Traitor in Her Arms Page 9

  Raising a hand, he made to knock, but the door opened before he could touch knuckle to wood.

  “You,” she said. “Again.”

  He couldn’t help but smile at her. He liked the color in her cheeks when she was annoyed. Even more, he appreciated the flash of blue fire in her eyes. If she was ever cordial to him, he probably wouldn’t know what to do with her.

  “A moment of your time, my lady.”

  “Shh!”

  To his surprise—and amusement—she grabbed his arm, dragged him bodily into her cabin, and slammed the door. “Well, this is unexpected,” he drawled.

  “Are you a fool?” she demanded. “Do not refer to me as lady. I’m traveling under an assumed identity.”

  That intrigued him, and not simply because he was doing the very same. “How should I refer to you?”

  “You needn’t refer to me. We should disembark at some point today, and I have no intention of seeing you when I step foot off this ship.”

  “That’s out of the question, my—citoyenne.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll not abandon you in France.” He owed George that much.

  “Abandon me? I never asked you to help me. In fact, I don’t want your help.”

  “Why?”

  Her eyes widened, an indication the question took her by surprise. She’d obviously expected him to give in. “My business is private,” she said finally.

  “Well, now I’m all the more intrigued.” And he was.

  And then all the questions and doubts of the night tumbled back into his mind. He couldn’t afford to run about like a lovesick puppy nipping at her heels. He had his own business to attend to. His own private business.

  Gabrielle glared at him, and he thought he had rarely met a more independent woman. Certainly she could handle herself. She didn’t need his help.

  Of course, she wasn’t handling herself very well with Mr. Pin…

  Devil take it!

  “Do you really wish to know the reason for my trip to France?” she asked, surprising him.

  “Yes.”

  “Fine.” She strolled to the porthole on the other side of the cabin—all of three steps—and peered out. “I’m traveling to visit a relative. A distant cousin. My parents worried for her safety and asked if I could see what might be done to expedite her departure from Paris. She’s not a member of the nobility, but it seems anyone can be denounced these days. We fear that…Josette isn’t safe.”

  Ramsey couldn’t see her face because she was still staring out the porthole, but he knew a lie when he heard one. He’d certainly told enough of them. He opened his mouth to tell her she was full of complete and utter rubbish, but a knock at the door stalled him.

  Gabrielle whirled from the porthole, her face pale and her eyes wide.

  “I take it you’re not expecting anyone,” Ramsey observed.

  “No. I—“

  “Miss Leboeuf,” a man on the other side of the door said. “It’s Captain Watson. May I have a moment of your time?”

  Ramsey watched as she visibly relaxed, a bloom of color returning to her cheeks and her shoulders slumping with a sigh of relief. What had set her so on edge? Certainly it had nothing to do with visiting her cousin.

  Gabrielle opened the cabin door, and the captain’s smile faded as soon as he saw Ramsey standing behind her. “Am I interrupting?” Watson’s voice was tense and high-pitched. He was a man of about forty, short and portly, but somewhat weathered, as was to be expected.

  “Not at all,” Gabrielle said. “Mr….” She glanced at Ramsey, probably realizing she didn’t know the name he was traveling under. “Ah, the gentleman and I are old friends.”

  “Might we speak in the passageway, Miss Leboeuf?” the captain suggested.

  “Certainly.” She stepped into the passageway, leaving her door ajar. Ramsey could hear the captain speaking, something about dining with him.

  Ramsey almost rolled his eyes. So the captain had fallen under Lady McCullough’s spell too. If her late husband—handsome almost to the point of prettiness—was any indication, the captain would be disappointed. Gabrielle’s tastes did not run to short, fat, and red-faced men.

  Resigned to waiting out her polite rejection, Ramsey sprawled on her berth, dislodging her knapsack as he did so. He had a moment to wonder why she had not brought a valise, when he saw the envelope with the red seal.

