In general, the Tao of the invader is this: When the troops have penetrated deeply, they will be unified.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
The Jolie Marie sailed from Ramsgate’s Royal Harbor just after dawn in the wake of the morning’s first mail packet. The captain, Thibeaux, was the son of an elderly French Savant who had served the Fraternitas well for many decades, and survived France’s turmoils with his head intact. Like all the Brotherhood’s Savants, the elder Thibeaux was a man of great learning; an astronomer and mathematician by trade.
By Thibeaux’s estimation, the journey across the North Sea was expected to take something less than two days, and Geoff had ordered him to run fully rigged.
The trouble started, however, as soon as the Kentish cliffs disappeared from the horizon—which, given the wind, didn’t take long. Anaïs, who had remained fixed at the aft railing staring at Ramsgate, began to pace the deck from stem to stern as soon as the shoreline vanished, her shawl and her hems whipping wildly about her, and it took no special gift—psychic or otherwise—to sense her disquiet. Though disquiet, perhaps, was not quite the right word.
Twice in passing he suggested she go below, but Anaïs shook her head. She was regretting her impetuous decision, Geoff feared. Though they had seen no one known to either of them through the whole of the previous day, the harsh reality of what she had chosen to do was likely sinking in on her now.
He had wondered—but not permitted himself the satisfaction of asking—just what she’d told her family. Obviously Maria Vittorio knew she had left England again, even if her parents did not. Quite likely her brother knew it, too.
That could prove unpleasant.
But an impetuous pup like Armand de Rohan could be dealt with in time—if it became necessary. And her brother’s disposition, rash or otherwise, had nothing to do with Anaïs’s present mood. The truth was, she had been distant all morning, even to the point of refusing the breakfast he had arranged in the inn’s private parlor. And oddly, Geoff had found himself a little rankled by it.
He had set out on this journey trying to avoid her, it was true. The whole of his mind, he had told himself, needed to be focused on the task before him, and not on the seductive turn of his partner’s backside. Watching her climb in and out of the carriage and smile at his servants at every stop along the drive from London had driven him to distraction. And he was not a man easily distracted.
But during their walk up from the harbor the previous evening, with their arms linked loosely together, Geoff had somehow begun to see more than that lovely backside. He had felt, fleetingly, as if he had glimpsed her equally lovely inside.
Those virtuous notions notwithstanding, however, it was not her fine character his mind had turned to when at last he’d stripped himself naked and crawled into bed last night, saddle-weary and much conflicted. No, it was that wide, mobile mouth of hers. That husky laugh which seemed to bubble up from deep inside, then catch provocatively in her throat. Those hot brown eyes and that riotous tangle of black hair that seemed ever on the verge of tumbling down.
He watched her now as she strolled along the deck of the Jolie Marie, tendrils of inky hair curling wildly from the damp, and he couldn’t help but imagine having it down about her breasts and plunging his hands into it. And it made him wish to the devil he’d drawn that last inch of his draperies closed last night. Or that his bed had sat under the window instead of directly opposite. Or even better, that he’d gone down to the taproom and got himself thoroughly sotted. For Anaïs, it seemed, was a bit of a night owl. Her lamp had remained lit until well past midnight.
For a time, he had merely watched her silhouette, long and graceful as it passed back and forth by her window, while he wondered what she was doing awake at such an hour. And then he wondered why he cared. She was not his type. She was young—younger and a good deal more innocent than the sort of female who ordinarily captured his imagination.
Bessett preferred experienced women who knew the game; lush, mature women with no pretense to romance and few expectations. And for that absence of finer feelings, he was willing to pay handsomely—though he rarely had to.
No, Anaïs was not for him, but capture his imagination she inexplicably had. And so he had found himself fixated upon a mere shadow, fantasizing about her even as he stroked himself, seeking satisfaction—or something akin to it—in the basest of ways. Tipping his head back into the softness of his pillow, he had thought about that hair, and breathed in the memory of her scent. And no, it was not her inner beauty that had driven him, or remained with him as he’d cried out with his release.
Even then, however, the lust inside him had not stilled.
He should have remembered his original vow—that he did not need to know the woman in order to work with her. He needed to know only that they shared the same concern for the child whom they had been sent to protect. That should have been enough. But now, as he watched her turn and make her way up the length of the deck again, Geoff felt the bite of dissatisfaction like a blackfly at the back of his neck.
