Sail Away Page 7

  Kit fought down a sudden urge to giggle. That was what this felt like—a wedding night. Marching down an aisle of drunken Frenchmen to the lady of his dreams. It had to be the wine.

  “Mademoiselle Zoe,” Angelique said. She took the dark-haired girl’s hand, placing it in Kit’s, and he bent to place a formal kiss upon it. “And you, m’sieu?”

  “Christopher St. John, at your service,” he said, releasing Mademoiselle Zoe’s hand reluctantly. “Baron Guilford, if admitting to a title is not a breach of local etiquette.”

  Her beautiful dark eyes lit with laughter. “A baron? Oh, I do not laugh at you, sir. It is only that when I first looked upon you, I thought you must be a milord.”

  “Just something left me by my father, I promise. I’ve done nothing to earn it. And I would guess that you must be a princess?”

  “I am pleased to be nothing more than a Frenchwoman, milord. And safer so. Would you—”

  She hesitated, and Angelique immediately moved into the breach. “M’sieu, would you care to retire with us for a little while?”

  He was not sure what she meant by “retire” and felt it would be too gauche to say “Both of you?” so he followed the two young ladies up a narrow flight of stairs to a hallway lit only by a single candle lantern. Angelique took a candlestick from a table at the top of the stair and lit it from the lantern. “This way, s’il vous plait!”

  She knocked at one of the doors. When no one answered, she opened it and motioned the others inside. “I will be back with more wine,” she said, and vanished down the hall.

  The room was a bedroom, a very plain one, though as far as he could tell by the light of one candle, it looked clean. But it didn’t suit this girl. She should have a glittering chandelier and a mahogany bed with everything fine, not a faded quilt and lumpy pillows. “Mademoiselle… this seems most irregular.”

  “Do you not want me?” her voice was plaintive. “Angelique is much prettier, I know—”

  “No! That is, yes! I do! I think you are exquisitely beautiful, milady. But this does not seem the place for you—”

  “Please!” She threw herself into his arms and kissed him, furiously and with an awkwardness he would not have expected in a Parisian girl. His body responded, though. That sweet, slender form pressed so close against him muddled his thoughts even further.

  “Mademoi—”

  “Please, call me Zoe! And you are Christophe?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s fine.” He took her by the shoulders and held her off, just a bit. “Zoe, I am honored by this invitation, but—my dear, have you—” Heavens, what a question to ask. “Have you ever been with a man before?”

  “I do not kiss very well,” she admitted, with a small, quick smile. “Will you teach me?”

  “I don’t understand—”

  She took a deep breath, and her small hands closed into fists. “No. I have not been with a man. I want to be! The boys I have known—they all are gone. You are a beautiful man and your face is kind. Will you not let me be a woman with you?”

  Her explanation made very little sense. Her desperation was evident, though, and Kit could find no good reason to refuse her invitation. He was also just a bit concerned that if he did refuse, she would march back downstairs and press some other fellow into service. And considering the number of drunken fools downstairs who would probably make her first experience an ordeal, he simply could not allow that to happen.

  Angelique’s question echoed in his conscience. Are you gentle? Yes, by God, he would be as gentle as he could with this mad little creature, and hope that he was man enough for the task.

  Kit scooped her up into his arms. “My dear,” he said, “I am, as I told you, entirely at your service.” Zoe put her own arms around his neck, and in that position, he found it easier to slow things down. Not that he wanted to, but he remembered his own first experience so clearly, and the one thing he recalled above all was that he had been terrified at first. What on earth had she expected, flinging herself at a stranger? And why would she do such a thing? He knew Philip would say she was merely a good actress, but he could not bring himself to believe that. He wanted her, yes, but not like this. If only they had met in someone’s drawing room and he could have courted her in a reasonable way!

  But at least they had met. Her face was turned up to his, so he kissed it. First on the lips, then her cheeks, her chin—then the tip of her nose. She giggled and did the same to him. He sat down on the bed, thankful that it did not squeak, and they continued in that manner for a little while. There was no need to hurry.

