Chapter Nineteen

"N ot here."

"Why not?" Impatient, he raised a hand. "We're alone."

She lifted her chin. The defiance poked at his awareness of the way her cloak fell half open and how the moonlight gleamed on the perfection of her décolletage. She clutched her fingers together. She could not hide a bad case of nerves.

He gave in.

Silent, he counted the minutes as they traveled across the city to her house. She glanced up and down the street as their carriage slowed. The road appeared empty. Somewhere a cat howled. A few houses away, another carriage jangled to a stop. From inside, voices rang out as a man and woman argued loudly.

Ram felt in his greatcoat pocket for his pistol. He was wary of them. Of anyone. Across from him sat his darling, and while she was in his presence, she was his to protect. He wouldn't put it beyond Vaillancourt to watch her house—or to plant a ruse such as a couple arguing. The deputy chief of police had a fascination for Amber that bordered on the obsessive. How and why she had been able to avoid becoming his mistress was a subject Ram wished to ask her about, but never would. She did as she wished. He was now only her friend. Her friend who loved her still.

A footman emerged from her foyer and jogged to the street to pull open their door. Ram left first as he surveyed the street. Beyond them, the carriage that had stopped swayed with what appeared to be a tussle. No sound came forth. Did they pose, feigning a battle so they could report to Vaillancourt that the lovely Madame St. Antoine welcomed a man to her home tonight? Alone?

Let them. He defied them and spun to offer his hand to her. "Come, madame, the night is cold."

She grasped his fingers and swept past him to lead the way inside.

Nodding to her friendly majordom , Ram gave over his coat, hat, and gloves and followed her to her small private salon on the second floor.

"Brandy?" she asked him as he prowled toward the window that faced her back garden.

"No." He faced her in a slow and careful manner and watched her pour a generous draught for herself. "Why not just tell this news to Kane or Gus?"

She took a long drink, studying him. Looking sad and rather chilled, she shook back long tendrils escaping from her coiffure—and turned valiant. "I have many reasons. The first is that I wanted you to know first. I want to prove to you that what I did… The reason I left you was not without good cause."

"You owe me nothing."

She bit her lower lip.

Hell. You are an ungracious bastard. She's trying to be helpful. He ground his teeth. "You don't, Amber."

"I have news about the muskets."

What had he hoped she'd say? I love you ? I want you ? I wish to leave this life ? He suppressed his sorrow and waited.

She smiled at him, triumph in her large brown eyes. "New shipments of muskets are being sent to Strasbourg."

That was news. "Shall I ask how you learned this?"

She shook her head once.

No, then. Very well. "You believe the source?"

"Of course."

A document? And you won't tell me what it is. Wise. But the danger she had put herself in to acquire such information spiked his fear for her…and his anger at himself that he had no means to protect her.

She sauntered toward him, he unmoving as he stood before her roaring fire, burning up with the need to put his hands on her and kiss her into tomorrow. Her glass dangling in her hand, she stood so close he could smell her cologne. Peonies and spring grass? God, she drove him mad.

She sipped her brandy, her gaze a smoldering invitation to drink her in and never let her go. She waved her glass, careless, perhaps even a little spiteful, as she said, "In addition, new muskets manufactured at St. Etienne in the south may go to Strasbourg."

He did not even breathe. That city stood on the Rhine, across the river from the territory of Baden. That nobleman, now a duke, had been cozying up to Bonaparte since last spring. He was not alone. A few other German potentates did too. Many German princes had lost homes and land to those who attempted to align with the hungry French first consul and gain more land from other, less agreeable German princes.

Last month, Vienna had agreed to let certain imperial cities and small principalities leave the Holy Roman Empire. Whit had often heard of this possibility from his cousin and colleague, Dirk Fournier, who had gone to there in late May. Dirk believed Bonaparte wanted alliances with the south German nobles so he could march across the territories freely.

"This is vital to us," Ram said.

"To us all." She took another sip.

"Have you any idea when they are being sent?"

