Chapter Four

R am had no trouble falling asleep. He'd done his duty to find the elusive Amber St. Antoine.

But he awoke in the dead of night. The warmth of her in his bed within reach startled him. She was a new phenomenon. He'd not had a woman next to him in a very long time. Never for hours in his bed, certainly. He did not sleep with women he hired. Few as they were. Fewer as they had become over the past few years.

Odd, definitely, for him to say to himself that he did not care to take a female to his bed. He liked women. He had always liked them. His mother was a sweet soul, feline as a barn cat. Particular in her tastes in friends, fashion, furniture, and cuisine, she was also pushy in her desire to see him wed, especially lately. But at twenty-eight, he was getting older, wasn't he?

However, he had found no one. No one. Odd that, for a man who had always had his choice of the ton , young, old, widowed, bluestockinged.

Silently, he chuckled. Was that even a word?

No matter. Definitely a concept.

But the challenge was complex. He found debutantes a bore. Older women—either blue of stocking or not—pedantic, opinionated. A few widows he'd enjoyed in bed and out were also set on sampling his friends (which did not thrill him), and never marrying anyone ever again (which did not say much for men). Some women were well read and intelligent. (That was excellent, as one did not wish to be bored for forty years.) Others were gorgeous. (And were far too proud of it to add any other assets to their character.) But Ram was far from the age when looks alone drew him. Certainly money never had. And he needed no one to run his household. His mother did that well enough. And their estate manager and solicitor were excellent retainers. Ram had no need to marry to keep the servants in line or the house in order.

Blowing out a frustrated sigh, he removed his blankets and rose. Grabbing his quilted banyan, he cast a glance at his bedmate.

She thrashed like a carefree child who took all the bed.

He bit back a chuckle. She was not used to sleeping with anyone…or if she had slept like that with St. Antoine, it was no wonder the poor fellow died suddenly.

That was unfair. From what his friend Whit, Lord Ashley, had told Ram, Maurice St. Antoine was a very fit fellow. That he died suddenly was what often happened to men over fifty.

His heart gave out, most likely.

Ram shook his head, the errant thought that the man had died after exerting himself loving his second wife bringing a laugh to his lips. But that was also unfair to Maurice.

Because the lady who slept like a two-year-old in his bed could inspire a host of angels to want her. Take her. Day and night.

Even me.

And that is foolish.

He padded to the small window that overlooked the rough country lane running along the back of the inn. Rolling fields stretched out beyond that. Stars twinkled in the deep black of night. The moon was somewhere out of his view.

At the edge of the copse, deer sat in shadow upon the earth in a protective circle. Even dumb animals knew how important it was to form a phalanx against those who would assault them.

That was now his job for this woman. To form a barrier, provide direction and comfort. Her fear had sent her rushing from court, Paris, friends, and her role as an agent of espionage.

How drastic her panic must be.

"Do you worry?" the sleepy voice behind him asked.

She ventured so close to him, he felt her body heat, sweet from their bed. He smiled to himself as he inhaled her fragrance, soap and lemon from the bath she'd requested before she climbed into their bed. "No. I have no reason to. I hope you don't."

"I wish I knew why I don't," she admitted with laughter in her tone.

"You trust me," he concluded, and faced her, the sight of her drowsy, sensuous—and totally at ease in the drape of the thin white gown he'd given her.

"That must be the reason." She tipped her head to one side. "I was good at what I did because I had a sense of others. Their veracity. Their desires. I feel the same with you."

"I'm honored."

"Don't be. My acceptance is not one I confer, but one I see." Her gaze traveled over his banyan and his knee-length white shirt beneath. He'd worn only the shirt to bed. Why not? She knew what accoutrements a male possessed—and he had promised not to use any of them with her. "Come back to bed, Ram, and tell me about yourself. We'll be warm, and you can lure me to sleep with that bass voice."

She beamed at him and turned on her heel for the bed. She climbed in, plumped up a few pillows behind her, pulled up covers to her collarbone, and sat back against the tall oaken frame.

He followed.

"What would you like to know?" he asked when he was settled.

"Why you are really here. Aside from the need to help Scarlett Hawthorne in London and others here in France. One who does this kind of work is no ordinary man."

"I beg to differ."

"Why?" she challenged him with a toss of her bouncy red curls. God in His wisdom had granted her looks as vibrant as her person.

He cast his eyes away. He'd watched her much too long. She must not think him attracted to her. Yet he could spend hours eating up her color, her drama, her valor.

She arched two long, elegant red brows. "What?"

*

"You have the means to become a leader of society. A woman of substance. Yet you have chosen to become a woman of danger. Why?"

"This discussion was to be about you." She was not irritated, but amused. "I don't like agendas being turned."

"I am not attempting to hurt you," he told her as he plopped a pillow over his lap.

"If that pillow is there for the reason I think it is," she said as she slid him a knowing look, "then I am glad you are not turning the agenda even more."

He cocked a brow. "I find this position comfortable, madame."

"Very well." She applauded him even though he fibbed, then clasped her fingers together atop the covers. "Me? I am easy to understand. I grew up with my Aunt Cecily in Paris. We were condemned to Carmes Prison because my aunt was the mistress of the old Duc d'Orleans who became so liberal. Guilt by association tarnished us. In Carmes, my aunt became Josephine Beauharnais's friend. There, guilt by association saved us. So those who wished for my aunt's favor in Carmes merged with those who found Madame Beauharnais lovely and talented."

"And skilled at attracting powerful men," he added.

"My aunt once was good at that. No longer does she seek that. But Madame Bonaparte is definitely skilled at being passed around from one man to another—or was." She said it all with disgust she could not hide.

