His Silken Seduction

Lyons, France

March 1815

Ben closed his unbandaged eye and relaxed into the feather pillows to enjoy the sensation of Suzanne’s hands on his body. As always, she was precise and careful in removing the dressings from his wounds.

With his eyes shut, the touch of her fingers on his naked torso was utterly delightful, as if she had laid one of her sumptuous silken velvets on his chest and swept it slowly across his skin. He floated, half awake, half dreaming.

“Mmm.” The sigh of pleasure escaped before he was aware of it. His body might be weak as water, but every square inch of it trembled at the mere prospect of Suzanne’s touch. He sank deeper into the pillows.

His bones were melting.

“Ouch!” The dressing had caught. A stab of pain shattered the fragile fantasy that had been cradling him.

“Oh, forgive me, Herr Benn,” Suzanne gasped. Her fingers stilled for a moment, but it was too late. His shoulder wound had begun to bleed again.

She had been nursing him for a week now, and had even learned that he was an English spy, but she had never asked to know his real name. She seemed content to keep using his nom de guerre, Herr Christian Benn. It was probably for the best. If she were to discover that he was actually an English aristocrat, their comfortable understanding might cease. That would hurt unbearably.

Ben slid his good hand over hers and held it. She did not try to pull away. Ben absorbed the heat of her body through his fingers, like a reptile basking in the sun.

Was that a tiny shiver?

She was refusing to look at him.

In the blink of an eye, the sun-filled warmth evaporated. His fingers felt as if they had been doused with icy water, as if his flesh were shrinking away from hers, even though neither of them had moved.

What on earth was he about? He was behaving towards this amazingly courageous girl as if she were some kind of loose woman. She was his nurse and his rescuer. She deserved better than to be turned into an object of his lust.

He lifted his hand away. “Your pardon, Suzanne,” he began in a low voice. “I did not intend to alarm you.”

Her glance flickered to his face and away again. Her cheek was flushed. The delicate rose became her much too well, reminding him yet again of why his body’s desires were threatening to overcome his sense of honour.

It must not happen. They had become close by force of circumstances as she dressed and redressed his wounds: the shoulder where the bullet had been so roughly dug out, and the head wound he had inflicted on himself, by staggering from his bed and collapsing on the floor. No matter what he felt for Suzanne…and he was ashamed to admit it was lust…he must not allow her to feel anything for him.

She was a gentle, shy and hardworking girl, with little experience of men. She might too easily come to feel more for Ben than she should. And then what would happen? As soon as he was well enough, he would have to abandon her to continue with his mission. That was his duty. He must make sure she was able to forget him. That was his duty, too.

It was different back home in England. The girls he met there were of his own class. If they chose to flirt, or to swoon over his cursed good looks and the viscount’s title he would one day inherit, that was their choice. They knew the rules of the game.

But Suzanne did not know those rules. She was no aristocrat, merely a French silk-weaver’s daughter. The game she played was a game of life and death, for she was a royalist in a country cheering the return of its beloved Emperor Napoleon. Worse, she was hiding and nursing an English spy. She must not be allowed to develop tender feelings for such a dangerous guest.

Soon they would part for good, and Ben must leave her with a whole heart. His honour demanded nothing less.

It was the first time Benn had willingly touched her for two days. And it was something as simple as laying his fingers over hers. Was it a lover’s caress? Suzanne could not be sure, but she felt as if her whole being was aglow. Her hand was certainly burning. Her throat was suddenly so tight and dry that she wondered if she would ever be able to speak again. The man she loved was caressing her fingers. The glory of it shivered through her.

And in that same moment he broke the contact with a murmured apology. As if it had been a mistake! No!

She wanted to scream at him, but she was quite unable to make a sound. She could not move, either. She risked a glance at his face. Before, his expression had been open and even gentle, but now there was a shadow of concern. He was troubled. And something more. He wore a puzzled frown, as if he had been presented with a conundrum he could not solve.

Was that how he viewed her? As a puzzle?

He swallowed a sound that could have been a groan. He was in pain! His shoulder was bleeding. Suzanne pushed her doubts to the back of her mind. What mattered now was her role as Benn’s nurse. Love must wait for another day.

Deftly, she eased the rest of the dressing from his shoulder wound. The fresh bleeding had loosened it. She bit her lip as she worked, for it had been her fault. She had been so full of the joy of his touch that she had not paid enough attention to the mundane business of removing his bandages. And so she had hurt him and possibly set back his recovery.

A little voice whispered that she should be glad, for as soon as he was recovered, he would leave. He was a spy, after all, with a mission to fulfil. In her heart, she was betraying her family’s royalist cause by wishing to keep him hidden here and under her own care. For a moment, she felt truly guilty, but then her logical mind began to fight back. There was no real urgency. The previous day, Herr Benn’s companion, Monsieur Jacques, had left for Paris with Suzanne’s elder sister, Marguerite. The intelligence that Benn and Jacques had gathered would presumably be sent to England with all speed, via their embassy in the capital.

