Closer To Sin (8 page)

Ah, that was nice
. The tub wasn’t particularly large but she welcomed the relief it gave as tension slowly seeped from her tired muscles. The scent of lavender drifted upward, immersing her senses in its luxuriant aroma and adding to the feeling of contentedness.

Through half shuttered eyes she noticed that condensation from the hot water had misted the windows, softening the lamp light filtering in from the inn’s courtyard. It cast a golden glow across the small room. The subtlety was a welcome distraction from the torn drapery and peeling wallpaper. The crackle of the fire in the hearth completed the illusion of opulence. The inn had probably been a thriving enterprise in a once busy market town.

Outside, the inn-wife could be heard reprimanding a barmaid whom she had just found consorting with one of the stablehands. Liliane grinned; it sounded like it wasn’t the first time Josette had received that particular lecture.

She sunk lower into the comforting heat and closed her eyes. Sin’s revelation today was astonishing. Despite the warmth of the bath, Liliane shivered. The circumstances of Sin’s mission were at odds with what Solange had told her to expect. Solange had made no mention of murdered British spies, but surely her cousin wouldn’t have deliberately deceived her? After all, Grandpère’s journal was real enough. So why, after all these years, had an old journal prompted Solange to summon her to France so urgently? Particularly as Papa had died ten years ago and a baronetcy that she had no intention of claiming had been sitting in abeyance ever since. Liliane groaned, unable to shift the conviction there was a connection between the journal and the missing British agents.

As for Sin, everything about him was totally unexpected. Surely there was a simple explanation as to how he came to be collaborating with the British? Perhaps he also came from a deposed aristocratic family. It would make sense, and certainly his manners were more refined than those of any fishermen or farmer.

But really, did he have to deprive her of logical thought every time he came close to her? Good Lord, all he had to do was put his hand out to steady her and her skin prickled. At the thought of Sin’s hands on her naked skin she slid her hands to her breasts and traced her fingers across the sensitive nipples. They budded tightly, sending frissons of sensation gliding through her. She dipped her hands lower and followed the outline of her ribcage until they reached the soft curve of her belly. Her breath hitched as her senses were imbued with the image of Sin’s hands taking the same path. The heat in her belly liquefied and she squeezed her legs together to appease the slow throbbing that was building. What would it feel like for Sin to touch her like this? Wicked. Enticingly wicked.

With a frustrated groan, she dropped her hands to the sides of the bath and submerged herself under the water. If her response to him today was any indication, he probably represented more of a threat to her than any potential assassin.

***

Sinclair filled two glasses with a measure of brandy and turned to the man standing by the fireplace. ‘Gaston,
mon amie
, you are looking well. And how is that beautiful wife of yours?’ he queried, urging Gaston to take a seat.

Much like the room where he’d left Liliane, the private salon had obviously seen better years. The floral brocade upholstery was threadbare and fraying and the occasional table that lay between the two chairs was stained and deeply gouged. Behind him the dining suite appeared to have fared little better. In its favour, the room was graced by a wide window that provided a vantage point across the U-shaped tavern’s rear courtyard, and the stables beyond. The courtyard was well lit by lanterns, giving it a welcoming glow. The inn keeper had mentioned that today had been a market day, which would account for the inordinate amount of activity this evening.

Sinclair studied his friend as Gaston toasted their good health. Only a few years older than Sinclair, creases gathered about Gaston’s eyes and his hair and moustache were sprinkled with a liberal application of grey. He had the look of a contented man. Over the years they had formed a strong bond of friendship and Sinclair knew he could rely on Gaston to watch his back when the need arose.

‘I’m to be a papa,’ the man grinned. ‘You’ll be our baby’s Godfather, yes? After all, if it hadn’t been for you—’

Gaston’s ability to transition from joy to tears never failed to surprise Sinclair. ‘Gaston, you sentimental fool, those days are behind us. It’s about time you gave Anais a babe to hold, she does an admirable job keeping you honest.’

‘Bah, what would you know about that, Sin? But your time will come, mark my words,’ Gaston warned.