  “Tell me if you change your mind,” he warned.

  “I will not.” She reached up and tugged at the ribbon that held up her hair, and a cascade of shining black curls fell around her shoulders. “I made up my mind the moment I saw you, that you were the one.”

  “My mother warned me to beware the wiles of French women!” he said with a smile, reaching to touch her hair. It felt like silk sliding through his fingers.

  “My father never told me Englishmen could be so beautiful,” she returned.

  “Handsome, please! Ladies are beautiful, gentlemen are handsome. Though I think you flatter me.”

  “You are ’ansom to me, then,” she said. “I would like to see if you are—pretty?—under your clothes. I have no brothers, Christophe, and what my friends tell me sounds very strange. I would like to see a man’s body.”

  He didn’t feel pretty under his clothes and could not imagine what the masculine adjective might be. Why was he worrying about that, anyway? This was no time for a language lesson, and if she wanted to call him pretty, why not? But if he was going to strip down, he’d have to convince her to shed a few garments, too.

  They had progressed from kissing to undoing the buttons on his waistcoat when Angelique popped in with a bottle of wine. “I return!”

  Three really was a crowd. Kit would have liked to ask Angelique to leave, but Zoe took the glass her friend poured for her. What a strange girl! He had a thousand questions that could not be asked unless they were alone together.

  “Zoe, silly girl, why are you two not couchee?” Angelique demanded.

  “You were right,” Zoe said. “The English have many manners, and they are slow!”

  Angelique poured another glass of sparkling wine and gave it to Kit. “Why is that, m’sieu?”

  A trifle annoyed, he replied, “Because she is a lady, and she is too young to be rushed!”

  Angelique laughed. “Ah, you chose well, Zoe! M’sieu Baron, you are très gentil! But you wear too much clothing.”

  “I suppose I do,” he said, coming to a decision. “Mademoiselle Angelique, you are une bonne femme, and I thank you for introducing me to this lady. But as you say, the English have many manners, and I fear I may have more than my share. Do you know where to find my cousin Philip?”

  “Ah, oui,” she said. “He is in a room nearby.”

  “Excellent.” Kit dug into his vest pocket and found a coin sufficient to pay twice over for the wine she’d brought. “If you would, go and get another bottle and take it with you to my cousin, s’il vous plait? He’s twice my size and much more adventuresome. I think he would be very happy of your company.”

  She feigned a pout. “And you would not?”

  “I—” He met Zoe’s eyes and decided to tell the truth. “If you do not mind, mademoiselle… I fear if I attempt to please two of you, I will end by pleasing neither.”

  “You please me very much,” Zoe said, a touch of pink in her cheeks. “Go, Angelique. I am safe with milord Christophe!”

  “I think you are.” Angelique dropped a quick kiss on Zoe’s cheek and on Kit’s. “Bless you, children!” And she was off.

  Kit let out a sigh of relief. “Now, where were we?”

  “You are still wearing too many clothes.”

  “So are you.”

  Eyes sparkling, she began undoing the buttons of her bodice and had the simple gown off in a trice while he was sti
ll unfastening his breeches. She sat on the edge of the bed wearing only her shift, sipping her wine. “Do you have a wife, Christophe?”

  “No. Beautiful as you are….” He considered whether to roll off his stockings before removing his breeches and decided that was sensible. “Beautiful as you are, my dear, when I take a vow, I keep it. If I had a wife, I would be home with her, not here with you.” He pulled off his stockings. Damn, the floor was cold.

  “I am glad you are here.”

  “So am I.” Kit had worked his way down to his ruffled shirt. He looked at Zoe, sitting in her sleeveless white shift, the gentle curve of her breasts showing above the deep neckline, and was struck once again with the sense that this was his wedding night. Absurd, of course—she had not even hinted, she said quite plainly that she wanted only this experience, and God only knew the uproar that would ensue if he were to wed her. Still, she was so sweet, so innocent—

  “Do you go to bed in a nightshirt, Christophe?”

