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Flinging the blanket she’d held in her lap over her shoulders, she crossed to the bed and settled herself on the floor by the footboard—back to the wall, with a clear view of both the window and the door, he noted. ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur LeClair.’
‘Bonsoir, Pierre.’
She closed her eyes. Within a few moments, the even sound of her breathing indicated she must have fallen asleep.
Will should sleep, too. He had only a few hours before he needed to be up, all his wits about him, ready to spirit them out of the inn unobserved or to improvise some sleight of hand, should that be necessary for them to escape pursuit. But as he blew out the candle and lay down on the bed, Will found slumber elusive.
Partly, it was his ever-deepening curiosity about Elodie Lefevre. What remarkable experiences had shaped this woman who noticed watchers at her corner, came up with plans for escape and evasion and talked of disguises as casually as another woman might discuss attending the theatre or purchasing a bonnet?
When he compared her reactions to the emotion-driven behaviour of the women he’d known, he was struck again by her calm. After leaving the only friend she knew, about to creep away with a virtual stranger in the middle of the night, she’d displayed no more than a natural sadness at parting from the maid. There’d been no panic, no fretting over whether she was doing the right thing. No worrying over her ability to carry out her part in the deception, no endless questioning over what was to happen next and—praise Heaven!—no tears. She hadn’t even called down evil upon his head for forcing her into this.
Instead, she’d made a single terse compliment about his thoroughness.
‘You truly are an amazing woman, Elodie Lefevre,’ he told her sleeping form. But I’d be an idiot to trust you.
She had paid him one other compliment in their short acquaintance—she’d called him ‘striking’.
For the last few hours, the urgency of getting her out of her lodgings and the necessity of planning their escape had helped him dam up his strong physical response to her. But in the darkness, safe for the moment and all plans in place, that one memory was enough to send desire flooding over the barriers.
Despite the contrivance of having her travel as his ‘valet’, with her bundled at his feet, her soft breaths filling the silence and the subtle scent of lavender beguiling his nose, it was impossible for him to think of Elodie Lefevre as anything other than a woman. A woman made even more alluring by her unique, exceptional abilities.
A woman he wanted.
He stifled a groan as, despite his fatigue, his body hardened. His mind might be urging him to review each detail of their upcoming journey, but his body was recalling the softness of her neck under his fingers, the surge of connection between them when she took his hand.
Damn and blast, what had begun as a grim mission to vindicate Max had become a challenge that filled him with unanticipated excitement. He relished the idea of being on the road with her, overcoming whatever dangers arose, discovering bit by bit more pieces to the puzzle that was Elodie. At the same time, he must maintain a delicate balance between his growing fascination and the necessity to stay vigilant, lest she lull him into complacency and play him for a fool.
And then there was lust. With an anticipation so intense it ought to alarm him, he looked forward to sharing a room with her at the posting inns—and all the enticing possibilities for seduction that offered.
But when he recalled the disguises they’d agreed upon, he had to stifle a laugh. She could have contrived no better way to keep his amorous impulses at bay. They could hardly travel unnoticed if he was seen to be openly lusting after his valet!
He’d just have to get her back into maiden’s attire as soon as possible.
Chapter Eight
Five days later, in a small inn south of Stuttgart along the road to Paris, Elodie loitered in a dim, smoky corner of the taproom, mug of ale in hand. Will sat at a table in the centre, gaming with a disparate group of fellow travellers.
Wearing gentleman’s attire, the only disguise he employed was hair-blacking, there being nothing he could do beyond keeping his face downcast to camouflage those remarkable eyes. He lounged with cravat askew, long legs outstretched in an indolent pose, as he held the cards before him.
To a casual observer, he appeared to be just another young man who’d decided to go adventuring now that Napoleon’s wars no longer threatened the Continent. A younger son of good family, probably, well born but not important or wealthy enough to require an entourage. A young man seemingly indifferent to his comfort—and that of his humble valet, since he’d chosen to ride on this journey, rather than spend the additional blunt necessary to hire a carriage.
