Traitor in Her Arms Read online

  But he would never allow any harm to come to her. He’d go to the guillotine long before he’d allow her to suffer a moment’s discomfort. And perhaps that was the best idea he’d had yet. If he went to the guillotine, he’d die a hero, the Pimpernel would survive, and his family would be safe in Cumbria, provided for through his will.

  Ramsey almost laughed. Everyone would be better off were he dead.

  But then he looked down at Gabrielle. She needed him to escape Paris, and he wasn’t about to allow her to traipse off with the impulsive Alexandra Martin. He didn’t care whose League the actress belonged to. He had vowed to protect Gabrielle and see her safely out of Paris. Once he did that, then he’d decide what to do about the Pimpernel and his own less-than-enviable situation.

  Being that he was no hero, he knew exactly what he’d do. He began to turn away, but Gabrielle pulled him back.

  “Wait. What were you thinking now? I saw something, something real in your eyes.”

  “I want you safely out of Paris.”

  “And after that?”

  “That’s my secret.”

  “Will I ever see you again?”

  “Why would you want to?” Damn the flicker of hope that sparked inside him.

  She tossed her head. “I don’t.”

  He laughed. “Liar. Has anyone ever told you you’re a horrible liar?”

  She pushed away from him. “We’ll see who’s lying when I return to London and take a lover. Our little interlude last night reminded me how much I miss those intimacies. I cannot wait for the gallants of the ton to learn I’m looking for someone to warm my bed.”

  He knew what she was doing. She was trying to anger him. It shouldn’t be working, but it was. “You’d be smarter to marry. Or have you forgotten the small matter of your husband’s debt?”

  “I have no intention of marrying again.” She paced the room to the small window. “Too confining. But if I find the right lover, he may provide some protection until I find enough resources to repay the rest of the debt.”

  “Steal enough artifacts, you mean.”

  She rounded on him. “And what do you care? At least I have a good reason for stealing. What’s yours?”

  He opened his mouth then closed it abruptly. “That’s what I thought. You never could share anything of yourself. You couldn’t when we first met, and you can’t now. Thank God I never married you.”

  “I didn’t ask.” He saw the flash of hurt in her eyes and was glad.

  “You wanted to,” she countered.

  “And you wanted McCullough. Pretty, insipid McCullough with his little gambling problem. Look where that got you.”

  “How dare you!” She marched to him and jabbed him in the chest. “Don’t speak of him that way.”

  “It’s the truth.” He caught her finger to stop her from poking him with it again.

  “And where would I be if I’d married you?” Her eyes snapped accusations.

  “I can tell you where you wouldn’t be. You wouldn’t be in Paris. You wouldn’t be in danger. You wouldn’t be working for the Scarlet Pimpernel or running for your life from thugs back in London! If you were mine, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, much less my bed!”

  Her jaw dropped, and he didn’t know what she would say next. Regardless, he didn’t want to hear it. In one fluid motion, he pulled her into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers.

  He expected her to fight, but she clawed at him eagerly, her hands fisting in his hair. She was heat and power and beauty. She kissed him back with passion, wrapping her legs around his waist as she did so.

  He pulled her close, pushing her back against the wall so his hands could go to work on the bodice of her redingote. “Too many clothes,” he murmured against her ear. He knew it was a sensitive spot for her, deliberately teased it with his tongue until she shivered.

  “Take yours off first.”

  He wanted to, but that would mean letting her go, and he wasn’t about to move one inch from her. Instead, he fumbled with the fastenings on her bodice and managed to lower it enough so his mouth could lock on to the flesh of her breast. That skin was soft, so incredibly soft. He traced it with his tongue and felt her arch against him. Since their bodies were locked together, she rubbed his erection, driving him to madness.

  But he wouldn’t give in yet. This might be his last time with her. It almost certainly was, and he wanted to take his time touching her. He wanted to memorize her body. It might provide some comfort through all the lonely years ahead.

