His Forbidden Liaison. Joanna MaitlandЧитать онлайн книгу.
to listen for a moment outside Ben’s door. He could hear no sound at all. Good. With luck, Ben had not regained his senses, or spoken. As soon as Jack was presentable again, he could go in to ask after Herr Benn’s health and to probe, as subtly as he could, for where the silk weaver’s true sympathies lay.
The fire in his chamber had not been lit and, without a change of clothes, all Jack could do was to towel his hair and rub his exposed skin until it glowed. The shirt was thin. It would soon dry from the heat of his body.
His quiet knock on Ben’s door was followed by what sounded like a gasp. As if she were shocked to be disturbed? As if she were hiding something?
Jack had no way of knowing, and he could not enter the bedchamber without her permission. She was a lady, and he must continue to treat her as a lady, unless she gave him cause to do otherwise. Somehow, he did not think that would happen. She was not a lady in the usual sense of the word, of course, for she was a mere artisan, a silk weaver, but her speech and manners were impeccable. Many women in London called themselves ladies, but could not hold a candle to Marguerite Grolier. She was altogether remarkable. If only she were not also a Bonapartist…
‘Mr Jacques! My goodness, how wet you look. Come in and warm yourself. There is a good fire here.’ Marguerite stood back to allow him to enter. Since he had abandoned her for hours without so much as a by-your-leave, she had every right to be furious with him, but how could she rage at such a woebegone figure? He must have been totally drenched by the storm. His boots were dripping muddy water as he crossed the floor. His hairy wet, too, and tousled like a boy’s. He had stripped off everything but shirt, breeches and boots, and his shirt was so damp that she could see his skin through it. He might as well have been wrapped in nothing but a bed sheet again! Marguerite tried to put that thought out of her mind. She told herself sternly not to look at his torso. It was just one more male body, like Herr Benn’s. A lady should be able to ignore it.
Mr Jacques bent to the fire, spreading his fingers to the warmth. ‘I am very much in your debt, ma’am, for tending to Herr Benn in my absence. I…I feel I have taken advantage of your good nature.’
A little gratitude at last. Marguerite automatically responded in kind. ‘After what you did for me, sir, it was the least I could do.’
He straightened and turned to face her. It was only then that she smelled the alcohol on his breath. She tensed. Clearly, he had not been searching very hard for replacement cravats. He had been making the rounds of Rognac’s bars. That was disgusting behaviour from a so-called gentleman. If she were not a lady, she would tell him so. Instead, she lifted her chin and drew back her skirts so they were no longer touching his contaminated boots.
He did not appear to notice. ‘How is he now? Has he come to himself at all during my absence?’ There was a hint of anxiety in his voice. Or was it shame over his own appalling behaviour?
Marguerite resolved to keep her anger under control. It was beneath her to lose her temper with such a man. ‘He was hot and restless an hour or so ago, but he is improving now. He is still insensible, but he may come round soon.’
He crossed to the bed and stood gazing down at the invalid, who looked very peaceful now, his breathing slow, but not in any way laboured. ‘He looks as if he is healing well, ma’am. And when he wakes, he will thank you for your care, I am sure. Unless, perhaps, you plan to continue towards Lyons today?’
He must know she did not. He must have heard when Guillaume made the arrangements for them to stay. She frowned at him, but said only, ‘Travelling in such weather would be madness.’ She nodded towards the window. The storm was still raging.
He ran his fingers through his unkempt hair and attempted a roguish smile.Yet again, he looked absurdly young.
‘Carriage accidents happen all too easily, especially in conditions like these, when—’ She stopped herself just in time. She was gabbling uncontrollably. She had been about to refer to her mother’s accident, and its terrible consequences. It must be the fault of that clinging shirt. It had melted her common sense.
Shocked at her own weakness, she took refuge in attack. ‘I take it you managed to acquire the linen you were seeking? Did the haberdasher keep you waiting while some of it was stitched for you?’
He had the grace to blush a little. ‘I…er…I spent far too much time enquiring for a haberdasher’s. Some of the locals sent me off on a wild goose chase, I fear, for there is no such establishment in Rognac. No doubt it amused them to roast a stranger so. I was gullible and got thoroughly soaked as a result. If you choose to call me a fool, ma’am, I will readily accept it.’
What a ridiculous story! She hurried across to the fire, holding out her hands to it as if she were cold. ‘It would be the height of impoliteness for me to say any such thing, sir,’ she said, addressing the blackened fire surround. ‘I have no basis for making any judgement about you.’ Oh, that was a lie. For all his faults, she knew he was a gentleman, and brave, with a body fit to grace a statue. Just as she knew that she must not trust him with Herr Benn’s secret.
‘You are very generous, ma’am. I can but apologise for having left you alone for so long,’he said gently.And then he was silent. Waiting.
His frank apology disarmed her. She gripped her hands together, feeling the tension in her neck and shoulders and arms. This man was such an extraordinary mixture of boyish charm and mature decision. He seemed to revert from man to boy in the blink of an eye. It was thoroughly disconcerting. But undeniably attractive. She did not know how to deal with it.
The noise that broke the silence was not made by Mr Jacques. It was a very definite groan, followed by a mumble that could have been words.
Marguerite raced back to the bed. Her mind was flooded with dire warnings. She must find a way of getting Mr Jacques away from here. Before he heard words he must not hear!
She almost pushed Mr Jacques out of the way in her haste to protect the invalid. She stretched across the bed, putting her own body between Herr Benn and his so-called friend in hopes of muffling any words Benn might utter. She bent low to his head, laid her hand on his cheek and then, keeping her back to Mr Jacques, she slid her fingers down until they covered Herr Benn’s mouth. ‘Oh, I think he may come round soon. Is that not wonderful?’ she gushed. ‘Pray, sir, be so good as to ask the landlord if the kitchen can prepare some barley water. Herr Benn will be so very thirsty when he wakes.’
Behind her, Mr Jacques neither spoke nor moved.
Marguerite bit her lip. He was making this very difficult, but she would not allow him to win. She smiled sweetly up at him over her shoulder. ‘If you please, sir. I do not think I should leave Herr Benn at the moment. And the barley water would be so very good for him. Why my old nurse swears by it. She—’
He grimaced with the sort of pain she had often seen on her late father’s face when confronted with gabbling women. ‘Very well, ma’am. If you insist.’
Marguerite fancied that his good manners had won out over his real intentions. She held her breath, listening for the squelch of his boots across the floor and the sound of the door closing. At the click of the latch, she raised her body and removed her hand from Herr Benn’s mouth. He was trying to shake his head, as if to free himself. He was going to come to his senses very soon.
With a muttered but heartfelt apology, Marguerite whipped the bottle of laudanum from her pocket and deftly forced the invalid to take another dose. ‘It is done to save you,’ she whispered as she hastened to hide all traces of what she had done. ‘When you are well again, I will truly beg your pardon, I promise.’
Herr Benn was already slipping deeper into oblivion.
‘I have done as you asked, ma’am.’
Shocked, Marguerite whirled round, her hand to her throat. She knew she must be blushing. ‘Sir. You took me by surprise. You did not knock.’ She was trying to suggest he had committed an outrage, but her ploy was not succeeding. He was not at all abashed. He looked large and powerful, framed in the dark wood of the open door. He was all mature, dangerous male.