It was an image he’d calculated with care. But Elodie, now better attuned, knew that despite his lazy stance, Will keenly observed every detail of the men in the room and the inn itself, always assessing possible threats, ready to make a quick exit in case of danger. Much as she herself did.
From the beginning of their odyssey, she’d watched him intently, at first apprehensive, since she’d had to commit her safety into his hands. By now she’d relaxed a bit, appreciating the high level of alertness he maintained—with remarkably little sleep—and the care he took to evaluate their surroundings and the people with whom they came into contact.
For as long as she could remember, she’d been the one who had to be vigilant to protect herself and those she loved. How much easier it was for a man, who could interact with innkeepers and barmaids and grooms and tradesmen virtually unnoticed, as a woman could not. She’d even allowed—if only to herself—that his skill at disguise, invention and evasion equalled her own.
She was beginning to believe that Will Ransleigh would get her safely to Paris after all.
Though she must never forget he was expending all that effort for his own purposes.
Over the last few days, they’d worked out a routine, riding hard by day, not choosing an inn for the night until well after dark, by which time she was so weary she almost fell out of the saddle. In the early dawn, Will would arrange fresh horses and buy food to carry with them for the next day, and they’d take their meals by the roadside.
She smiled into the darkness. Breaking their fast in the open might have been a dreary, rushed affair, but in Ransleigh’s company, the meals had assumed almost a picnic atmosphere. She had to admit she was intrigued by him. Though she herself said little, with a bit of prompting, she’d persuaded him to regale her with tales of his many adventures.
He was a marvellous storyteller, his vivid descriptions making her feel she was reliving the episodes with him. He had her laughing at his account of dismal billets and narrow escapes from marauders on the Peninsula, the comic ballet of Brussels packed to the gills with foreigners. Unknowing, he fed her starved soul with details of the Paris he’d explored before Napoleon slipped his leash at Elba and plunged France back into war.
Notably missing among his tales, however, was any mention of his origins. Which was only fair, since she’d divulged absolutely nothing about herself. But she’d grown increasingly curious to know more about the man, as the relationship of captor and—though willing—captive subtly began to alter, until it now verged dangerously close to camaraderie.
Which was perhaps the point of his tall tales. Perhaps he was trying to earn her trust, beguile her into thinking of him as a friend, a companion … a lover?
Tightness coiled in her belly and she blessed again the disguise that required them to stay at arm’s length during the day, the arduous long rides that made her fall asleep almost instantly when she could finally rest for the night.
Otherwise, the two of them alone in the secret darkness … She didn’t think she could have resisted the temptation to taste those sculpted lips that she watched, fascinated, as he spun his tales, acutely conscious of his sheer masculine power and the fierce pull of attraction between them. Resisted the desire to run her fingers down the muscled thighs she watched day after day control his mount with effortless precision. Denied herself the chance to explore the naked torso of which she caught only teasing glimpses when he pulled off his shirt to wash in the early mornings.
Did he wait to do that until he knew she was awake, deliberately tempting her?
Over the years, she’d used her body when necessary and, more often, had it used without her consent. It had been a very long time since she’d wanted a man.
But she wanted Will Ransleigh. In his smoky gaze when no one was watching them, in the lingering caress of fingers on her arm or hand the few times touching her had been necessary, she knew he wanted her, too.
The day of reckoning was coming when that mutual desire would no longer have to be denied. Heaven help her, how she burned for it!
But that time wasn’t here … yet. They were still too far from Paris. And she was still too far from deciding just how—and when—she would seduce Will Ransleigh.
Tonight, announcing he needed to replenish their funds with a little gaming, Will had insisted, despite her fatigue, that she remain in the taproom and linger in the shadows. So she would be close at hand, in case they needed to leave the inn in a hurry.
She’d forced herself to stay awake by watching the game, counting cards and points. She’d been annoyed to discover she must admire Will Ransleigh’s prowess at cards, too.