  He lowered his mouth until his lips raked over her hard nipple. It pebbled for him, and he pulled back to tease it with his tongue. She was writhing against him now, moaning, and arching her back.

  He caught a glimpse of her face. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her eyes a dark blue, tendrils of her hair clinging to her neck in tempting curls. He dipped his head again, ministered to her other nipple. All the while his hands massaged her buttocks where he supported her. He’d been working her gown up, and he knew in a moment he’d be rewarded with bare flesh.

  But Gabrielle had other ideas. Her hands were free. They’d been clawing down his back, but now they moved around his hips. She pulled his shirt free and dipped into the band of his breeches. Her fingers brushed the head of his erection, and he jumped.

  “You like that, don’t you?” She released the fall on his breeches, and he sprang free—into her warm palm.

  “How could I not?” he grit out. She was caressing him, stroking him.

  “You hardly let me touch you last night.”

  “I had…other things on my mind.” Her hands were magic, sliding over him, pausing just long enough to make him agonize over her next move.

  “And I didn’t mind those other things. I don’t mind them at all.” She glanced down where his hand fondled her breast.

  “But I’m not feeling so patient right now.” Her hand stroked him hard, and he had to concentrate to stop himself from coming. “Touch me and you’ll see.”

  He couldn’t deny her—didn’t want to deny her—and slid his hand between them, under the folds of her gown, to the apex of her legs.

  She was warm, slick, and ready for him. Her hand moved on his member persuasively. “Take me,” she ordered. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Hard. Fast. Now.” She bit his lobe, and he couldn’t contain himself.

  He pushed her back against the wall and thrust into her. The wall shook as he rammed into her. Good God, had he hurt her? He’d never lost control like this.

  “Don’t stop,” she cried, and moved against him.

  He thrust again, savoring the slick feel of her. She closed around him like a glove—damp, dark, lovely. He shut his eyes and thrust again, and the house seemed to shake. She threw her head back, and he rode her hard. Her hips urged him on, her moans were driving him mad, her body slammed against him edging him closer and closer to climax.

  Everything in him cried out for release, but he couldn’t give in yet. She was still straining against him. He was watching her face, and more than anything he wanted to see her eyes, look into those dark pools, when she came. He was a skilled lover, but he was not usually unselfish. As with everything else, Gabrielle brought out that side of him.

  Finally, just when he was certain he could not hold on any longer, that the house could not withstand any more of their frenzied lovemaking, her legs tightened around his waist.

  “Look at me,” he growled. “I want to see your face.”

  Her eyes were an unfocused, muddy blue. She blinked, locked her gaze with his, and shattered. He saw the first streaks of pleasure pierce through her and then the slow rise upward. She was so beautiful, so perfect. He struggled for control as his own climax began. He set her down, pulled out, but as he would have turned away, she caught him with her warm hand. He buried his head in her neck. She still smelled of lilies. Even in this city of death and murder, she smelled sweet and innocent.

  “That was…” She let out a long breath.


  “Yes.” It was all he could think to reply. He’d never felt like this with another woman. He was incredibly sated, and yet when he looked at her, he wanted her again. He didn’t think he would ever get enough of her, though he wouldn’t mind trying…

  He handed her a handkerchief, and she wiped her hands. “I…thank you for thinking of me.” She was all politeness. He wanted to throw her on the bed and strip away those clothes she was straightening along with her polite veneer. Gabrielle wasn’t polite—she was brave, daring, passionate.

  “Should we—“

  Pounding sounded on the door below and they both stilled. Shoes clicked on the wood, and Ramsey realized Alex must have returned home while they were otherwise occupied.

  He hurriedly refastened his clothing as he heard voices ordering her to stand aside.

  “Soldiers,” Gabrielle murmured.

  Boots clomped on the stairs, and Ramsey had not time to think of an escape. Alex was talking to them, chirping away in a sweet voice full of innocence. Think, he commanded himself. But he had no idea why the soldiers were there. Had they discovered he and Gabrielle were the thieves from the night before? Had the comtesse and Lord Antony been caught? Had Toulan turned on them?

