Rendezvous (9781301288946) (14 page)

"I like kissing pwitty girls, too," he
announced.

After a moment of stunned silence,
Sinclair flung back his head and gave a shout of laughter. Belle's
lips curved into a reluctant smile.

"But I like sweets better," the boy
added.

"Do you indeed? That will change when
you grow a little older" Still chuckling, Sinclair slipped his hand
inside his coat. He produced a small tin of peppermints, which he
flicked open to share with the child.

Not in the least shy, the little boy
dipped into the tin and crunched down upon one of the drops. "It's
hawder to eat when your tooth gets knocked out by a wock," he
confided, his mouth full.

Sinclair solemnly agreed, popping a
peppermint into his own mouth and savoring it with the same boyish
relish as the child did. When he noticed Belle's surprised stare,
he said, "I have a sweet tooth, Angel—another of my
vices.”

"You appear to have so many of them,
Mr. Carrington."

"At least this is one of my harmless
ones." He cast her a wicked look, his gaze lingering on her lips,
which yet felt tender from his kiss.

A kiss that would not happen again,
Belle vowed. Deciding to ignore Sinclair, it seemed by far safer to
concentrate upon the child, who was emptying Sinclair's tin. She
stooped down so that she was at eye level with the boy's piquant
features. She straightened his straw hat, which had been buffeted
by the wind. The boy reminded her of an element there had never
been any place for in her life—children. Once soon after her
marriage, she had hoped, but a fall from a horse had taken care of
that. A son like this with bright gray eyes and sandy curls was but
one more thing that would forever be denied her.

Brushing aside a wave of self-pity,
Belle asked, "What is your name, young sir?"

She had to wait several seconds until
the boy chewed and swallowed, "John-Jack."

"And how old are you,
John-Jack?"

The boy proudly held up all the fingers
on one hand. Then as though smote by conscience, he looked a little
sheepish and tucked under the thumb.

"Four years old," Belle said, feigning
amazement. "I am sure that is quite grown up, but still a little
young, I think, to be wandering these docks alone."

She made a closer inspection of the
boy's attire. Although smudged with dirt, his trousers were woven
of the softest fawn cashmere, his close-fitting jacket of crimson
velvet studded with brass buttons, his collar of exquisite white
lace. Obviously he did not belong to any of the rough dockhands or
fisherwomen who sat mending their nets.

"Are you lost, child?" she
asked.

John-Jack's small chest puffed out with
indignation. "No such stuff. I give Nurse Gummwidge the
slip."

This statement provoked another laugh
from Sinclair. "The young rascal appears to have a promising future
ahead of him in intelligence work, wouldn't you agree,
Angel?"

Belle glared up at him. "You should not
encourage the child to think such behavior amusing. His poor mother
will be quite distracted with worry when she discovers him
gone."

"My mama's gone to heaven." The
truculent set of John-Jack's chin was betrayed by a quiver. "And
now Papa's going, too. On that boat." He pointed toward the Good
Lady Nell. "He's going all the way to Fwance. That's fawther away
than heaven, I think."

The catch in the child's voice tugged
at Belle's heart. But what astonished her was Sinclair's response.
His roguish eyes softened with tenderness as he scooped the child
up in his arms.

"There now, Master John-Jack. France is
not so far away as all that." He turned and directed the child's
attention across the rippling green channel waters to the dark mass
of land that appeared no more than a shadow on the horizon. "See?
You can almost reach out and touch it. Your papa can come sailing
home from there before you've even had a chance to miss
him."

"Twuly?" Although John-Jack looked
skeptical, he wrapped one arm about Sinclair's neck, and he leaned
forward to squint. Sinclair soon had the little boy convinced that
he very nearly had touched the coastline of France,

Belle could only stare. She knew few
men who would have been perceptive enough to recognize the child's
fear of losing his father, fewer still who would have troubled to
do anything about it. Sinclair looked so natural, so at ease with
the boy in his arms, he might well have been parent to a numerous
brood of his own. Which he could be, for all she yet knew of
Carrington.

Although his background remained a
mystery to her, she was discovering more about Sinclair that she
liked and desired. She supposed she should be angry with him for
stealing the kiss, but how could she, knowing she had been a
willing partner in the crime? She was no missish virgin to fool
herself into thinking that women were not prey to the same passions
as men. It had taken Sinclair Carrington to remind her of that. If
circumstances were different, if they were not facing such a
dangerous mission . . .

But they were, and in future she had
best try harder to keep a clear head and him at arm's length. Both
their lives might depend upon it. Even now it was high time one of
them remembered the business at hand, that they should be boarding
the packet before it sailed without them. Although loath to
interrupt Sinclair as he charmed away the last of John-Jack's
forlorn expression, she said, "We really must return that child to
his family and—"

"
Jean-Jacques
." A man's voice called in
the distance behind her.

"And then-." Belle stumbled over what
she had been about to say. The voice called again, its French
inflection plucking at her heart like the haunting refrain of an
old melody.

Hearing footsteps behind her, she
turned slowly, the man's shadow falling across her. He halted at
the sight of her, catching his breath, his familiar features
becoming white and pinched.

Belle felt as though a hand of iron
seized her heart and crushed it. A drumming sounded in her ears.
Sinclair, the child, the bustling dockyard blurred, vanishing in a
thick haze that left her alone with this man who stood so close she
could have reached out and touched his hand.

The grains of Time appeared to have
been magically pulled back into the top of the hourglass. She might
once more have been standing upon the stone steps of Saint¬Saveur,
the noble Comte de Egremont coming to claim his bride.