And it was remotely possible she sensed it. Possible, really, that she knew a vast deal about his innermost thoughts and longings. Though it was true that those with the Gift—even a hint of it—could not read one another, there were always subtleties and layers.
Of course, as so many amongst them did, Anaïs had minimized her skill. But he’d heard the same sort of denials out of Rance, and even Lady Anisha, Ruthveyn’s sister. And while it was true that few were as accursed with the Gift as he and Ruthveyn, Geoff could not escape the suspicion that a great many people took care to hide the truth.
Well, if she knew, so be it. He was a man, with a man’s desires—and she would do well to remember it.
But he lost that train of thought when she paused near the hatch to seize hold of the railing, staring intently starboard as if France might magically materialize from that chalybeous infinity of water and sky. She leaned so far forward that, for an instant, he wondered if she meant to pitch herself headfirst into the churning water and swim for Calais.
But what nonsense. Anaïs de Rohan was far too sensible for that.
He relaxed, one hand upon the mast for balance, and let his gaze drift over her. She was dressed today in dark green, another of her eminently practical gowns, the simplicity of which merely served to emphasize the lean elegance of her figure. She had curves enough to please a man, he noticed, but no more, and he found himself wishing he’d looked at her a little more purposefully that night in the St. James Club. He should have liked to have a clearer memory of those small, perfect breasts to help him ease the torment at night.
In another life, he supposed, Anaïs de Rohan might have been a dancer, or an exclusive courtesan, perhaps, for though she was right in saying she was not a beauty, she fairly exuded earthly charm and celestial grace.
Just now, however, she looked neither charming nor graceful.
She looked like she was about to heave her entrails over the rail.
He had left his post by the mainmast and was hastening toward her before he fully grasped what had drawn him. By the time he reached her, Anaïs’s knuckles were bloodless upon the railing, her face as pale as parchment.
He set a hand at her spine and leaned over her. “Anaïs, what is it?”
She turned her head to look up at him with a wan smile. “Merely a little mal de mer,” she said. “I sometimes suffer with it.”
He set his arm loosely at the small of her back. “So that’s what’s wrong,” he said, almost to himself. “Look, you should go below and lie down.”
She shook her head and turned back to the rail. “I’ve got to watch the horizon,” she said, the wind whipping at the loose tendrils of her hair. “It helps. Now go. I shall be fine.”
But Geoff had never seen anyone so ashen. “I can order Captain Thibeaux to slow the ship,” he suggested.
“Don’t you dare.” Her voice was tremulous with emotion. “We haven’t the time, and it will but draw out the misery.”
He shifted his weight, and set his hands on the rail to either side of her, bracketing her with his body. The irrational fear that she might jump or fall still plagued him. He could feel her trembling. “Anaïs,” he said, “do you have this often?”
She gave a pathetic little laugh. “Did I say sometimes? I lied.”
“But . . . your travels,” he murmured. “To Tuscany. To everywhere, really.”
“Look, the truth is—” She had her eyes firmly fixed on the horizon. “The truth is, I can’t cross the Thames without casting up my accounts. There, Bessett, you’ve had fair warning. Stay, and I shan’t be accountable for that lovely waistcoat you’re wearing.”
He set one hand on her shoulder. “Then why do you do it? Travel, I mean.”
“Because suffering builds character?” she suggested a little bitterly. “You know, I never much minded the long journeys across land. The being away from my family. Even the incessant political upheavals that occasionally sent me to ground. But I should rather have waded through one of Tuscany’s revolutions than face a day at sea. In the end, however, England is an island, so what choice is there?”
“To stay home,” Geoff suggested, then he dropped his tone. “To embroider those pillow cushions, perhaps?”
“Out of the question,” she said.
“Hmm,” he said. “Is this is why you didn’t come down to breakfast?”
“Did you imagine I found your company intolerable?” She gave a sharp laugh. “I assure you, Bessett, that is not the case. I simply know better than to eat before sailing.”
He let his hand slide to her waist and bent his head. “Geoff,” he quietly reminded her. “Just Geoff will do. Poor girl. You must be feeling perfectly weak-kneed.”