She held his gaze, sure and steady. "No. But I will."

Ram frowned. To be certain of that, she had to count on her source. Its reliability and her ability to learn more about it. All of it was dangerous to discover. Dangerous to transfer the information, too. For that, she could be taken to la Force and shot for treason. His heart turned over. What in hell was she doing sacrificing her life for such news?

Ah. But he knew the answer to that. Now she was not only protecting her friends from the likes of Vaillancourt, but also transferring information about military supplies.

And he could not dissuade her. He'd never been able to. Instead, he tried to make her add relevance to current news. "Bonaparte and the British ambassador are not getting on well."

"Too many issues remain unsettled." She watched him, her dark eyes pleading for something softer, kinder. "They fight over who owns Malta. Bonaparte wants to sell land to the Americans."

Ram knew about both. "What worries me is not who occupies an island in the Mediterranean, but what Bonaparte will do with all that money from the sale of Louisiana."

"Fifteen million American dollars." She stepped up next to him with her brandy in hand—and held it out to him. "He will finance war. But I've learned more, and I need you. I need you for…for everything, Ram."

The warmth of her, her fragrance and her nearness, undid him. He took the glass from her and put it on the mantel. Anger died. Desire undid him. He reached for her…and she came like a river to the sea. Like his one and only love.

His lips in her silken hair, his hands to the satin skin of her spine, he inhaled her.

His arms had been empty for too long, his mind a red rage that he had emptied and filled now with her essence, her strength, her dedication.

She kissed his jaw, blessed the hollow behind his ear, and put her lips to his cheek.

Lured, he turned and found her mouth. This was what he'd craved—her soft surrender, her vibrant demand of his lips, his tongue.

She broke away with a start. Her dark eyes wide with want, she grabbed his hand and led him to the door, to the hall, the stairs, and up, up, up to her rooms, and privacy.

He went like a man in a trance. She needed him, and he was hers to have.

In her sitting room, she spun and closed the door.

Inside her bedroom, he turned and locked the door.

She led him on. Her fingers were busy on his cravat, his frock coat, pulling his shirt from his breeches.

He spun her around, his fingers nimble, her gown gone, all else whisked from her and thrown to the floor.

He walked her backward to the bed, where she promptly sat and admired him as he dispensed with his breeches.

She reached out to cup him with one hand and stroke his length with the other.

He sucked in air and told his conscience to go hide. Her mouth was on him. Her body, his wine. Her pleasure, his only heaven.

For tonight, she was his.

*

The feel of him, the smell, the sounds of pleasure that stirred in his throat blended together and poured into her soul. For months, she had more than missed him. She had pined for his care, his affections, and his love.

He did love her. He didn't have to tell her. She'd known for months.

Perhaps from the very start.

His reverence as he kissed the hollow of her throat and that between her breasts spoke of his sorrows. His ardor as he blessed her nipples with sweet kisses told of his passion for her. But as he wended his way down her ribs to her hips, then urged her to open wide, his tenderness expressed his sole desire to make this moment the expression of all that she was to him—and all they would never realize beyond this night.

The torment of that knowledge had her sinking her fingers into his long hair and winding her arms down around his shoulders to hold him close.

Even that was not enough of him.

His mouth on her, she writhed in the ecstasy to be possessed by him once more. He rose, hovered above her, and kissed her. The taste of herself on his lips had her lifting her legs and twining them around him.

He sank into her, and a sob left her throat. This love would be the last she'd know from him. This would be her memory to carry her onward.

He slid more deeply inside her and held. With one hand he brushed her long hair from her cheeks to fan upon the pillows. As if he painted a portrait of her, he paused and smiled with a benevolence that defied the reality that they were parting. This was the last time he would make love to her.

She broke into sobs, gasping for breath.

He brushed her tears from her cheeks with flicks of his fingers. "Don't," he whispered—and began the rhythm that would make her his.

She arched, taking him, wanting more.

He gave it with a quickening cadence that told the story of their love upon her body in fierce, pounding thrusts.