  There were so many possibilities that Ramsey didn’t know what lie to fabricate.

  The door beside them slammed open, and the leader of the patrol who had come that first domiciliary visit smiled at them. “We meet again.”

  Alex was beside him, and immediately Ramsey knew they were in trouble. Her eyes were wide. She was making every attempt to keep calm, but he could see by her quick breathing and the way she darted her eyes from him to the soldier she was panicked.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure,” Gabrielle said, nodding politely.

  “Do you think so, citoyenne?” the soldier reached in his coat. “Or should I call you Lady McCullough?”

  Gabrielle didn’t even blink. “Citoyenne is fine.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Alex demanded.

  The soldier gave her a passing glance as he fingered a set of thick papers. “If I were you, citoyenne, I would not involve myself in this matter, lest you want suspicion cast upon yourself.”

  “I—“

  “She knows nothing of my real identity,” Gabrielle said coolly. “I lied to her, and my false papers are quite convincing.”

  Ramsey detected a small shake in Gabrielle’s voice, but only because he was beginning to know her so well. If he had not, he would have believed her completely unruffled. It was almost as though she expected this. He wished he had, because he had no idea what was going on.

  “I have an order for your arrest, Gabrielle McCullough.” The soldier had opened the papers and was reading now. “Viscountess McCullough, otherwise known as Gabrielle Leboeuf.”

  “On what charge?” Alex demanded.

  Ramsey wanted to speak, to behave indignantly as well, but he felt as though he was surrounded by honey and all of his movements were too slow, his thoughts lagging behind.

  “Conspiracy,” the soldier read. “You are accused of being in league with the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  Alex laughed, quite convincingly. “That’s ridiculous! Who would make such an accusation?” She shook her head. “The Scarlet Pimpernel? I don’t think the man even exists.”

  “I assure you, citoyenne, he does. And we will catch him.” The soldier gestured to the men standing behind him. “Take her into custody.”

  The soldiers moved forward, and Ramsey finally willed his legs to move. He cut in front of Gabrielle, blocking access to her. “Wait. You can’t take her.”

  “We can, and we will.” The leader put a hand on his bayonet as a warning.

  “Where?” Ramsey stalled for time.

  The soldier consulted his papers again. “She’ll be delivered to La Force. They should have room after the group they sent to the guillotine this morning. She’ll wait there for the tribunal’s pleasure.”

  “There must be something we can do to stop this. She’s innocent.”

  “That’s for the tribunal to decide.”

  The leader nodded to his men, who shoved Ramsey aside and clamped hands on Gabrielle. She gave him a pleading look, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  “This is ridiculous. She’s no conspirator.”

  The soldiers led Gabrielle into the hallway, pausing to await their leader. Gabrielle’s gaze never left his. He wanted to tell her all would be well. He would save her. He had always been a good liar.

  “What is your name?” the leader asked.

  “What?” Ramsey had to think for a moment. “I’m Ramsey Delpierre.”

  “Delpierre?” The soldier glanced at his papers. “I don’t know why you should be so surprised she is arrested. It’s your name on the papers.” He held them out for Ramsey to see. “You made the denunciation yourself, citoyen.”

  “No!” But his name was there in dark black ink. He glanced up and saw Gabrielle’s eyes harden. Her gaze slid away from his—but not before he saw the flicker of hurt and disappointment.

  “No,” he protested. But he was talking to himself.

  The footsteps on the stairs faded away and the door closed, and then Alex was before him again.

  “I don’t—“

  She slapped him hard. “Get out, traitor.”

  Chapter 18

  If the warden at La Force had been surprised to see her, he hadn’t shown it. He had merely handed her over to a guard who showed her to a cell, crammed with twenty or so other prisoners. They stood when she entered, and she perused them quickly, realizing she had been put in with the nobles.