Sinclair forced a smile. ‘Take heed, I’ve no intention of venturing down the path of holy matrimony ever again.’ He knew better than to be leg shackled to a wench who would demand constant attention but care not a whit for him. Unbidden, a tantalising image of sable hair and sapphire eyes flashed across his mind. He pushed the image aside. Liliane may not fall into that category, but no matter how much she piqued his interest, he was most definitely not proceeding down that road.

Gaston dismissed him with a flick of the hand. ‘Bah. You can’t keep hanging onto memories of the past and using them to shield you from the future. Not every woman is like Carolyn.’

‘You mean not every woman will hike up her skirts and spread her legs for my groom the minute my back is turned.’ Sinclair knocked back the rest of his brandy and poured a second shot. ‘Mind you, that prognosis is probably aided by the fact that he’s dead.’

‘Sin—’

‘All that summer, I felt justified being here, thinking Carolyn was safe under my parents’ care.’ Sinclair ran his hand through his hair in disgust. ‘Meanwhile, the latest on dit in London was how my wife and the head of my stables had died after their ship floundered in a storm off the Irish coast.’

‘Sin, it may not have made any difference whether you were home or not. They chose their fate and died as a consequence of those decisions.’

Sinclair leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. Dragging in a slow breath, he pictured Carolyn as he had last seen her, standing demurely between his parents and politely wishing him a safe journey. As if she cared. He stood abruptly and went to lean against the window sill. ‘You’re right, Gaston,’ he begrudgingly admitted. ‘Lord knows it wasn’t a love match, but she was mature enough to understand that her loyalty belonged to me. They would have both known that sailing for the Americas was wrong.’

‘And now my friend, providence will decide the direction of your life.’

Sinclair cast Gaston a wry look. ‘Providence will find me to be a worthy foe, you old reprobate.’

‘We shall see,’ Gaston chuckled. ‘But I have not come here to debate your unmarried status. What else is news with you my good friend? What brings you back to our fair shores?’

Sinclair related the events that led to his departure from England and the suspicion there was a spy within their midst.

Gaston leaned back in his chair and quietly stroked his moustache, a look of dismay etched upon his face. He raised his brandy and drank deeply from it while he considered what this all meant. ‘I had heard rumours, you know, but no one I spoke with seemed to know anything substantial. That, or no one was willing to speak out.’ Sinclair nodded to Gaston, urging him to continue. ‘But it is what else I’ve heard that concerns me. Until now, I had not connected the two events.’

‘And what may that be?’ Sinclair prompted.

‘On occasion, Anais and I, and others of our ilk, encounter obstacles in our path. You know, the usual thing that you’d expect to cross at some time or another in this business. They’re usually isolated incidents and I’ve never been overly concerned, but …’

‘But it has become more frequent?’

Gaston shook his head slowly. ‘Not specifically, but there are stories. We hear talk of the Jacobin movement being resurrected. No one anticipated the slaughter the Terror became, but the story goes that they’re happy to bide their time, to manipulate events and Napoleon himself. And their supporters,’ he grimaced, ‘are loyal. The thing is, no one really knows who those supporters are. Most of them were thought to have perished.’

Sinclair trawled the dregs of his memory as Gaston paused to take another sip of his brandy. ‘I recall some years ago having heard something similar, but for the most part, I’ve always passed it off as one of those myths that rise from the ashes of hate and resentment.’

‘Yet this story is persistent. Perhaps Gareth was murdered because he had discovered something to do with this.’

It was a tempting theory, but surely implausible. And he wasn’t ready to give Gareth up as dead yet. Sinking back into the chair, Sinclair took refuge behind his brandy and contemplated this new information. Some vital piece of evidence was still missing. ‘I feel that for some reason the answer lies further south in Boulogne. Perhaps I need to pay a visit to some of your contacts. See if I can pull a few of the facts together. I—’ A sound outside the window drew his attention.

He turned and pulled aside the curtains and paused at the sight of men spewing out of the tap room’s doorway into the lamplit courtyard. Fists flew in all directions, accompanied by loud yelling and grunts of pain. As the brawl intensified Sinclair propelled himself towards the door, driven by the surge of alarm disseminating throughout his body.
Liliane
.

