1939912059 (R) (6 page)

He smugly adjusted his linen shirt. “I do it all the time. Whatever I want, I get. No matter what it is. The universe is quite used to it. You should get used to it, too.” His wry tone indicated he was attempting humor.

She tossed his coat back at him, grabbing up the basket. “It must be nice being able to control the universe.”

Gérard effortlessly snatched hold of his coat in midair and stared. “I am not in control of it yet. But I damn well hope to be.”

She rolled her eyes. “Let me know when you are.”

He still stared. “Are you really a virgin? Or are you pretending to be?”

The prickling of heat overtook her cheeks. She
never
blushed around men. After all, she was the one in control of how they behaved around her. It was an art she had perfected since she had grown into her breasts. “You are being downright crude. I refuse to answer that.”

He pointed. “So you
are
a virgin.”

She glared. “What are you? The virgin magistrate?”

“Pardon me for saying it, but I am a touch confused as to how worldly you appear to be for a virgin.” He eyed her basket, as if attempting to assess its contents. “You certainly travel lightly.” He lingered on the apples crowding it. “But well.”

Averting his gaze, he shrugged on his coat.

That was certainly him asking for an apple. She paused. There were two leather satchels attached to his saddle. One appeared to be stuffed with stacks of parchment that peered out beneath a tightly fastened flap. The other was well-packed with clothing and several frayed wool blankets that had traces of hay as if he had been sleeping in the fields.

He wasn’t hiding his wealth. He had
no
wealth.

Which would explain why he still hadn’t paid her.

She sighed. Plucking up an apple out of her basket, she held it out. “Here. Go on.”

His gaze veered to the apple. “Pardon?”

She closed the distance between them and held it out. “You practically invited yourself into eating it. Take it. They are a bit tart, but still surprisingly good.”

He widened his stance. “I thank you, dearest, but no. Those are yours.”

“Oh, cease with your high and mighty business already. I can see the hay clinging to your blanket. You were sleeping in a field just like me. Which means you are not as well-heeled as you tout yourself to be and are probably hungry. Here. The apples were free and came out of the orchard I was passing through earlier. You would hardly be imposing. Go on.”

He hesitated but still did not take it.

She sighed. Wedging herself closer, she was about to shove it into his hand, but noted his gloves were crusted with dry mud.

So she did the one thing she could. The one thing she always did for her brothers. She brought out her paring knife and balancing the basket on the crook of her elbow, sliced off a piece of the fruit. Tucking the small knife away, she leaned in and daintily reaching up, set it against his lips, wiggling it. “Eat,
Gérard
. Consider it payment for my ride into Paris.”

He met her gaze for a long moment, his broad chest visibly rising and falling. “Thank you.” Bending his dark head, he opened his full lips and ever so slowly dragged the sliced apple into his mouth. He leaned in more to take the whole thing into his mouth.

His teeth and hot tongue grazed the tips of her fingers.

Her pulse roared as her skin tingled from the unexpected contact. She jerked her hand away. Taking several steps back, she swiped her wet fingers against her skirt, trying to rid herself of the tingling she
still
felt. “You almost ate my finger.”

The muscles in his jaw showcased each methodical chew as he continued to heatedly hold her gaze. “It was in the way.” His blue eyes now held a spark of some indefinable emotion. One full of so many secrets he wasn’t telling.

Swallowing, he said in a low, husky tone, “Bring the apple back over. I would like more.”

He wasn’t looking to eat apples anymore. She tried to remain calm and held out the apple, keeping her distance. “Here. Take the whole thing.”

“I would but my gloves are a bit dirty.” He held them up.

It appeared the bite of an apple had turned this one into a full-fledged rake. “Then I suggest you remove your gloves.”

He lowered his hands and flexed them, flaking mud off the leather. “Do you think it wise to ask me to remove more clothing?”

She eyed him. Something in his demeanor had changed. And she didn’t understand why. “No more slices for you. You are making a game of this.”

