Page 75 of Souvenir of Love

“So, what did you tell the good citizeness with the shells?”

“I thanked her for her dedication. Told her we were spread a bit thin here, and that the Republic was dependent on the sharp eyes of her citizens. Told her if she saw anything peculiar, besides egg thefts, such as strangers hanging about, she should file another report with us.”

The captain eyed the tower of papers on the corner of the lieutenant’s desk. It looked as if another sheet would send it toppling to the floor. He nodded approvingly.“Vive la révolution.”

For as longasI live, Elizabeth Harcrest, I’ll never regret touching you.The words hung heavy. The weight of them seemed to press the air out of Elizabeth’s lungs and flatten her heart.So, you love me?she wanted to ask, but that wasn’t what he’d said.So, you want me?He’d wanted many women over theyears. He’d had most of them.Am I different?She wanted to know. And if he said she wasn’t?

“Thank you for telling me.” Even as she said it, it sounded absurdly polite.

“You’re welcome,” he responded in kind.

She looked at him, at this beautiful, scarred man sitting so close she could wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him without having to do more than lean. The Elizabeth who walked into the library with him those many months ago would have reached for him.The old Elizabeth, she thought. She’d learned. The new Elizabeth was more cautious—at least with her heart.You could have me, she wanted to say,so easily. But you have to reach out to me. Tell my brother to go to hell, James. You were worthy of me then. You’re more than worthy of me now. Especially now.

She thought of the words she’d overheard James say to her brother in his study:“Redemption? For a man such as I? I merely seek…”“Why have you come to France? Gotten involved with this rescue? Are you in search of a trial by fire?”

He shook his head, sunlight turning strands of his hair to gold. “I think we both know I’ve been tried and found sorely wanting. But a man who hits bottom ought to find something to do with his time, don’t you think? And a spy is as good—or as bad—as anything else I might have chosen...”

“You are down, to be sure, but you’re a man. You’re not so disgraced as I, and certainly not so permanently. How can you be so…so…”

“Cynical?” he offered.

“Complacent.Accepting.” Her pain burned down, igniting a white flare of anger.

“What else can I be, Elizabeth? What can I change? Can I bring my mother back from the dead? Can I bring my father back to his sanity? I could marry some upstart merchant’s daughter,bring my family back to fortune. Sell my name and, of course”—he gestured to his lap—“my noble seed. Now that would be the honorable thing to do, wouldn’t it?” His tone was still polite, but the eyes he turned on her were fierce.

“It’s what other men in the ton have done,” she began.

He cut her off. “Do you want to hear something peculiar, Elizabeth? I know all about what your brother did to replenish the fortune your father and brother squandered. I know how he ‘soiled’ his hands with trade. And I respect him for it. Hell, I envy him. He’s earned enough to live as he pleases. Marry as he pleases. Perhaps I should have done the same. But it would have killed Anne.”

James raked a hand through his hair. “Isn’t it ironic? Anne never would have wanted to marry your brother if she’d known where he’d gotten his money. She wouldn’t have given a second thought to revenge. Andnoneof this would have happened.Complacent?Accepting?” He repeated her words, spitting them out as if they left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Rather say I am a realist. I’ve learned not to reach for the things I know I cannot have.”

“And how do you know you cannot have those things unless you reach for them?” she persisted.

He fingered his damaged cheek. “People have a way of letting you know.”

“Isn’t there anything you’d fight for?”

The finger that had been tracing the curve of his scar slid to his mouth. He tapped his lips like a child confessing a secret. “I did.”

He said the words so softly, Elizabeth wasn’t certain she heard them.

But the weight on her heart and lungs seemed to lift. She exhaled, for what seemed like the first time in a very long time.Her body seemed to follow the course of her breath, flowing toward James.

He closed the distance.

Twenty-Eight

He’d lingered at the picnic with Elizabeth for as long as he’d thought they’d be safe from the curious eyes of passing strangers, but the fugitive had not come. James rolled over in the bed, unable to fall asleep. It wasn’t just prying strangers who posed a threat. He’d kissed Elizabeth. The pressure of her lips, the taste of her mouth, the feel of her body against his, had enflamed his senses far more than the sun or wine or even danger could ever have done. He’d wanted to make love to her. And he might have, if they had stayed. But he’d come to France to do a job—to build up England’s spy networks and to save a man’s life. He turned restlessly in the bed, his mind filled with thoughts of the fugitive and his promise to Grenville and Elizabeth and Moreham and Anne.This, he mused just before he fell into an exhausted sleep,must be how it feels to experience madness.

In the predawn hour,the room was soothingly dark, the bed was satisfyingly warm, and his body, including his eyelids, refused to rise. James’s brain sent a halfhearted command to hislimbs. But the only part responding was the part of him that was nestled against the curve of Elizabeth Harcrest’s bottom.

He was accustomed to waking with an erection. He was also accustomed to waking with a desirable woman in his bed. So, it was natural that his hips began to follow the direction of his desires. Slowly, almost unthinkingly, he began to rock his hips against hers, his hardness bumping between her thighs. His arms had been draped around her, his hands resting against the folds of her nightshirt. He began to draw it up, his fingers sliding against fabric until they found flesh.

And then they continued to move.

Like silken spiders, his fingertips traced the skin above her knees. They followed the swell of muscle up and then descended, ever so lightly, to touch the soft curls between her legs. She parted her legs, and James moved closer.His father had surrendered to his peculiar madness, why couldn’t he?

With her hand,Elizabeth touched her breast. In her dream she was experiencing the most exquisite pleasure. When her finger closed over her nipple, she felt an arcing connection between her legs and realized she was awake. And that James’s finger was sliding with the utmost precision up and down the cleft between her legs. She opened her lips to protest, but only the faintest whimper of pleasure escaped. It felt so good. He felt so good. She supposed she might pretend to be asleep, pretend her submission was unconscious…