Chapter Ten

B eginning with their fond farewells to the Boyer family the next morning, their journey to Sedan was a jolly affair. Amber and Ram climbed into the coach he had rented in the town earlier. Alone there, not minutes away from Charleville, he chuckled as she joined him on the opposite seat.

"You're too far away, sir." He caught both her hands as they explored the buttons of his frock coat. That she wished to seduce him revealed a new level of trust in him. Joy twinkled in her dark-brown eyes as she put her hands to his cravat. "I get to disrobe you for a change."

He had not allowed her any of that service at night during their time together. Her hands upon him during the day in the normal ways of married couples had been enough temptation. Too much, in fact.

Now, she took her sweet time of it. Untying, unwinding, laughing as she went. Dropping his cravat to the seat. Unbuttoning his frock coat and waistcoat, smoothing her hands over his shoulders and pulling his shirt over his head.

"Oh," she sighed, paused, and marveled at his naked chest. With a faint hum in the back of her throat, she splayed her fingers over the rise of his pectorals. Her touch seared him. Her admiration spurred him to bite his lip and give breathless laughs.

"If you take too long at this," he bit out through tight restraint, "we'll be in Sedan for lunch before we get to dine."

"Oh." She giggled, her eyes that of a mischievous cat's. "Never fear, dear sir. I know there is much here to savor."

He caught one of her hands and put it flat to his erection. "You have no idea how much more." With a few flicks of his fingers, he undid his flies.

She opened them wide and withdrew his already turgid, pleading cock. Her gaze to his very erect penis, she stroked her thumb over the tip. "I mean, really, darling. How do we know if we are compatible, eh? After all, you and I have had only two goes at it."

"Three."

"Hmmm. Was it?"

"Definitely. Three. We could not tarry this morning. We had to leave, you little tease." He remembered the scene at breakfast when she made eyes at him. He had forgotten his hunger for food and wished only to throw up her skirts and have her, wanton and willing, on the broad oak table.

"I wanted you at breakfast," she confided, kissing his cheek, rubbing him to distraction. "Actually before…"

"Definitely during," he added as she began a rhythm she accompanied with panting breaths, leading him to ponder how to maneuver her here on these short, uncomfortable seats. "We will be destroying both our backs…"

She widened her eyes at him. "I like a challenge."

Hell. What she did to him… Her eyes danced as she squeezed him, full and aching to fuck her as he was.

He rushed to match her in artless indulgence. "Rickety conveyances offer a few challenges. Even for a dexterous man," he said as he pushed up her skirts and stroked her satin thigh, minus the white hose he'd torn in their frolic last night, "it is difficult."

"But, my dear fellow, I am not only willing"—she climbed upon him, her knees to either side of his thighs—"I am a dexterous woman."

She sank over him, and he found her succulent center and slid home.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, his breath harsh and fast as she twisted herself lower on his shaft.

"Darling man," she cooed when she had descended as she could, "you won't."

"But this," he said with a laugh as he caught the straps and the coach tipped as it took a sharp curve in the road, "is not our nice, wide bed."

"All the better here, then."

"I like the way you think." He took her lower lip between his teeth and nipped her. She was a scandal. She was his personal, private, beloved scandal.

"Now," she murmured with wide eyes, "perfection requires at least…ten times."

"After which, we will not count."

"Nor walk."

They laughed as he caught her little chip hat that bobbed on her red curls. He lifted two pins out and threw her chapeau to the other seat. Greedy for all of her, he pulled her closer. "Our journey to Sedan, my darling, will be a luscious memory!"

He was lost to her. His head back against the old, soft leather upholstery, he surrendered to her seduction and gave her all he had.

She did not disappoint a starving man. He took in how she savored this: her head thrown back, her mouth open—unmoving, transfixed, she melted over him.

His darling. His woman.

This was where he longed to be. And where he belonged.

She let her head fall to his chest. "Oh, Ramsey. You are so wonderful."

So simple a word did not convey all he was. Randy. Enthralled. He was all of those.

She put her forehead to his shoulder and spread little kisses on his throat. "You are my new obsession, Ram."

As he reveled in her boldness, he sank his fingers in her hair. "We'll see how well you like me when I never let you rest at night."

"We'll see how well you like me when I match you."

But in one thing, he always exceeded her. He loved her.

To continue to bury himself deep inside her, he would give her all of him she wanted—and demand of himself he let go the fear that she would never love him in return.

*

Ram arranged a room for them at an auberge on the quai of the Meuse.

The inn was not only ancient, but smelled of old hay and mold. Ram groused that the place was not up to his standards of cleanliness. They accepted the faults because the inn was located in the center of town, and he wished to be there to overhear gossip in the streets.

Amber just wished to have him as soon as possible again. Eager for his affections, she felt the prickle of expectation whenever he looked at her. He hid nothing of his desire for her. The man made her feel free for the first time in years. To her surprise, she welcomed liberation from the cares and responsibilities that had always dogged her in Paris.

She certainly had become assertive in her desire for him. She'd never been that way with Maurice. Her husband had always initiated their sexual encounters. But then, this morning it occurred to her that if she did not show Ram how much she wanted him, he would not be the aggressor.

His sense of honor was greater than any other man she had ever known. For that, she admired him—and wanted him all the more.

*

Torrential rain kept them inside that first afternoon. Amber told him she didn't mind. To which Ram replied that they could take the opportunity to stay inside and work on their own special techniques.

She chuckled. "The weather cooperates."

The next morning, he grinned as he rose from their bed. She openly admired his physique. His broad shoulders, slim hips, and muscular legs were almost as intriguing as his tight buttocks. Other parts of him appealed to her even more.