***

Liliane arose from the cooling water and moved to the fireside to dry herself. It would be nice to dress for dinner, but with only one travelling valise, that essentially meant the difference between wearing the grey woollen dress or the sapphire blue.

With a shrug of her shoulders, she shook out the grey dress Solange had lent her. It was understated in both colour and design, unlike anything Liliane was accustomed to wearing. There was no adornment on either the skirt or the bodice and the simplicity suggested that the women who typically wore this style of garment did not have the benefit of a ladies’ maid. Warm, practical and inconspicuous. She looked in the mirror and grimaced. The bodice was perhaps a little tight, but it would have to do. Piling her hair into a simple knot at the top of her head, she reached for her blue shawl and wrapped it over her dress.

Halfway to the door, Liliane paused and turned back towards her valise. She retrieved the small pistol Sin had given her earlier in the day, and regarded it slowly. This one was slightly different from the one she’d practiced with. It was adorned with intricate engraving on the ivory grips and along the metal barrel. Turning it over and testing its weight, she considered whether she should take it with her. Surely there was no point. After all, what harm could befall her in a simple country inn? Just imagine the reaction in the dining room if the pistol was to accidentally discharge.

Reaching back into her valise, Liliane withdrew the knife Solange had packed. She removed it from the leather sheath and dragged her thumb lightly across the blade to test its sharpness. She was never likely to have to use it, but it gave her a measure of confidence. Returning it to the sheath she slipped it into the pocket of her gown and adjusted the garment to compensate for the additional weight.

Downstairs, similar to the inn in Solange’s village, the tap room was filled with local farmers and merchants. Apparently today had been a market day. Judging by the tone of the conversation, though, it had not been a particularly prosperous one. A general air of disgruntlement sat heavy in the room and speculation was rife as to when Napoleon intended to invade England. She listened carefully. While it was apparent everyone was in support of Napoleon’s crusade, not everyone was happy that a large portion of their produce had been requisitioned to feed the armies amassed along the coast.

Liliane paused and glanced around uncertainly. She would need to walk through the inn’s patrons in order to access the dining room on the other side of the courtyard. The dirt floor was slightly wet underfoot and the smell of the closely packed bodies was stifling. Unaccustomed to such surrounds, she pulled her shawl tighter and proceeded across the room, keeping her eyes averted for fear of attracting attention to herself. A sudden shout from the bar was followed by a number of raised voices. A patron accused another of spilling his drink, shoving him backwards to emphasise his point. The anticipation of a fight instantly had the other men clamouring to see what was happening.

Liliane’s heart rate accelerated as an elbow sailed past her face. Instinctively she ducked. Gracious, that would have left her with a black eye had it connected. From behind a heavy blow landed on her ribs. She staggered back, flailing momentarily, before her bottom landed heavily on the dirt floor and her breath raced from her lungs.
Oh God
. She lunged to the side, narrowly missing a foot being planted on her face. Her eyes stung from the pain in her backside. She really needed to get out of here, and fast. She flipped onto her hands and knees and looked about for an opening in the crowd. She spied her opportunity and leaped to her feet, only to be knocked backwards yet again. Instead of colliding with the floor, she was brutally hauled up against a large chest, its owner locking his arms about her midriff.

Oh good Lord
. The smell emanating from him suggested he’d been tending swine all day. Acid rose in her throat as she tried to step away, only to be drawn tighter into his hold. Daring to look back over her shoulder she was confronted with a rough and unshaven face. And a nose that had obviously been broken on more than one occasion. She cringed away from him as his hands moved up from her waist to roughly grip her breasts. He squeezed and pinched, sending torrents of pain shooting through her.

How dare the bastard!
She twisted her head around and sunk her teeth deep into his arm. And bit, hard. His howl of fury set her ears ringing. Rather than release her though, he transferred his hold to her hair and violently dragged her away from his arm before flinging her back against the wall.

The bone jarring impact against the rough stone drove the breath from her lungs and deprived her of that short instance where she could have run for safety. In less than a second her assailant was upon her, pinning her to the wall with one hand around her throat and a knee pushed viciously between her legs.