for them to remain until the end.’

‘And you are not dressed for a night of sartorial elegance amongst the French aristocracy.’ Nick eyed the superfine coat and Hessian boots, perfectly appropriate for day wear, but hardly for a visit to the opera.

Joshua was unmoved. ‘My clothes are of the least importance! Come
on
, Nick. I think it will be quickest for us to walk.’

At last Nicholas caught the urgency, the masked anxieties. ‘What is it, Sher? Is there danger here?’

‘I don’t know. But I would feel far happier if Sarah and Thea were safe at home.’

Nicholas had read the situation correctly. Thea thought little of her lord’s insistence, albeit
sotto voce
, that she remove herself in one of the entr’actes in the opera. She had particularly wished to see this performance of
Le Rossignol
, as had Sarah, and they had tolerated the two previous ballets in order
to do so. With a shrug and raised brows, Nick indicated without words being necessary that the decision had not been of his making, but took hold of her arm in a firm grip. For his part Joshua was even more determined than Nicholas, bowing to the assembled party with infinite grace and no hint of the extreme urgency he felt pumping through his blood, but brooking no dissent. Sarah had only to glance at his face to know that there was no room for argument. Something was amiss. The ladies made their apologies to their host and hostess, gathered shawls and gloves and fans and made their way down to the street, the strains of the music following them.

‘Where are we going?’ Thea demanded of Joshua as soon as they were out of earshot. Clearly he was to blame for this precipitate departure.

‘Home.’

‘Have you arranged a carriage?’

‘No. It will be quickest and easiest on foot.’

‘So much for the state of my new satin shoes!’

‘Is there a danger?’ Sarah asked her lord in a low voice.

‘Perhaps.’ He pulled her hand through his arm, reassuringly warm, managing a fairly effective smile. ‘That is why we will go home now.’

With that Joshua shepherded them off the main rue de Richelieu into the rue Rameau, which ran alongside the opera, where a number of carriages were drawn up. A little crowd had gathered by the first of the carriages. More early leavers. And easy to recognise. There was the Duc de Berri in the process of handing his wife into the carriage. The Duchesse saw the approaching ladies and hailed them, lifting her hand in greeting, a wicked smile on her lively face.

‘Some more unenthusiastic members of the audience! Perhaps you too found the ballet—and two of them, no less—tiresome.’

Thea and Sarah smiled their acquiescence with this youthful, pleasure-loving member of the Bourbon family.

‘Too many late nights for me.’ She tapped her husband’s arm
with her fan. ‘I am going home. Alone, it would seem. When will you follow me, Charles?’

‘Not yet.’ He helped her into the carriage. ‘But I shall not be too late.’ He turned to make some comment to Joshua, whilst the Duchesse leaned from the window with an offer to take up Thea and Sarah and deliver them home, if they so wished.

Then it happened.

A disturbance from the direction of the rue de Richelieu. A running figure, slight and agile, pushing between strollers and bystanders. The opera guard looking across in surprise, stepping forward to intercept, but too late, being firmly thrust out of the way.

Joshua reacted with instinctive understanding. If it was a deliberate attack, to cause harm or even death, the prime objective would be the Duc de Berri. But then it struck him in the length of a breath, in an agonising slice to the heart with honed steel as he took in the scene.
Sarah!
Sarah stood directly between the attacker and the royal figure. With Theodora beside her.

‘Nick!’ he shouted. ‘Get Thea out of this.’

And leapt.

Leapt forward with supreme agility, turning his shoulder, to take the full brunt of the man’s speed and thus halt the impetus of the running figure, at the same time to pull Sarah out of the path and into his arms. He held her there, in the shelter of his arm as she struggled for comprehension, putting his body between her and any danger.

At the same time he flung out an arm to alert the Duc to the immediate danger. ‘Your Grace! Beware!’ But the assassin had the benefit of surprise and careful preparation. Not even Joshua’s intervention could divert the deadly intent for more than a moment. A flash of silver. A downward stroke of a sinewy arm and Joshua flinched back with a vicious curse as pain slashed down his arm. It was all that was needed for the attacker to gain freedom of action. With another high swing of the dagger, his face alight with hatred and the inevitability of his suc
cess, the assassin buried the blade in the chest of the Duc de Berri to the right of his heart.

Shock held the little tableau in frozen immobility for a long moment, illuminated in the flambeaux from the opera, as if it were indeed a dramatic and realistic scene on the stage, the deep shadows of the street encroaching to add more drama before exploding into a burst of terrible emotion and frenzied activity. It was all too real. The assassin, small and wiry, left the dagger embedded in his victim and ran for his life, vanishing back into the rue de Richelieu before anyone could think to stop him. The Duc sank back against the carriage with a sharp cry of pain, pulling the dagger from his own flesh with a trembling hand, letting it fall to the paving with a sharp clatter. Blood, bright, shocking in its crimson brilliance, soaked the white linen of his shirt, his hand and the breast of his dark coat.

Resisting the tightness of his grip, Sarah struggled at last free of Joshua’s restraining arm. Before he knew what she was about she had run to the Duc’s side, ripping off her shawl as she went, to fold it and press the thickness of the material against the fatal wound to staunch the blood, for all the good it would do. The Duchesse stepped down from the carriage with a howl of anguish to stretch out her hands to her husband in hopeless entreaty. Two courtiers who had been in attendance with the Duc came finally to their senses and ran to his aid, to help him back into the opera for privacy and where his wound might be attended to. The Opera Guards, in disarray, followed him within.

Which, within a very few minutes, left the Faringdon party standing alone on the pavement beside the empty carriage. A strange hiatus of calm in the wake of such violence. Sarah, pale as wax, with blood on her hands and on the bodice of her gown. Joshua with heavy bloodstains on the coat sleeve of his left arm, blood dripping from his fingers to the ground to mingle with that of the royal duke. His lips might be thinned, but there was no hint of either pain or discomfort in his urgent words. He took control of the situation and immediate action.

‘Nick. Get them home. God knows what will be the repercussions of this night’s work.’

‘But you are hurt.’ Sarah gripped his sleeve, her face turned up to his, robbed of all colour by the flickering flames behind them. The Duc de Berri was not the only one to suffer from the blade of the assassin. She had not realised.

‘Nothing much, I assure you. Will you tie this handkerchief tightly above my elbow?’ He pushed it into her hands. ‘Yes. That’s right.’ He muffled a groan as she tightened the knot with trembling fingers. Then he focused on the blood on her bosom. ‘You are not harmed? The blood is not yours?’ He had to be sure.

‘No. It is not mine.’

‘Thank God!’ He would give her this moment. It was important for both of them before events tore him from her side. So he kissed her forehead very gently and would have pushed her in the direction of Nicholas if she would have loosened the clasp of her fingers on his. ‘You are safe. That matters more to me than you will ever know.’ Now he kissed her lips, a fierce, hard kiss. ‘Now you must go home. I will join you there as soon as I can.’

‘But you could be in danger.’ He was injured. He had saved her life. All her instincts warned her not to leave him here on this blood-stained street.

‘No. I am not the target here. Go home, Sarah. I need to know that you are safe.’

Nicholas took her arm to pull her away to where Theodora waited.