"But your aunt lives off her past reputation in court."

Amber was pleased he knew that. Her aunt was very different from Josephine. She would explain it as best she could.

"My Aunt Cecily has long since stopped trying to charm important men. Perhaps if I had recognized that she truly loved the old Duc d'Orleans when I was young, I might have a different opinion of how women gain influence in a society where they have little to begin with." She sighed and toyed with the cotton fabric of the coverlet. "But I have seen how Madame Bonaparte gained influence with Paul Barras after he helped to overthrow Robespierre. She is beautiful and intelligent."

He arched both brows. "Wily."

Amber nodded. "So was Barras. After supporting her for a while, he needed someone to take over Josephine and assume her mounting debts."

"Bonaparte fell for it."

"For her," she said. "Sleeping with a man has its benefits."

"Just as your sleeping with me does," he joked.

She grinned at him and his attempt to lighten the mood. "Exactly. Like talking at four in the morning, eh?"

"A way to welcome sleep."

"Or dredge up old secrets."

His handsome visage went dark and tight. "What is yours, Amber? Why do this dangerous work?"

That touched a nerve. "Ah, you mean the dangerous work I no longer do because one man has frightened me so badly I fled like a coward?"

He reached for her hands. "Stop this self-criticism. Because you have left Paris does not mean you can no longer work."

"No?" She snatched back her hands. Warm and strong though Ram was, he was very wrong. "Kind of you to say and help me keep my self-delusion, but the reality is I have left. Abandoned my role. My mission. Few know, I do hope, where I've been or where I've gone. Heaven knows how you found me. How did you do that, anyway?"

"Whispers. Rumors. Society was full of conjecture why you had gone. Many spoke of where. It was one of my jobs to keep track, to learn why this town or that one. I followed all the possible stories. Coming to Varennes made sense."

"Why?" she demanded of him.

He gave a shrug of his shoulder. "Far away from Paris. Not your home in Reims. Not your aunt's home in Compiègne."

"Who mentioned Varennes?" She had to know. If it was Vaillancourt who spoke of this, she was a dead woman, if not tonight, then tomorrow.

He knitted his dark brown brows together. Shook his head. Looked away. "Madame Fouquet? Marie de Soissons?"

"Never them." Amber cursed the names of the two females who led Paris salons, even as she scoured her memory for others. She had never shared with them that she knew anyone in Varennes. Had Maurice ever talked about his former winemaker? That he had retired? Moved from Reims? To Varennes?

She squeezed shut her eyes. Nothing came to her. What did it matter who had said what? If such words had sent Ram here to Varennes, then it was more than probable that Vaillancourt had sent some one of his men here to look for her.

The chill that ran through her shook her. "We have to leave in the morning."

He tucked the blankets up to her shoulders. "We will."

"I have to say goodbye to my friends before we leave."

"We should not linger—"

"But I came to wish them well." She glanced up at him and caught his scowl. He did not know all her actions here. "To go is not smart, but I must."

He sighed and shook his head. "Where were you all this time since you left Paris in mid-March?"

"Compiègne," she said, giving him a few crumbs of truth and feigning resignation.

Beneath his breath, he cursed. "For all those who beat a path to Compiègne to find you, you tested their abilities. They failed to find you. How?"

She swallowed loudly and licked her lips. "I lived beneath the city."

" What? " he said, his blue eyes wide.

"Aunt Cecily's house lies between the palace and a church. Her home was once a convent, and during the religious wars, the nuns took refuge beneath the buildings. I lived there for many weeks."

"I have heard of people living there, but never considered it possible for any length of time."

"I stayed as long as I could, but I became so cold." She shivered and drew the blankets higher to her chin. "I…I could not bear the dark either, and I had to leave. I had to see someone's smiling face. And…and besides needing the sun on my face, I knew I needed clothes, a bath, money. I had to get out. You see that, don't you?"

His look of astonishment drifted to one of compassion. "We were not meant to live beneath the earth, but on it, with the sun and wind and rain and snow on our skin."

"That's when I left. I took money from Aunt Cecily's safe. It was not much, but it got me to Reims. There, I knew I had hidden so much more, and I needed it. I awakened the servants one night, did what I had to, and left. I hoped to God I left no traces for Vaillancourt to seize my two maids and my old butler and haul them off to prison." She cast a glance at Ram. "Tell me they are well. Untouched."

"Frankly, I do not know. I did not come through Reims."

She pouted at that news. "My servants are wonderful people. And here, too, the Verne family deserve only the best. Maurice benefited a thousand times over from Monsieur Verne's expertise with the vines and the blends. The family fed and housed me here."

"Their barn?" Ram chuckled, but was aghast.

"Of course."

"Hideous." He grinned, then frowned.

"Don't wrinkle that marvelous brow of yours, sir. I did what I had to."

He shook his head in exasperation. "You will not be the end of me."

"Drat!" She had to tease him. "Why not?"

"Be good! Now go to sleep. We have much to do. You need your rest."

She believed him.

This man would not lie to her. Would not make her do anything she refused. She looked into his cool blue eyes and saw there an honesty she had not glimpsed in many others. Not in any virile men. Not in anyone whom she should question with every breath she took.

Yet she believed him.

He sent her a solicitous smile. It did not reach his eyes. But she understood him.

He was hers to have, to command. He was here to protect her, and if he could not protect her from herself, he would do all in his power to make her see an alternative he favored.

So much was his own dedication.

So strong was her dedication to her own work.

She turned away from him and urged herself to sleep. But her mind churned with questions she would soon have to answer.

How long can I stay away from Paris? How long can I deny I yearn for my work? Even at risk of Vaillancourt and death?