She came in a rush, her cry as loud as his.

Then they were silent, still, replete.

And there was no more.

No more of him for her to have ever again.

*

They were done. Too fast. Too well. Too finally.

Ram eased himself up on his elbows and spread tiny kisses over her eyes and cheeks and chin. She regarded him with sweetness dwelling in her heart. This was all he had ever wanted in a woman.

He had known it soon after they met.

He angled away and took her to him. Memory had to serve him for years to come, and so he traced his fingers over her brows and the elegant contours of her pretty face. With his open palm, he caressed her throat and her torso, the rise of her hip and the sleek line of her thigh. With the encouragement of a smile from her, he lifted her leg at the knee and hooked it over his hip. He tickled the bottom of her foot and made her squirm. He loved her.

And he had to leave her.

*

Amber sat up and watched him dress. He took his time, a tribute, she took, to her. He did not want to go.

She tried to smile at him as he strode toward her and caught her around her shoulders, brought her up to him, and kissed her like a pagan.

She swallowed an objection as he made for the door.

"I will have more news soon of those shipments." Not exactly true. But she had to see him as she perused these next leads. The lists. Her friends and his who might die. She would tell him her memorized lists.

His strength always infused her with the vigor to go on.

Concern darkened his brow. He narrowed his eyes on her. She could see that what she did to get more information was not anything he wished to know. It would drive him to distraction.

"Meet me." She sat up. Naked in the faint rays of moon from the far windows, she held him in place. What she proposed could be her nightmare and his.

"When?"

She swallowed hard. "Once a week will be sufficient."

He winced, but he did not thwart her. "Where?"

"The cemetery of St. Pierre in Montmartre."

"At the butte of Montmartre? The church?"

"Yes."

"I know of it."

"It is secluded. The trees, the shrubs. Come at noon. Wait for me."

"How will you cover your actions?"

"I will. Never fear."

He nodded.

He did not need to tell her to be careful. She was an expert. He did not need to warn her not to meet him if she feared discovery. Nor did he need to tell her that none of this was worth losing her life over. She knew it all so well.

But that she would see him, meet him each week, meant he had more of her than he had had in the past miserable months.

A spark of hope lit, that he might yet wrest her from this life she'd created for herself.

He told himself he was a fool to allow the spark to turn to flame. Yet it did.

But he let it burn. He loved her, and there was nothing— nothing —he would not do for her as long as he had breath. Indeed, she was more than he'd ever asked for in a woman. More independent, more stubborn, more dedicated. More honorable. He would adore her and no other until the moment of his death.

She took a step toward him. "Ashley, Gus, and you are on a list of Vaillancourt's. Also two friends of mine." She listed them. "Tell Ashley. Be careful."

This was what she'd worked for. This was what she could die for.

He could not touch her again or he'd carry her out of here, no matter what she said or did.

She moved to embrace him.

He raised a palm to ward her off.

"I am yours," she said as if she read his mind and knew he'd run away with her if he could. "Not as other women were or will ever be. But I belong to you, Ram. You saved me. Helped me. Never deserted me. I am here doing my work because of you. For that, but more because you loved me, I am yours."

Her admission stunned him. Her understanding that he loved her had him reeling. Whatever it was that inspired her to say the words was the prize he would take with him.

He whirled away for the door. He could bear no more.

"Ram?" she called to him, and in her voice, he heard tones he had never before perceived whenever she called his name. Curiosity burned away his plan to leave her without a second glance.

She held a sheet to her naked body, the linen falling from her clutch of the fabric to her breastbone. Moonlight gilded her gracious curves. Her gaze grew torrid, sweet, then sad. "I love you, Godfrey DuClare. Remember always that I love you."

As comfort, her declaration filled him for a wild minute in obscene ecstasy.

As a benediction, it tasted bitter in his mouth. It should have made him wish for death.

But on second thought, he saw her plan for what it was. A way to end Vaillancourt's vainglorious career…if, for Amber's efforts, the heathen did not kill her first.