"The sun does shine today," he told her with a peek out the window.

"Such a shame," she said as she threw back the covers. "I was hoping to perfect our methods."

He swung toward her, hands on his hips, and his body showed healthy signs that he agreed with her. "We don't want to miss breakfast."

"Think you'll starve?" she purred, and bent one knee.

His shining blue eyes twinkled as they skimmed her naked form. "Not if we share a little apéritif."

"Not little at all," she joked with an eye on his eagerness. She opened her arms to him as he came to her and covered her with his warm iron body.

It was nine as they wended their way along the twisting corridors down the stone steps to the common room and took a bench in one corner. They relished their fare of oats, eggs, and smoked sausage. Sated by their hearty meal, they gazed at each other so endearingly that the owner's wife commented on it.

"Married recently, are you?" she asked in a mash of French and German.

"We are," Ram replied in French.

"Enjoy it now," she instructed them. "The years wear you down, like rain on rock."

Amber smiled politely, but inside, she resented the woman's dim view. She watched her leave them, wishing the woman would take her negativity with her. "I believe marriage can be joyous and loving for many years in a thousand ways."

Ram reached across the top of the table and took Amber's hand. "Don't mind her."

"I lived it with Maurice. Couples have problems, but isn't it their duty to work them out, like wrinkles and tears in a yard of fabric? I realize many wed for all the wrong reasons. Money, position, power. But if two people begin well, if they admire each other, why can they not improve themselves as they improve the whole?"

Ram examined her frown. "Don't allow her to sour your day."

"You're right." She twirled her fingers on the table. "I am…opinionated. And irritable. But we have work to do."

He squeezed her hand. "Let's get to it."

She batted her lashes at him. "Afterward, we can adjourn once more to our bedroom."

"I like the way you think. We'll find our answers quickly."

But if they did—certainly when they did—they would once more have to discuss what to do with all that information.

Amber knew the conclusion they must both draw. To return to Paris so that Ram might disclose all they knew to his friend, Lord Ashley, was the right course of action.

Ram would fight it.

There had been a day when she would have feared it and the threat to her safety. But she understood the value of returning. And she valued his protection. In that, she had safety.

After so many weeks together, after so much delight in who he was as a man, as her protector and now as her lover, she'd thought long and hard about a return to Paris. She was no na?ve girl who knew not how to ascribe responsibility for that change of heart. She was a widow, a worldly woman who had grown up amid the machinations of men and women who strove for power. She knew why she was changing her mind about her old role. It was not simply her understanding that her network was most likely gone, destroyed when she'd run from Paris and Vaillancourt. It was that she cared for Godfrey DuClare. Caring more each day in new and novel ways in bed and out of it, she valued him more.

Valued him more than she had wished.

But she would never stand between him and his duty to his country and to his colleagues. His honor demanded him to report any vital information. Just as hers had.

*

After their breakfast, they emerged from their room onto the sunny cobbled path. She had shrugged off her questions. She had no answers to them. Not now. Not yet. What she could do would be to help Ram discover the information that would be valuable to the British. "What do you suggest we do?"

"Let's find a popular café and sit with coffee and pastry."

"Coffee for me. No food. After that breakfast, I won't eat again for a hundred years."

Strolling the city, she carried a sketchbook she'd purchased in Buzancy. She was no artist, but carrying it gave her an excuse to gaze overlong at scenery—or people. Today, when they stopped to dine, she did not take it out.

"You don't care to draw today?" Ram asked with mischief in his blue eyes.

"The tables," she explained.

"Ah, yes. I see. Too close together."

"Exactly."

He chuckled as he pulled out the small chair for her. "We don't want anyone questioning your talents."

She wrinkled her nose. She could draw stick figures very well and had shown Ram her inglorious examples. "I am dedicated, if nothing else."

He took his own chair, a rueful frown on his features. "God knows that's true."

On the nearby dock, two fishermen argued, and it appeared they were soon to pummel each other. When the café owner appeared at their side, he was officious. Bounding off to get their waffles and coffee, he muttered about foreigners.

"You would think," she said beneath her breath, "being on the border, he'd be used to new people coming and going."

"On the borders, life is tenuous. Your Parisian French and my poor hack of it does not endear either of us to him."

She rolled a shoulder. "He fears what he does not know."

Ram tipped his head. No one else came to patronize the establishment, even though at this hour many emerged from their cottages to walk the quai .

"Do you miss home?" He closely watched her reaction.

"I miss the peace." How well did she wear her heart on her sleeve? Most likely her views about marriage and about intolerant people gave it away.

He stared at her. "Care to explain that?"

"What I mean is that, I loved my house, Aunt Cecily, Augustine, and our social life. I resent the circumstances that drove me from it. I favor good food and fine bedding, baths, and my own clothes." She pulled at the cotton gown and shawl she wore. "These fit well. The modiste in Buzancy was skilled. I don't criticize her. But if my preferences make me sound superior, I don't mean it to be. I have had education, wealth, and many opportunities that others have not."

She looked away. She would tell him the truth. "I'd like to think that one day I could live a normal life. Not worry about who will knock at the door. Who will come to call and wish to take me away."

That confession had him raising his brows—and she was not surprised. It was her first indication that she tired of her role and her flight from it. He reached out and, across the small table, raised her hand and kissed her palm.

She tried for levity. "So there you have it. I am not as fierce as I appear to be."

*

Indeed. He turned away to look at the river as it rushed along the banks. He would not reiterate his exhortation to leave France. He'd done that too often. Now he had learned the power of leaving well enough alone.

She would decide as she would.

He could wait.