Brushing off the remaining dirt from his gloves, he slowly closed the distance between them. “Maybe I am.” He edged in until they were almost nose to nose. The scent of amberwood, spice and leather tinged the air. “Are you too scared to play along? I thought you were a butcher’s daughter capable of cleaving your way through anything.”

He was too close and was beginning to play the sort of games she was used to. The ones where men tried to sidle up close and touch her.

Scrambling back, her bare ankle rolled against a large branch lying on the path behind her. She winced, stumbled and gasped as the basket tipped and fell to the ground, thudding apples and the items within everywhere.

He jumped and grabbed her waist hard to keep her from following the basket to the ground. Jerking her upward and toward himself to steady her, his rigid body and expression stilled.

Pausing, he eyed her lips.

She could feel the pulse of his large hands on her waist as he edged his mouth down and closer to hers. The heat of his apple-sweetened breath fanned her lips.

He hovered, but did nothing.

She stiffly clung to him, her heart pounding as the intensity of his blue eyes dug into her, hinting that he wanted far, far more than mere lips. It made her stomach flip.

She had only ever kissed a man once. A year earlier a young royal soldier who was off to fight against the riots had jogged out of line from the regiment and begged her for a kiss on the side of the road. She only did it because she doubted he would ever get another.

She swallowed and waited for those lips to take hers.

He released her and stepped back, his expression unreadable.

She staggered between breaths. Was she losing her ability to charm? Any other man would have kissed more than her mouth by now.

He widened his stance, surveying her with annoyed superiority. “Why did you not kiss me? I gave you plenty of time.”

She gasped, regaining what little common sense she had left. The blighter! He had been waiting for her to—

The horse perked and quickly hoofed its way between them to the nearest apple, swiping it up with its large, yellow teeth. With the shake of its head, it chewed obnoxiously, spraying juice as it headed for another apple and another and another, fully intending on eating them all.

She gasped again and waved a hand toward the horse. “Tell him to stop eating my apples!”

“Oh, come now,” he drawled. “Has he not earned it? This here chap is taking you to Paris.”

She set her hands on her hips. “He could be gracious enough to leave me
one
. Now call him off. I have not eaten anything all morning.”

The horse stepped onto her cracked mirror, shattering it.

She gasped again as it dragged her gown along the path to find another apple.

A throaty laugh escaped Gérard. “Pardon his manners. He takes after me.”

She swung toward him, a shaky breath escaping her. “Your horse is destroying what little I own, and you find that amusing?”

His amusement faded. He stared at her, his eyes penetrating the distance between them. “Forgive him and forgive me.”

Something about him unnerved her, yet lured her. It was as if he were a higher being struggling to be human. Averting her gaze, she straightened her basket and gathered what few items she could. The ones that hadn’t been mangled, that was.

She scrambled for her leather-bound book.

He knelt beside her on the dirt path. “Leave it be. I will do it.”

“No, I—” She paused noting the expensive wool of his beige breeches had stretched and tightened against the taut, bulking muscle pushing beneath them. It was as if his entire body were made of steel. The flap of his trouser appeared to be well-filled, too.

She cringed at noticing.

Picking up the book, he turned it over to glance at the golden lettering and paused. His gaze veered to hers in astonishment. “Do you speak English?”

“No. Of course not. I am as French as champagne.”

He lowered his chin. “Then why do you have a book written in English?”

Puckering her lips in annoyance, she took it from his hand and tucked it into her basket where it belonged. The last thing she wanted or needed was for him or any man knowing that, at heart, she was a weakling of a stupid romantic. Because she knew full well men took advantage of women with stars in their eyes. “Because one day,” she tossed out, “I plan to read it.”

A travelling British couple who had spent an entire day cooing at each other in English over a meal at the inn had left it. While she had tried to run it after them, their coach had already departed, and they never came back to claim it. The way the two had gloried in one another made her hold onto the book and believe she might one day have such a thing. She imagined it held the secret to their entire marriage. “Its mystery holds a certain power over me,” she confessed. “When I have enough money, I intend to hire a British tutor so I can read every last sentence.”