  He glanced at the door, saw her back was still to the cabin as she listened and nodded politely to Captain Watson, and Ramsey slid the envelope onto the bed’s thin blanket.

  The envelope was thick and creamy, the seal broken. But even so, he could make out the small flower. He had grown up in the country and was quite familiar with flowers. This was a pimpernel. Was it a coincidence the wax was scarlet?

  His heart thudded in his chest, and he risked another glance at the door. She was saying something now, undoubtedly refusing the captain’s advances. Ramsey opened the paper and read the first line.

  Burn this after reading…

  He glanced at the door, saw Gabrielle angling to look back inside, and shoved the paper inside her knapsack. Putting his hands behind his back, he endeavored to look bored. Gabrielle glanced over her shoulder and he raised a brow at her. She frowned at him before being obliged to turn her attention back to the captain.

  Ramsey thanked God the man would not stubble it. He needed a moment to compose himself. His thoughts were racing. The missive was intriguing, and it had nothing to do with any cousin Josette. Had it been sent from the Scarlet Pimpernel? He would certainly want any in his League to burn his communications. And if this was an epistle from the Scarlet Pimpernel, why hadn’t she burned the pages?

  If he’d had a moment more, he could have read the entire letter and put all his questions to rest. He had to find the Pimpernel, but devil take it if he wanted Gabrielle involved and in danger. Until he knew for certain whether or not Gabrielle could lead him to the Pimpernel, he would have to stick close to her.

  Not that he would have allowed her to fend for herself.

  Unfortunately, his motives had become somewhat less honorable, and he hated himself for that.

  Gabrielle was apparently full of surprises. She might be exactly the key he needed to gain entrance to the Pimpernel and his League. And didn’t his stomach roil at the thought of using her thus?

  Finally, she turned from the captain and stepped into her cabin. Her eyes went immediately to the knapsack, and if there had been any doubt in Ramsey’s mind before that the communiqué was important, it was gone now.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, her gaze raking over him as he lounged casually on her berth.

  “What would you like me to be doing?” He couldn’t give her any reason to suspect he’d seen the missive. The best way to do that was to distract her. He raised a finger, crooked it. “Come here.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I think you had better leave.”

  “I don’t think so,” he murmured, rising slowly. “You invited—no, I believe you actually dragged me into your cabin. You want me here.”

  “Yes, to tell you I don’t want to see you again.”

  She was lying again. He’d only been playing on their mutual attraction to divert her, but he’d inadvertently hit upon something real. She did want him here. She didn’t want him to leave. The hair on the back on his neck prickled, and his chest felt tight. He could almost smell the oranges as he had that night in Exeter’s greenhouse.

  “You may see yourself out,” she said, turning away from him.

  But it was too late for that because he wanted her now. He’d always wanted her. And still he hesitated. He should leave her alone. He shouldn’t complicate this further.

  You’re already damned for what you do. What’s one more sin?

  He grabbed her elbow and spun her back. “You’re not walking away from me so easily this time.”

  “Then you walk away from me,” she said, but her breath was coming fast an
d her cornflower-blue eyes were huge in her face. He stared at her for a long time, remembering the girl in Exeter’s greenhouse and wondering when she had become this woman.

  This thief.

  A member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel?

  He didn’t know her at all.

  And then her tongue—small and pink—darted out to lick her lips, and he was back on that summer night. And he knew her all too well, and still not well enough.

  He hauled her against him, feeling her ripe breasts crush against his chest. Feeling her heat melt into his skin. How had he ever let her go? He’d stepped aside so George could marry her and take her to his bed.

  Ramsey tightened his hold on Gabrielle, delving his fingers into her thick hair and tilting her head back. She didn’t protest. Her body bowed to his will, and when he bent to kiss her, her lips parted for him. More than anything, he wanted her to belong to him. And he knew she never could and never would.

  But he could possess her for a moment—as he had in Exeter’s greenhouse. He could hold her like this and pretend he never had to let her go.