  Her preferential treatment didn’t calm her. Her knees were wobbling, her stomach was in knots, and her thoughts were racing. She couldn’t seem to control or even slow them down. They were like an orchestra, playing the same reel over and over and over until she wanted to cover her ears and scream.

  But she couldn’t do that among the aristocrats. She had to hold her head high and pretend she was regal and noble about dying. She couldn’t show fear or cowardice. And so when the guards closed the cell door behind her, she gave her fellow prisoners a placid smile and folded her trembling hands in front of her. But in her mind, her thoughts circled.

  You will die. You will die. You will diediediediediedie.

  The men occupying her new home, most still wearing their coats of silk and velvet and their linen shirts and expensive lace, stood along the edges of the wide rectangular room. There was a long table in the center, and the equally well-dressed women in the group sat there, stitching or working on needlepoint. The women looked up at her then back down again. She read in their quick glances despair and pity.

  An older gentleman moved away from the wall and gave her a courtly bow. “I am the former duc de Châtre. I am sorry to have to welcome you to our humble cell.”

  Gabrielle blinked. Such fine manners belonged in a salon, not a prison cell. But what had she expected? “Thank you. I’m Gabrielle, Viscountess McCullough,” she said over the noise in her head, which had not abated.

  Ramsey betrayed you. Ramsey betrayed you. Traitortraitortraitor…

  Another man stepped forward. He was younger, but resembled the duc with his dark coloring and steel-gray eyes. Gabrielle thought he must be the duc’s son. “You’re an Englishwoman.”

  She nodded slowly, gracefully. “Yes.” Her knees wobbled again, and she thought she might fall if she didn’t grasp on to something soon.

  “So even the English are not safe,” a young girl said. The duc’s son put his hand on her shoulder. Gabrielle studied them. His wife or his sister? Not that it mattered. She would be dead soon—days, hours…

  Diediediediediediedie…

  She clenched her hands, digging her fingernails into her palms.

  “No one in Paris is safe,” she managed. Her voice sounded strangely calm. It was almost as though someone else were speaking.

  “Do you mind if I ask why you have been imprisoned?” the d
uc asked.

  Gabrielle let out a shaky breath and considered. Should she tell them? It wasn’t a secret anymore. If she didn’t tell them, they would all whisper and gossip about her. Of course, they would anyway, but now she would know their topic—was she or was she not in league with the Scarlet Pimpernel?

  She swallowed. “I’ve been accused of conspiring with the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  A few gasps sounded in the room.

  She lowered her lashes. “It’s not true of course,” she said for the benefit of the guards. “There is no Scarlet Pimpernel.” She dug her fingernails in again, drawing blood.

  “A false accusation,” the duc said, cutting his eyes to the guards as well. He knew she was lying. They all did.

  “Yes,” Gabrielle agreed.

  “Who accused you?” the woman who had spoken earlier asked.

  Gabrielle smiled. She would give them more gossip than they’d had in a week. “This is Paris. My lover, of course.”

  —

  Ramsey found Madame’s assistant at Le Grand Véfour. She sat at a small round table, coffee and a roll set before her. She was dressed as a sansculotte and surrounded by the same. Those men and women were reading the gazettes and discussing the news. She held her own paper and appeared to be perusing it leisurely.

  Ramsey did not wait for an invitation to take the empty chair opposite her. She didn’t look up. “Do you know what I’m reading?”

  “I don’t care.” He hadn’t eaten in too long to remember, and he bit off a piece of her roll, gulped her coffee down. It was black and cold, which meant she’d been sitting there some time—waiting for him.

  “I am reading,” she continued, turning the page, “the list of those executed recently. They publish the names, did you know? I suppose that’s so everyone can keep up.” She twisted her face and put her hands on her hips, speaking theatrically. “I planned to buy bread from Maurice today,” she said in a low, blustery voice, “but I see he’s sneezed into the basket. I’ll have to find a new baker.”

  Sneezing into the basket. Poking through the window. He hated these euphemisms for those who had been guillotined. “You’re not amusing.”