  And she had such a startling streak of frankness. “As a matter of fact, I do. But I usually sleep alone.” He reminded himself that he didn’t have any heroically endowed rivals to be compared with, and tugged the shirt self-consciously over his head.

  Zoe’s eyes grew large, and she took a breath.

  “Please don’t ask if it’s always so small,” he implored, looking down at his less-than-impressive display. “It’s the cold, you see. It grows longer when it’s warm and happy.”

  She clapped a hand over her mouth and dissolved in giggles. “How did you know?”

  He shook his head in mock exasperation and drained his own wineglass. “What an impertinent wench! Here I stand, stripped of my dignity—”

  “And your nightshirt.”

  “And my nightshirt! You give me no respect!” He pulled back the quilt. “Come here, you French temptress. Let’s have you out of that sack.”

  Wordlessly, she stood, raising her arms, and he slipped the thin garment from her body as though unveiling a sculpture. She was perfect. Cleopatra must have looked like this, hair a midnight mantle, two perfect breasts with nipples like rosebuds, gently flared hips, her whole body smooth and pale as ivory. “Oh, my dear girl—are you quite sure?”

  “Yes. And I am cold!” She clung to him once more, and the velvet softness of her skin against his own nakedness was enough to put an end to his reluctance. He kissed her again, coaxing her mouth open this time, and she responded eagerly.

  The room was cold and plain, and the bed had no elegance at all. But they were warm beneath the covers, and before long, Kit forgot about the surroundings, and Zoe seemed to notice that he had told the truth about the effect of warmth and desire on a man’s wedding tackle. All the questions he had meant to ask her went by the wayside, replaced by simpler ones that could be answered without words.

  And before too much time had passed, Kit was silently blessing both Philip and the kindly Lady Campion, who had provided for his education in these matters. But it was one thing to put his lessons into practice; it was another to disregard the one thing he had been trained in all his life: responsibility.

  Zoe really was a virgin. Beautiful she might be, desirable beyond his dreams, and as she responded to his kisses and caresses, her body created a perfume all its own that drove him wild. He ran his fingers through her lower curls, teasing the bud of her sex until he felt her quiver and clutch at him in the throes of pleasure.

  He wanted nothing more than to roll atop, slip inside her, and complete their union. But a small voice inside his head kept insisting that a man who would bed an innocent young girl and walk away the next day, leaving her in a dangerous city in the midst of revolution, should be horsewhipped. He could not do such a thing, he must not. He had to find some way to take her away with him.

  Zoe shivered uncontrollably, gasping, “Christophe!”

  She pulled him close with astonishing strength and he let his cock slide between her legs, but not into her body. Yes, oh yes, this would do. “Squeeze your legs tight, Zoe, yes, oh, damn!”

  They rocked together, and when she relaxed, he rolled to one side and pulled her against him. It took a while to get his breath back.

  “Mon Dieu!” she said.

  “Not God, only a man,” he replied. “Thank you, my dear.”

  She snuggled into the curve of his shoulder. “Christophe—that was—Angelique said you would lie upon me, and it would hurt for a moment. That did not hurt, it was beautiful!”

  “Angelique,” he said, “does not know everything about Englishmen.” He was terribly drowsy, and pulled the quilt up around them. “Zoe… dear girl, if I broke your maidenhead, it would hurt a bit. And you might have a baby. Paris is too dangerous—it’s no place for a baby.” He needed to tell her more, needed to explain, and he had to find out who she was and where she lived so that he could make some arrangement to get her out of here. But he could not keep his eyes open.

  When he awoke, she was gone. And Phil was shaking him by the shoulder, telling him they had only a few minutes to get back to their hotel before curfew would trap them here for the night. Angelique? Oh, she left quite some time ago, said she had to see someone home. No, she hadn’t said who it was, what did it matter?

  Kit threw on his clothing, and the two of them ran for the hotel. The only consolation he had was that it must surely have been Zoe that Angelique was looking after. For all her stage affectations, she had a good heart.