  With a fierceness he rarely unchained, he claimed her mouth with his, ravaging her soft, sweet lips. He felt her body tense for a moment. This was not the way he had kissed her before. He thought she might protest, push him away with the hand on his chest. Instead, she splayed her fingers and gripped his frock coat. She made a sound somewhere between a moan and a purr, and her tongue met his in a savage duel.

  He’d always known she could be bold. Had George appreciated that, or had she intimidated him with her passion? As her tongue raked over his, Ramsey could hear the blood pound in his head. His body exploded with fire, the heat traveling from his fingers in her silky hair, to his arms wrapped around her soft body, to his chest, where her lush breasts pushed against his too-thick coat.

  Their bodies were inches apart, and Ramsey felt the urge to close that distance. He was hard for her now, and her berth was only two steps away. He could toss up her cheap dress and bury himself deep inside her heat. From the way she was responding to him, he didn’t think she’d object.

  He took a step toward the berth then paused. In the time since he’d been in London, he’d learned to think of consequences. He couldn’t stop himself from considering them now.

  They were both bound for Paris. She might be carrying orders from the Scarlet Pimpernel. He was on a mission to discover the identity of the man.

  They were at cross-purposes, and if she was indeed linked to the Scarlet Pimpernel, he would use her to accomplish his goal. She might not need him, but he could not allow her to go into the maelstrom that was Paris alone.

  He was certain she’d appreciate the irony that in his quest to protect her, he’d end up destroying that which she sought to accomplish. But perhaps he could find some way to make it up to her.

  She moaned again, and he had a flash of her on the bed beneath him, her body arching in ecstasy.

  No, not in that way—as much as it pained him to relinquish the image. He would find some way to help her pay her debts. He couldn’t give her Cleopatra’s necklace. Madame Fouchet would take it. He could steal something else for Gabrielle or pay George’s creditors himself. He wasn’t exactly poor.

  But he’d avoided spending the Sedgwick fortunes since he’d met Madame Fouchet…

  “Ramsey,” Gabrielle moaned.

  And he couldn’t help it. He pulled back, looked at her. It was a mistake, because he knew he should walk away. Her cherub’s lips were red and swollen, the freckle beside them begging him to kiss it. Her cheeks bloomed with color, her half-lidded eyes were dark with arousal.

  He wanted to take her mouth again. Instead, he bent and tasted the skin of her neck. He pulled the scrap of material she’d secured there aside, and he could smell her skin. He missed the fragrance of oranges he would always associate with her, but he found the scent of lilies that clung to her now much more provocative. He kissed her neck, just beside her chin, then traced the line of her jaw with his lips. In his arms, she shivered and dug her nails into his coat. He could feel them scrape his skin even between the layers that separated them. How he wanted to divest himself and her of those annoying layers.

  And then he touched lips to the skin just behind her ear, and a tendril of her hair brushed his cheek. The scent of lilies surrounded him, and he closed his eyes and drew it in. She tasted as sweet as she smelled, and he wondered if her breasts would taste sweeter…her navel…the backs of her knees…

  God, he wanted her. And it had nothing to do with the Scarlet Pimpernel. Was that enough justification to take what he wanted? He didn’t know, didn’t care…

  He moved toward the berth, and she stiffened, seemed to summon strength from somewhere and pulled away. He felt the loss instantly. His every instinct told him to pull her back. But she shook her head. She held on to his coat, wobbled for a moment, then opened her eyes. They were liquid, and he longed to see them burning with the pleasure he knew he could give her.

  Slowly, finger by finger, she released his coat. He saw the indecision in the expression on her face. He could have swayed her, but he did not move, did not act to tug her back into the heat of his arms.

  She cleared her throat. “I think you’d better go.”

  “Yes.” But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. She was like a lodestone pulling him closer, setting him off course, making him forget his true path. “I can’t let you go.”

  Her eyebrows shot up, and he realized he’d said this aloud. He took another step back from her, trying to break her spell, then scrubbed his hands over his eyes—mainly to stop himself from staring at her and imagining her naked in his arms.

