Joanna Maitland - His Forbidden Liaison

That unmistakable voice sent strange vibrations down her spine all over again, in spite of her resolutions. The earlier hard edge was almost gone, replaced by thick, velvet richness. She clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palms. By the time she rose and turned to face him, she was back in control of her wayward senses.

Mr Jacques was standing just inside the door, staring across at the motionless figure on the bed.

‘It is too soon to expect any change, sir.’Marguerite was pleased that her voice was steady, though she found it easier not to look directly into his face. His deep blue eyes, so much more intense than Herr Benn’s, were definitely best avoided.

He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I apologise for disturbing you. I am going to the village. I wondered if there was anything you needed?’

Marguerite gestured towards the window. The sky was very dark. ‘Is that wise? I’d say there’s a storm brewing.’

He shook his head impatiently. ‘I have no choice, ma’am. Herr Benn’s valise was lost in Marseilles, and I do not have enough linen for two. If I can find a haberdasher’s here, I might be able to purchase new cravats and so on, for us both.’

Cravats? His companion could be at death’s door and he wanted cravats? His casual attitude to Herr Benn’s condition caught her on the raw. Worse, he was taking it for granted that she would continue to nurse Herr Benn, without even a single word of thanks. She was too well schooled to rail at him, but she fanned the flames of her righteous indignation. Better to appear peevish than to succumb to the strange feelings this man was able to arouse in her. ‘I have everything I require, thank you, sir. And I do not think Herr Benn has need of cravats, just at present,’ she added, with relish.

That barb struck home. His eyes narrowed. For a second, she thought he would respond in kind, but he did not, though his throat was working as if he were swallowing his ire. Eventually, he sketched a bow and turned for the door, murmuring something inaudible. She supposed it was some kind of farewell.

Insufferable man! Was he really going to buy cravats? Or was that simply a pretext to go drinking with his new found Bonapartist cronies? Either way, it should not matter to Marguerite. She was not going to allow herself to think about Mr Jacques. Not in any way. Not his voice, nor his astonishingly deep blue eyes, nor the half-naked torso he had paraded in front of her in that harbour inn.

That last image was much too vivid. She could feel her skin heating in the most unlamented way. She rushed across to the door and shut it quickly, leaning her back against it and closing her eyes. She should be glad that Mr Jacques had left the inn, for his very presence was dangerous. She would not think about him. She would concentrate on caring for Herr Benn.

The sound of muttering jerked Marguerite out of her light doze. She leapt up from the chaise longue. Herr Benn was thrashing around on the bed, clearly in pain. She hurried across to the dressing table to fetch her cooling cloth once more.

Herr Benn had thrown off most of the bedclothes so that he was naked to the waist, apart from the bandages around his shoulder and upper chest. Marguerite laid her fingers gently on his brow. He was getting hotter. She touched the skin of his torso. That was hot, too. At least he was still insensible. He might be in pain, but he was not aware enough to know it. She began to bathe his face, his neck and the exposed skin of his chest. It seemed to help, for he settled back into his pillows, and the frown disappeared from his brow.

‘Sleep now,’ she said in halting English, trying to reach more deeply into his troubled mind. Most of the English she had learned as a small child was long forgotten. Would Herr Benn understand her? ‘You are safe here, I promise.’ It seemed to help, for he gave a long sigh and his body relaxed a little more.

Marguerite bathed his skin again and then dried him with her own soft towel. For a moment, she stood gazing down at him. She had never before touched a man in such an intimate way. Herr Benn’s body was beautifully formed, his skin white and his features finely sculpted, yet strong. He was a remarkably handsome young man, with the kind of fair good looks that might make ladies swoon. But she felt no tug of attraction at all. Why was that?

She busied herself with gently smoothing the sheets over his body and making him comfortable. She did not want to answer her own question. Indeed, she had not wanted to ask it, for she already knew the answer. For some unfathomable reason, the man who drew her was broader, darker and not nearly as handsome as her invalid. Mr Jacques’s rich voice had twined itself around her thoughts, just as the image of him, half-naked in the gloom, had etched itself into her memory, like acid dripping on to a copper plate. She realised she had even been dreaming about him, which provoked a groan of frustration. Would she never be able to erase him? She refused to let him beguile her. He was a Bonapartist, the enemy, and a real danger to her invalid. She would oppose him with every ounce of strength and cunning she possessed. Even at the risk of failing her own family.

She swallowed hard. When faced with a choice between her duty to her family and her duty to her king, she had not hesitated, and she knew that every member of her family would have made the same choice. But it did not remove her worries, or her sense of guilt.

Marguerite shook her head at her own folly. There was no sense in worrying. She was duty-bound to care for Herr Benn, and to protect him from his companion, until he was able to mind his tongue. With constant nursing, that might be soon, perhaps only a day or two more. Suzanne would have to cope for a little longer. And meanwhile, Marguerite would focus all her wits on keeping Herr Benn safe, and strengthening her defences against Mr Jacques’s unsettling charms.

Jack trudged back across the inn yard in the sheeting rain, cursing the sudden turn in the weather. His testy lady had been right about that. And about cravats, too, but what other excuse could he have offered her? Inexplicably, he found himself focusing on her reactions to him. Would she still be cross? Or would she give that delightful throaty laugh when she saw the state of him?

His simple greatcoat was almost sodden now, and he was well-nigh frozen. Worse, it had all been for nothing. He had visited all the shops in the village, bought drinks for the local men in all the bars, and had even gone to the church to talk to the curé, but no one had been able to give him any definite news. The Bonapartists were all certain, on the basis of no evidence at all, that their beloved Emperor was among them once more. The royalists, who in Rognac numbered only the curé and a couple of old men, were equally sure that such a landing was impossible. The forces at Toulon would have prevented it, they said, even if it meant blowing Bonaparte’s ship out of the water. Which side was right?

Jack shrugged his shoulders and then cursed aloud as the rain from his collar ran down the back of his neck. He raced the last few steps to the shelter of the inn doorway. Paris, and even little Rognac, would soon know everything there was to know, for news travelled very swiftly across France, relayed between tall telegraph towers with movable arms. Jack would have to be patient. He would soon learn whether these were simply wild rumours started by old soldiers in their cups.

The landlord came bustling forward as soon as Jack entered the taproom. ‘You’re soaked, sir. Let me help you off with that coat.You’ll be needing to sit by the fire to get dry.’

Jack muttered his thanks, but did not attempt to make conversation. He had already tried humouring the landlord, a couple of hours earlier, while he and the surgeon were sharing a glass of brandy by the bar. The landlord, an old soldier, was loud in his praises of the returning Emperor, but totally lacking in real information. And so, as it had turned out, was the surgeon.