His Forbidden Liaison. Joanna Maitland

The landlord must have no grounds for suspecting that Jack was anything other than an ardent Bonapartist. Yes! He would say that Herr Benn had a wealthy patron, in Lyons, who had sent money for their journey. They had travelled in the Grolier carriage as a result of a chance meeting with a lady who was skilled in tending wounds. But now they would travel on alone, funded by Benn’s patron. Without the lady. Jack refused to let himself think about Marguerite Grolier. She was the enemy. It was much too dangerous to allow her any part in this from now on. He must put her out of his mind.

      Would his plan work? Perhaps he should say that he was really looking forward to travelling in such luxury, that he had never been able to afford it before? That should do the trick. Had he forgotten anything? He was beginning to realise that planning a mission was like setting out a field at cricket. The captain had to work out precisely where his opponent was likely to hit the ball, so that he could have a defender in place to stop the runs. Jack could find no more undefended points on his cricket pitch. It was a good plan. Time to put it into action.

      Marguerite managed to keep control of her features until the door closed behind Guillaume. Then she slumped down on to the chaise longue and dropped her head into her hands. It was true! That monster was back in France and would soon be at the head of another army of hotheads, all ready to die for him. And die they would, of that she had no doubt.

      What on earth was she to do? She raised her head and glanced across at the bed. Herr Benn was still sleeping peacefully. He had passed the crisis in the night. There was no longer any sign of fever, and his wound seemed to be healing well. She could leave him here and hurry back to Lyons to protect her family. Without Guillaume, Suzanne and their mother were undefended. Although the Groliers had never talked about their royalist allegiance, even after Bonaparte’s defeat, there were those in Lyons who might suspect them. A silk-weaving business, even a struggling one, was worth taking over, and the turmoil surrounding Bonaparte’s return could provide just the opportunity their rivals needed.

      Marguerite groaned. She could not stay in Rognac. She must return to her family. But what about Herr Benn? If she abandoned him, would it not be a sentence of death? She rose and began to pace.

      ‘Where am I?’ The words were in English, and the voice barely a thread.

      Oh, no! Marguerite rushed to the bedside. ‘Herr Benn, you are at an inn on the road to Avignon,’ she said, in slow, careful French. She put her hands flat on his cheeks and gently turned his head so that he was looking directly into her face. His eyes were unfocused and barely half-open. ‘Herr Benn, listen! Bonaparte is back in France. You are in great danger. You must speak only French. No English. Not a word of English. Do you understand me, Herr Benn?’

      ‘No English,’ he repeated, in English. ‘No English.’His eyelids drifted closed. He had fallen asleep again.

      Marguerite exclaimed in frustration. But there was nothing she could do. She could not abandon him to the mercies of Bonaparte’s executioners. She must travel home to Lyons, and quickly, but she must find a way to take Herr Benn with her. If she promised to nurse him on the way, and take him to the Hôtel Dieu in Lyons to be cared for, surely Mr Jacques could not object?

      He almost certainly would, she decided. Indeed, he would probably insist on accompanying them. In truth, the only sure way of getting rid of Mr Jacques would be to leave Herr Benn behind, and she knew she could not do that. So there was every likelihood that she would be travelling all the way to Lyons with Mr Jacques’s perceptive eyes on her, and on the invalid. She felt her stomach turn over at the thought. He saw far too much, that one. Besides, the effects he had on her were uncomfortable.And dangerous. He could be so kind and so charming. It would be all too easy to let down her guard and then—boum!—she could find herself arrested, and handed over to that monster’s guards, to be shot as a traitor.

      No, she would not allow that to happen. She would not succumb to Mr Jacques’s undoubted charm. She would treat him with perfect propriety, as a chance-met acquaintance, even if they were travelling together all the way to Lyons in the confined space of her carriage. She was a strong woman. She could do it.

      Her inner voice reminded her that, when they first met, he had admired her for her strength and courage. His words then had beguiled her.Was she so very sure that she could be proof against his wiles?

      Jack fastened his valise and straightened his back. He had paid his shot, and Ben’s. It only remained now to prepare the hired carriage for the invalid. He crossed to the window. No sign of his carriage yet. The only vehicle in the yard belonged to Marguerite Grolier.

      Marguerite Grolier. She kept intruding when he least expected it. And just when he had been telling himself he had banished all thoughts of her. It was lust, of course. What else could it be? Even when he was surrounded by real danger, his confounded body refused to see beyond one beautiful, and very desirable, woman. He was becoming as bad as brother Leo!

      No, he was worse. Leo might be a womaniser, but in the grim business of spying, Leo was always able to concentrate on his role in the Honours. He had spent months in Vienna without thought of a mistress. So why couldn’t Jack do the same? After all, Jack’s vice had always been gambling, not women.

      It had to be something about Marguerite Grolier. But why should he lust after her, when he had been able to ignore so many other women?

      He began to pace his empty room, pondering. She was quick-witted and courageous. She was a skilled weaver, and a practical business woman, which was quite a combination. She was resourceful, too, and she was certainly compassionate. Poor Ben probably owed his life to those qualities.

      Jack stopped by the window and rested his elbows on the sill to look out. Marguerite Grolier was an extraordinary woman. He had never met her like. But he knew he was not lusting after her because she was admirable—though she was. She was also beautiful and unconsciously alluring. Lately, when she touched his hand or her breath caressed his skin, his body had responded instantly.

      He told himself it could only be because she was innocent.And forbidden. They had been thrown together by unavoidable circumstance.As in the Garden of Eden, temptation was all the stronger because the fruit was forbidden. And the serpent of lust was twining itself around him, hissing its message of betrayal. He would not heed it. He would not betray Marguerite to satisfy a moment’s craving.

      In a few minutes, once he had his body under control again, he would bid her farewell and thank her sincerely for what she had done. Then he would leave her without a single backward glance. He was the leader of this mission. Like a true leader, he would not allow himself to be diverted from his task.

      They seemed to have reached an impasse. The charming boy she had glimpsed so often had been replaced by a grim, implacable man.

      ‘I shall hire a carriage for myself and Herr Benn, ma’am,’ he said again. ‘It would be the height of bad manners to inflict ourselves on you when we must travel so fast. Such a journey will be too uncomfortable for a lady.’

      Marguerite refused to be beaten. She tried another tack. ‘I do understand your desire to join the Emperor as soon as possible,’ she said, smiling admiringly up at him. ‘I, too, long to see him. But there are grave risks along they, especially for Herr Benn. If royalist troops should come upon your carriage and find a wounded man, what then? Would you be able to convince them that you were not the enemy?’

      ‘I would tell them the truth, ma’am. That he was shot by footpads.’

      She opened her eyes wide in disbelief. ‘And you are both racing north to Lyons, ventre à terre? I think not, sir. A wounded man does not travel so. The only plausible reason for such haste is that you are going to join the Emperor. They will know it. And so do you.’

      He drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at her. ‘I suppose you have a better plan?’

      Marguerite alms to laugh. He was such an unpredictable mixture of frustrated schoolboy and decisive man. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said flatly. ‘I have barely had a chance to say a word since you entered the room, but I do have a much better plan. Better for all of us.’

      He