  And she must also have a last name, if only he could learn what it was, and find her, and convince her to tell him how to find Zoe before two o’clock tomorrow afternoon!

  ZOE KNEW she should have stayed. Christophe would have wanted to awaken beside her. So careful he had been, so tender! But Angelique was right—if she was not back home before curfew, not only would she be in danger from the Watch, her reputation would be tainted, and Papa would never again allow her to go out in the evening. Her friend offered to walk home with her and spend the night with her aunt. Zoe welcomed the company, even though she wished that Angelique would not chatter so.

  “…and, chéri, these Englishmen, they are not looking for wives when they come to Paris. They look for what they would not keep, and they leave their wives at home.”

  “Christophe said he does not have a wife.”

  “Ah, well, he is young; perhaps he tells you the truth. But I promise you, he has a mama who has a nice English girl picked out for him.”

  “I do not think so.”

  “Zoe, chéri, he is gentil, he makes you happy—why desire what you cannot have? He did make you happy, yes? There was not much pain?”

  Zoe remembered what Christophe had said. “Angelique does not know everything about Englishmen.” She smiled and hugged the memory tight to her. “Yes, he did, and no, there was not, and I thank you for capturing him for me! No sister could have been more helpful.”

  “If you do not have your monthly, tell me immediately. I will go to Suzanne and ask for the herbs.”

  “I think I will be fine,” Zoe assured her. Angelique really was the most thoughtful friend, but she did not know everything about Englishmen. Or everything about Zoe Colbert either.

  “PHIL, I have to find her!” Kit finished tying his cravat, donned his coat, and stuffed yesterday’s shirt and smallclothes into his grip. He knew Curtis would upbraid him for the haphazard packing, but he really didn’t care.

  “I always knew you were a romantic, Coz, but I never expected you to let that interfere with self-preservation. For Heaven’s sake, stop buzzing about and drink this terrible coffee.”

  Kit sat at the small table and obeyed, but he neither knew nor cared about the taste of the coffee or the small hard roll. “I can’t leave her here.”

  “Of course you can. You must. What were you planning to do, kidnap the wench? A pretty surprise that would be for Aunt Arethusa!”

  “My mother has nothing to do with this.”

  “It may seem so here in Paris, my dear boy, but it would be quit
e another matter in your mama’s drawing room.”

  Kit was ready to tear his hair. “I wish you would at least attempt to be helpful!”

  Philip finished his coffee and grimaced. “That is precisely what I am doing, but you refuse to pay attention. Kit, these Parisiennes are charming and accommodating. They are also, I must remind you, French. One can’t simply pick them up as souvenirs. Odds are she wouldn’t want to come with you if you asked—”

  “That’s all I mean to do, Phil. If last night was just a frolic, I shan’t try to hold her. But if it was not, if she feels as I do, I must know.”

  “That’s very handsome of you, Coz. Still, even if she is prepared to abandon her aged maman or whatever she has in the way of a husband or lover, you have to realize she would not be allowed to leave France.”

  “There must be a way. Can’t we delay our departure?”

  “Not if you still want to get out of Paris. I sent our luggage on ahead to the ship, to save room aboard the barge.”

  “Surely we have funds enough to stay on for a bit.”

  Philip frowned, abandoning his lighthearted banter. “Yes, we do—but you’re forgetting the political climate. With things as they are, the French see every foreign visitor as a potential spy. Probably with good cause—I’m sure Paris is crawling with English agents, and some from other countries as well. If we were to suddenly change our plans, we would attract the attention of the authorities, and in this madhouse, that is one thing I do not wish to do. I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s the barge or nothing, now. We must meet Monfort at the boat no later than a quarter of two o’clock this afternoon. He’s leaving at two, with or without us.”

  Kit could not argue with his reasoning. “I have four hours, then. I’ll start at the theater up the street and work my way back down. I’ll see you here at half past one, without fail.”

  Philip met his eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Never more so.” Kit shrugged, knowing how foolish he must seem to his worldly cousin. “I do realize you’re probably right, Phil—but for my own peace of mind, I need to be sure.”