  “What I mean is”—he turned away from her, studied the gray view from the porthole—“I can’t allow you to go into Paris alone.”

  “Allow?”

  He imagined her eyebrows rose again, but this time with more indignation than surprise. He should have chosen his words more carefully. He turned to face her, noted her eyes were sharp and clear and her hands were on her hips. “I was hoping you’d allow me to escort you into Paris, my…citoyenne.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t need an escort.”

  “Nevertheless.” He spread his hands. “As a gentleman, I feel obliged.” He thought of his father and his brothers. If they could hear him now they’d be falling on their arses laughing.

  “How chivalrous you are.” She lifted the sack on her berth and tucked it under her arm—keeping it safe from him, no doubt. “Why the sudden change? You had no qualms stealing Cleopatra’s necklace from me.”

  “And you had no compunction about pointing a pistol at me. I think we’re even.”

  She studied him, seemed to consider his words. “I don’t suppose I shall be able to disabuse you of this notion to accompany me into Paris.”

  “I find I have my heart quite set on it.”

  “And if I have my heart set on escaping you?” She arched a brow in challenge. He liked how she looked when she issued a challenge—fearless, bold, and seductive.

  But he had to admit if she didn’t want him following her, she’d probably find a way to escape. He didn’t think she’d reveal his true identity, but then again, he wasn’t certain how angry she was about the necklace.

  “I shall endeavor to convince you otherwise,” he said.

  “You might convince me…if you tell me why you’re traveling to France.”

  He crossed his arms. “The truth?”

  “The truth.”

  He wouldn’t tell her the truth any more than she had told him. “My family has lands and monies in France. I’ve decided to see if anything can be salvaged.”

  “A bit late,” she observed.

  “I’m not particularly hopeful, but I’m also not stupid. Citoyenne Gabrielle Leboeuf, meet Citoyen Ramsey Delpierre, soldier.”

  He hadn’t expected her to laugh, especially not at him. Surprisingly, he found her laughter made her all the more enticing. He wondered if
she was ticklish anywhere.

  “You? A soldier?”

  “Why is that amusing?”

  “I simply cannot imagine it.” She wiped her eyes and made some effort, however futile, to stem the tide of guffaws.

  “And what is your profession, citoyenne?”

  “Lace maker.”

  That explained the shabby clothing and the satchel.

  “Where is your uniform, soldier?” she asked.

  “I’m on leave,” he grumbled. At least that’s what the papers Miss Blake had given him reported.

  She nodded, wiped her eyes again, and composed herself. “You may go now,” she said.

  He opened his mouth, intending to ask if that meant she would allow him to accompany her, but he shut it instead. Why give her the illusion that the decision was hers? It didn’t really matter whether she wanted him to accompany her. It simply would be easier if she didn’t object.

  He started for the cabin door. “I’ll see you when we reach France.”

  She made a noncommittal sound, and when he stepped into the passageway, she closed the door without waiting for him to take his leave.

  He had half a mind to pound on the door and…

  Yes, that was the problem. He didn’t really care about any of it. He wanted her in his arms, naked and crying his name.

  But he also wanted the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. He’d use her to get it, but he was discovering that even he, the basest rogue, had some scruples as to how he’d achieve that end.

  Chapter 8

  Gabrielle stood in line at the West Gate and watched as the crowds shuffled into Paris ahead of her. The air stank of farm animals, and chicken feathers floated around her. Earlier she’d accidentally stepped too close to one of the carts and a scrawny rooster pecked her arm. Now she rubbed the mark absently and tried not to fidget.

  The Fugitive had arrived at dawn, then Gabrielle had embarked on a laborious trip from the countryside to Paris. It was almost three in the afternoon now, and she’d been waiting in line since half past twelve. The barricades closed at four, and she could not afford to be stuck outside the city tonight. She had much to do if she were to steal le Saphir Blanc and save the comtesse’s life.