Again she gave her uneasy laugh. “What lady would not be, with you pressed inch-to-inch down her length?” she said.
“I’m not letting you faint and fall headfirst into the North Sea,” he said. “So yes, perhaps I’m a little close.”
“And I wish I weren’t so thoroughly unable to appreciate that fact,” she said. “Oh, really, Bessett! Must we have this conversation? I seem infinitely capable of embarrassing myself. Go away now, do.”
“Come midship,” he ordered, gently pulling her away from the rail. “You’ll find it a bit steadier there. Perhaps we can find you a seat.”
She came reluctantly, and in due course, Étienne, the cabin boy, unearthed a sort of deck chair from the hold. Bessett ordered it lashed to a pair of cleats and situated Anaïs beneath a heavy blanket. The fine spring morning in Ramsgate had given way to the vagaries of the sea, and the spray off the bow was picking up with their speed.
Bessett returned to his tasks, but for the remainder of the day his gaze was never far from her. The captain repeatedly offered ginger tea—and hinted at something stronger—but she refused all offers. Later, as Bessett and the rest of the crew went below in turns to eat a little bread and cold beef, Anaïs merely shook her head, and as dusk came upon them and the temperature dropped, there was soon no horizon—blurry or otherwise—to help keep her bearings.
Finally, Geoff had no choice but to force her to go below, all but carrying her down the steep, ladderlike stairs.
The Jolie Marie was fitted with two private cabins; the captain’s forward quarters, and a second aft for guests. This minuscule cabin held four narrow berths stacked double with drawers below, a small dining table, and a mahogany washstand with a chamber pot beneath. The last was to prove useful, for as the evening came on, Anaïs began to grow clammy, and to retch violently to little effect.
Uneasy, Geoff poured the washbasin full of water, dampened a cloth, and mopped her brow. “You should try to sleep,” he suggested.
“Oh, what a miserable state of affairs this is!” Arms wrapped round her waist, Anaïs was perched on the very edge of the berth, having refused his entreaties to lie down. “I think I’m going to retch again. Please, go find something better to do, and spare me the humiliation, won’t you?”
Geoff managed a weak smile. “What kind of Guardian leaves his partner alone in the lurch?” he enquired softly.
“What kind of Guardian gets seasick?”
“A great many, no doubt, under the right circumstances.” He tucked a springy, wayward curl behind her ear. “This is a wicked sea today. Here, look at me. Your hair is falling down.”
Anaïs reached behind as if to tidy it, pulled the wrong pin, and fully half the arrangement came tumbling over one shoulder. Muttering a most unladylike oath, she flung the pin across the cabin.
Geoff sat down on the edge beside her. “Look, turn round,” he soothed. “I’m going to take the pins out. Then you are going to lie down.”
“No,” she said feebly, propping one shoulder against the wall of the berth.
But she offered no real resistance to his plan. His fingers were clumsy at first, plucking at the higgledy-piggledy pins. Eventually, however, they were out, and Geoff set about taking the other side down, marveling at the length and the texture.
Just as he had fantasized, Anaïs’s hair was a glossy, springy mass of feminine glory that tumbled to her waist, and he found himself wondering how on earth she tamed it long enough to put it up.
Unable to resist the temptation, Geoff pulled out the last pin, then ran his hands gently through it. And as he felt the warmth of it draw like satin between this fingers, it dawned on him that he’d never taken down a woman’s hair just for the pleasure of it. Just for the sensual self-indulgence of feeling the warm, ropy silk draw through his fingers like air and light and water all at once.
He opened his mouth to say . . . well, something witless, most likely. But he was saved by a sharp knock at the door.
Geoff answered it to find the cabin boy, a steaming hot mug in hand. “Thé au gingembre pour madame,” said Étienne, “avec opium. Le capitaine, he sends it. For sleep, oui?”
“Oui, merci,” said Geoff, taking the mug. “This time she will drink it.”
And she did—between bouts of insisting she would simply heave it back up again.
“You’ve had nothing to eat or drink in twenty-four hours,” he said, pressing the mug to her lips. “That alone will make you sick. Now drink it.”
Had she been fully herself, Anaïs would never have surrendered to his will. He knew that. But in her weakened state, she gave in, looking up at him between sips with round, brown puppy-dog eyes until something inside his chest did a curious little flip-flop.