Except that Time was cruel, a malicious
prankster. His waving hair, once so golden brown, was now shot
through with silver. Deep furrows bit deep into his brow and
alongside his mouth were lines far too harsh for such a gentle
face.

"Jean-Claude," Belle whispered. Somehow
she'd always known she was fated to see him again one day and had
imagined what she would do and say. The time had come and her voice
failed her. All she could do was scan his gaunt face for some sign
that he had at last forgiven her.

He hadn't. His gray eyes no longer
filled with dreams, only hurt and disillusionment. Neither Time nor
the Revolution had done that to him. The guilt was all
hers.

Belle lowered her gaze, no longer able
to bear to look at him. When she and Jean-Claude stood silent as
though struck from stone, Sinclair shifted restlessly behind her,
the boy still in his arms.

Sinclair had watched Belle's eyes widen
with recognition, the shock hard followed by the color draining
from her cheeks as though she had taken to bleeding inwardly. Never
had he thought to see the proud Isabelle look so stricken, so
humbled, and the obvious cause of it was this pale stranger with
his flinty, accusing eyes.

"Now, who the devil might this
Jean-Claude be?" Sinclair did not realize he had muttered the words
aloud until John-Jack answered him.

"That's no devil. That's my
papa."

When the child squirmed to be free,
Sinclair set him down. John-Jack ran over and flung his arms about
the man's knees.

"Papa! Papa! This gent'mum's been
teaching me how to touch Fwance."

The child's piping voice seemed to
break the spell, at least for the stranger if not for Belle. The
man she had called Jean-Claude slowly inclined his head toward the
boy.

"Jean-Jacques. Where have you been? I
have shouted myself hoarse calling you."

“Why, I was wight here all the time,
Papa."

"The fault is mine," Sinclair said. "I
was amusing the lad, and although I heard your call, I did not make
the connection. The child told us his name was
John-Jack."

Cold gray eyes shifted toward Sinclair
as though recognizing his existence for the first time. "My son has
difficulty with his native tongue. Your country seems to have made
a proper Englishman of him."

What a world of bitterness lie
concealed in those flat tones, Sinclair thought.

"I thank you for looking after
Jean-Jacques," Jean-Claude continued. "I am sorry that he should
have given you any trouble."

"It was no trouble."

The Frenchman took his son by the hand
to lead him away without another word. The movement stirred some
life back into Belle.

"Then the boy is yours, monsieur," she
said in a small voice, as though she could not comprehend the fact.
"You married again?"

"
Oui
, I did," was the curt reply. "But
I am now a widower." As though dragged against his will,
Jean-Claude turned back to Belle. Like thin ice cracking, some of
his brittle shell seemed to melt.

"It has been a long time, Isabelle," he
said softly. "You are still very beautiful."

The color rushed back into Belle's
cheeks. "Thank you, Jean-Claude."

She sounded so damn grateful and looked
so vulnerable, Sinclair felt a surge of irritation. The way she
pronounced the man's name told him all he needed to know about how
intimate she and this Jean-Claude once had been. Sinclair
experienced a strange sensation, like a giant claw raking across
his insides. He surprised himself by stepping closer to Belle and
wrapping his arm possessively about her waist.

"It would seem that you and my wife are
acquainted, monsieur."

He felt Belle stiffen at his words, a
spark of anger firing her eyes. Jean-Claude flinched as though
Sinclair had dealt him a blow to the face.

"Your—your wife?"

"No—" Belle started to say, trying to
pull away from him.

"Just recently wed." Sinclair cut her
off, tightening his grip. "Sinclair Carrington's the name. And you
are?"

"The Comte de Egremont."
Jean-Claude's lips tightened, but he forced a smile. "My
congratulations, monsieur, Isabelle." He regained his icy
composure. "Pray excuse my rudeness. My son grows restless." He
glanced down to where John-Jack wriggled, clearly impatient with
all this mysterious adult conversation. "I must see him returned to
his
bonne
."

"No, Jean-Claude. Wait." But Belle's
protest came too weak and too late. Scarce giving John-Jack a
chance to wave farewell, Jean-Claude tugged his son along the
docks. Sinclair was astonished by the degree of vicious
satisfaction he felt at the man's retreat, almost as though he had
vanquished an enemy.

Belle wrenched herself away from
Sinclair. He half expected her to go running after the Frenchman.
She took a few hesitant steps and stopped, rounding on Sinclair.
Her face was taut with fury.

"How dare you tell him that! How dare
you refer to me as your wife!"

"I thought we had agreed on that,
Angel."

"But you needn't have introduced me
that way to—to—"

"To Jean-Claude?" Sinclair filled in.
"Why? What difference does it make?"

Her lips parted to make a furious
retort and then clamped shut. The fire in her eyes slowly died to
be replaced by emptiness. "No difference, I suppose. None at
all."

Wrapping her arms about herself, she
walked to the end of the pier and stared unseeing at the channel.
She looked weary, a woman defeated. Sinclair had an urge to go to
her, pull her into his arms, but his mind reeled with confusion
over his own feelings.

What the devil had gotten into him just
now? He had been acting like a jealous lover. Which was absurd
because he had never made love to Isabelle Varens. What had they
shared? A kiss. Never mind that it had been a kiss unlike any other
that he had ever known, that the ridiculous thought had flashed
through his mind that in Belle he had found something he had been
searching for all his life.

So this is what it felt like to make an
idiot of oneself over a woman. Chuff, if only you could see your
rakehell brother now, he thought with a groan.

Completely cool in his past relations
with women, Sinclair was not sure how to cope with this new
unsettling experience. Did one apologize for behaving like a
jealous fool or simply let the matter drop? Belle seemed too lost
in her own unhappy thoughts to take any interest in what he might
have to say.