What purpose would it serve for Benn to rise from his sickbed to follow them? Nothing of note had happened since they left. Bonaparte was still here in Lyons, basking in the adulation of the crowds, and issuing imperial proclamations, right and left. No doubt he would leave for Paris soon, but Marguerite and Jacques were days ahead of him. They would be safe.

Suzanne eased Benn up from the pillows to pass the bandage behind his back. The tips of her fingers slid across smooth skin and leashed muscle. Benn was beautiful to look at, with his thick blond hair and his finely sculpted features, but his body was all male…lithe, powerful and hard.

She shivered again.

“Tickling an invalid is unfair, you know.” He was grinning up at her. The fine skin at the corner of his unbandaged eye was crinkled with good humour. Was he deliberately teasing her? Could he feel her tension?

She attempted to respond in kind. “An invalid must be kept in his place, sir. Which is under the thumb of his nurse.”

Oh dear. Had she gone too far? She quickly secured the bandage round his torso. The bleeding had stopped, thank goodness. “And now for your head,” she said, briskly efficient. “I imagine it should be possible to leave off the bandage now. Your wound will heal more quickly if it is open to the air.”

“I should certainly prefer to have the use of both my eyes.” His French was correct and colloquial, though the foreign accent was unmistakable. He could never pass for a Frenchman. “With two eyes, I am better able to appreciate the view.” He grinned at his own wit.

Suzanne ignored it. “It was your own fault for trying to leave your bed.” She was trying to sound stern. “And head wounds are extremely difficult to bandage. If I hadn’t taken it across your eye, it would have slipped off. All that hair of yours gets in the way, you know. Perhaps I should shave it off?”

“Spare me, lady!”

Their normal, comfortable rapport was back. It was a huge relief. Suzanne smiled primly down at him. “Your trouble, Benn, is that you set much too much store by your looks. It would teach you a well-earned lesson if I did shave your head. Some of it will have to be cut,” she added, more seriously. “I dare not wash out the matted blood, for your wound must be kept dry.”

“You will do only what is necessary, I know. Teasing aside, Suzanne, I do trust you. Without your care, I could well be dead.” He raised his good hand as if to touch her again. It hung suspended for a moment. Then he let it fall back on to his chest. He smiled, but it looked forced. “Do as you will with me, ma’am. I am far too feeble to resist you.”

With an effort, Suzanne shook her head at him. They would be together for some weeks more, while he recovered. And resistance was a quality that she had still to learn.

Two more weeks of caring for Benn had taken their toll on Suzanne. This time, she managed to retain her composure until she reached her own bedchamber, but it was a close-run thing. She locked her door and almost collapsed against it.

What on earth was happening to her? Oh, she loved Herr Benn. She had known that from the first time she set eyes on him. But did love have to bring such weakness of mind and body?

She had simply taken him coffee. It was part of their early morning ritual, but it had never been anything other than very proper. This morning, their fingers had brushed together when she retrieved his cup. It had not been intentional on her side. And on his? He had deliberately touched her hand once before, but she knew he regretted it, for the gesture had never been repeated. She had been so naive at first, so sure that he would return her love. Three weeks of nursing him had proved her wrong. He was polite, friendly and extremely grateful to her, but he had done nothing to suggest that he might one day come to love her.

One day? What was she thinking of? Thanks to her care, he would soon be healed. In another week, or two at most, he would be gone, travelling alone through enemy France, ready to risk his life for his country and his cause. It was her cause, too, but she was increasingly torn between her devotion to King Louis and her longing to keep Benn by her side. If she had to choose, where would her loyalties lie?

Suzanne clutched her hands together and began to walk back and forth across the threadbare rug, forcing her wobbly limbs to move. She was not a weakling. She was a grown woman. She was capable of taking charge of her family’s entire weaving business. So why could she not take charge of her own emotions, her own heart?

Because it is given. It is no longer yours to control.

She gulped, shook her head against that traitorous thought, and dug her fingernails into her palms, in hopes that pain might force her back to reality.

It did not. The pain was real enough, but the siren voice in the back of her mind refused to be silenced.

You have a few days, a week at most, to discover the truth of what he feels for you. Once he leaves Lyons, leaves you, he will not return, unless you prove to him that he has no choice. Now is not the time for missish airs and ladylike flirtations. You can no longer claim the title of lady, in any case. If you want him to love you, as you love him, you have only days to make it so.

Suzanne could have sworn that her inner voice laughed. It was a low, sensuous sound. And it was followed by soft, seductive words, stealing into her mind and settling like a contented cat.

If you would win all, Suzanne, you must dare to risk all.

She stopped dead and clapped her hands to her ears, trying to shut out the sound. It was useless. The words, the thought, the subtle laughter, all were imprisoned inside her and echoing around the walls of her mind. Such a thought, once confronted, could not be banished, no matter how wicked it might be. Was she really, truly thinking of giving herself to a man she barely knew? Was she ready to forfeit her honour, solely in order to tempt an English spy to love her?

She sank down on to her bed and covered her eyes. She was mad. She must be. It was wrong, wicked, foolish. She sighed deeply. It was all of those things, and yet she still wanted him. For she loved him, beyond reason, even if he could not love her in return.