Good Lord. The woman was ill, pale, and in general, a mess. What the hell was wrong with him?
He hadn’t long to ponder it. After half a mug, the ginger and the opium did its job with surprising swiftness. One moment she was drinking, and the next instant, her chin hit her chest and Anaïs slumped against him with the whole of her weight.
Thank God.
She would be out of her misery until daylight, at least. And at this speed, they should sight land late tomorrow evening.
Throwing back the blankets on the narrow berth, Geoff scooped her up and settled her fully into it, wondering to what extent he dared undress her. He began by simply unbuckling the little pistol she wore round her calf, then pulling off her shoes—while trying not to stare at her legs, a matter of gentlemanly deportment at which he failed miserably.
His hand itched to draw up her skirts—all the way up—to see, amongst other things, whether she truly wore the mark of the Guardian. And it inexplicably maddened him that Rance had seen what he had not, when neither of them had any business staring at the lady’s bare hip.
And in the end, Geoff allowed himself the small—and faintly wicked—pleasure of running his hand down the turn of her calf, marveling at the layers of hard muscle beneath the deceptively tender skin. Then, with a measure of reluctance, he took her ankles and tucked them gently under the blanket.
But the berth was so short, even Anaïs was cramped by her height. On a soft curse, he unbuttoned the front of her green gown. As he had suspected, she wore a modern corset with a bone busk. Swiftly, he popped the fasteners. Her dainty breasts shifted and flattened beneath the thin lawn of her shift, and her shoulders rolled back, relaxed. On a sigh of what sounded like pure pleasure, Anaïs squirmed halfway onto her back, and began to breathe deeply.
There. It was the best he could do. It was all he dared do.
But she was asleep, and she was comfortable.
With one last look of regret, Geoff pulled the blanket fully over her, and tucked it in all around.
And on his next breath, he suddenly wished that he had not called upon Lady Anisha Stafford the day after Ruthveyn’s wedding. Or invited her and her younger half brother, Lord Lucan, to the theatre with his mother the evening after that.
He had even gone so far as to extract his mother’s promise to call upon Lady Anisha during his absence. To take her to tea, and ask her to dinner. All of which had left his mother with a speculative glint in her eye. So he had told her the truth—insofar as there was a truth to be told. He greatly admired the lady. He meant to court her.
They would likely be shopping for a trousseau by the time he got back from Brussels.
Geoff felt suddenly a little seasick himself.
Lady Anisha was, of course, a dear friend and always would be. She was so dear a friend, Geoff wished never to do anything that might leave her feeling awkward. He hoped he had not already set himself on a course toward doing precisely that.
He set one hand about the turn of Anaïs’s cheek. She was like Ruthveyn’s sister in that one glance at her black hair and warm skin could tell you she was no mere English rose, but a hothouse orchid, rare and slightly exotic. In every other way, however, they were as dissimilar as two women could possibly be.
He dropped his hand, and willed his mind to turn in some other direction from the one it was rambling toward.
In an effort to distract himself, he went to his portmanteau and withdrew the files DuPont had given him. In addition to the dossiers and the notes, DuPont had included a few personal items, amongst them a letter with Madame Moreau’s signature, and a long, yellow hair ribbon tagged with Giselle Moreau’s name.
This Geoff plucked from the packet, and for a time he sat at the little dining table drawing the ribbon pensively through his fingers. Sometimes personal effects could be of use, but because the child was of the Vateis, he would see little. The mother, however, was a different story. Her letter might open the void to him, but tonight he hadn’t the heart. He did not want to see Giselle’s future, or feel her mother’s fears. He did not want to know Madame Moreau’s grief or feel any lingering hint of her memories.
It might all seem too painfully familiar.
He tossed down the ribbon as if it were an asp to his breast. Rising, he turned the wick on the table lamp, leaving just enough light to watch over Anaïs. Then he yanked off his boots, tossed his coat and waistcoat over a chair, and gingerly wedged himself into the bunk that lay opposite, knees pulled halfway to his chest.
Rolling onto his side, Geoff let his gaze drift over her, and heaved a sigh. He was cramped, damp, and more than a little obsessed. As Anaïs had said, a miserable state of affairs indeed.
Lord, it was going to be a long night.