“Is that so?” He tilted his dark head, his eyes brightening. “I speak English, you know. Fluently. My mother was British. I still have family in London, actually.”

Her heart popped. Dearest God. They were meant to meet!

She shoved the book back at him, still on her knees, and frantically opened it to the first page, her hands almost trembling in excitement. “You have no idea how long I have waited to meet someone who can speak English.” She pointed at the book. “Might you translate a few words? Can you tell me if it is a romantic novel? One with a happy ending?”

He searched her face.

She tapped at the page. “Cease being a man and read it.”

He took the book from her hands, still kneeling on the ground beside her, and glanced at the golden letters on the front leather binding of the book. “
Candide: or The Optimist
by Voltaire.” He edged it open. “’Tis actually a translation. I read this in French some time ago. It was quite good. I enjoyed it.”

“Did you? What was it about?”

He flipped to another page, where an array of words started the first line of the book. He silently read, his brows coming together.

Thérèse leaned in, peering down at the page and then up at him. She waited.

He continued reading intently in concentrated silence. Time passed. He rapidly blinked, then turned the page and read on.

She elbowed him. “If you keep at it, you will read the whole book twice. What does it say?”

He slapped the book shut and shoved it into her basket. “Allow me to sum up the story. It is all too much like real life. Candide’s love for Cunégonde propels him to abandon paradise, he commits murders in her name, avoids execution and when they can at long last be together, he no longer wants her.” He gave her a pointed look.

Thérèse swallowed. After waiting
years
to learn about its contents, it appeared the happy couple had been carrying a foray of mockery.

She veered her gaze away, grabbing up a dirt streaked gown and her cousin’s letter that held the address she was supposed to travel to. “So much for marital secrets,” she grouched. “And yet again, another male writer rips apart the glory of love and happy endings in a book. What do you men have against love and happy endings anyway?”

He lifted his gaze to hers, an arrested expression settling onto his rugged features. His square jaw tensed visibly. “Nothing. We simply recognize that they can be dangerous to a man. It gives him too much hope, and some men need more than hope. They need a full guarantee.”

She swallowed. That was certainly a confession she did not expect.

His brow creased. “So this is, in fact, real. You really are heading to Paris to be an actress.”

She blinked. “Yes, of course. What— Was there any doubt?”

“A part of me was worried you had been hired by the
gendarmerie nationale
.”

The…oh.
Oh
! “No. I…no, no, no. I…no. I would never work for men like that. Not given all the murders and the butchering they do. I am nothing more than an aspiring actress trying to get to Paris.” She poked at each cheek to emphasize how real she was. “See? Nothing nefarious here.”

He intently searched her face, his masculine mouth softening. “Your appearance into my life is unprecedented.” His steel blue eyes smoldered as if he were
finally
introducing her to who he really was. “Do you know how many times I kept thinking I was going to die? And how every person that crossed my path only brought me closer to death? Do you know what that does to your mind?”

Her throat ached.

He hesitated and leaned in, searching her face. “Kiss me.”

And she thought
she
was overly forward in nature.

She leaned far back and awkwardly patted his unshaven cheek none too lightly, more than forgiving him given his mind did not appear to be in the right place. “If I were madly in love with you, I would most certainly let kisses and far more happen. But given we just met...you know...a girl has to have standards.”

The wind scattered some of his hair against his forehead. He placed an apple and a folded, muddy gown into her basket. He said nothing.

His self-effacing silence pinched her given his earlier words of others wanting him dead. “Are you all right?”

He lifted his gaze to hers.

The pulsing disquiet in those striking eyes punched her. It was as if he were recovering from seeing something no man should have seen. She leaned toward him. “What is it?”

He only held her gaze.

Good Lord. What had this man been through?

Leaving the basket on the ground, she stood and brushed off her skirts. She hesitated and held out her hand. “Come. Get up off the ground.” She scanned the split apples whose inner pieces were mashed into the ground and rolled her eyes. “Leave the rest of the apples. Sadly, they are too damaged.”