Page 63 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
She laughed. “But for once it was because of the right reason.”
She felt his smile as he buried his face against her hair. Shifting slightly, she met his questing lips with a kiss that was chaste, but rife with warm memories of all they had shared the night before.
Drawing back, she caressed the stubble of beard that roughened his cheek and the stubborn line of his jaw. She liked the stark contrast he made to the silken femininity of her bed, his dark hair tumbled against the pillow, the hard musculature of his frame, the swarthy cast of his skin. But she also noted the deep hollows beneath his eyes.
“I suppose I should let you go,” she said reluctantly, “and catch what sleep you still can. We have a busy day ahead of us.”
“Do we?” His eyes fixed tenderly upon her face. “Strange, but as tired as I am, I feel as though I could abduct a dozen Bonapartes.”
“One will do,” she said. But she knew what he meant. She too had the curiously elated feeling she could accomplish anything, overcome any obstacle. “I never told you all that happened at the reception when I was alone with Bonaparte.”
Easing herself out of his arms, she plumped up her pillow and lay down upon it. Settled more snugly beneath the covers, she gave a tiny yawn and began to relate the conversation she had had with the first consul.
But Sinclair barely heard a word she said. Propping himself up on one elbow, he played with one of the strands of her hair, twining it about his finger. How soft Belle was in the morning, like a lovely pastel, all hazy rose, cream, and gold. He studied the tranquility that had settled over her features.
For one night she had not cried out in her sleep for Jean-Claude Varens. At least he had gifted her with that much, Sinclair thought with great satisfaction, a night of pleasure, a night of comfort. That had been all that he had set out to do. Why, then, did he feel he wanted to give her so much more, speak tender words she would not want to hear, words that would cause her to shrink from him?
With great difficulty he thrust such foolish thoughts aside and attempted to focus on what she was saying.
“And so I agreed to have supper with him, an intimate supper. The abduction promises to be much easier than I thought, and yet—” She frowned.
Sinclair traced the furrows pinching her brow, attempting to smooth them away. “And yet?” he prompted.
“I never expected to somewhat admire Bonaparte, to almost like him,” she admitted sheepishly. “What did you think of him?”
“I suppose he can exercise a certain sort of fascination,” Sinclair conceded. To him, as a loyal Englishman, Bonaparte would ever be simply his country’s enemy. But if Belle was beginning to have second thoughts about the abduction, Sinclair was ready to encourage her, fearing as he did that the plot might be betrayed by the traitor in Merchant’s organization.
“Are you saying that you might not be disappointed if for some reason the abduction had to be called off?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Yes, I think that I would. After all, Merchant has offered us a considerable reward.-
“Is the money that important to you, Angel?” Sinclair stroked the hair back gently from her brow. “What would you do with such a sum?”
“Invest it wisely.” She suppressed another yawn, burrowing deeper into her pillow. “I told you I don’t intend to be a spy forever. Someday I mean to leave my past behind me and buy a cottage in some quiet little village.”
When Sinclair smiled, she peered up at him beneath eyelids becoming increasingly heavier with the need for sleep.
“Why are you smirking at me like that?” she demanded.
“Because I can’t imagine you sitting about stitching samplers and having the vicar and local tabbies in for tea.”
“You don’t think I could act the role of a respectable lady?”
“Oh, I think you could act the part all right, but whether you would be happy doing so is another matter,” Sinclair did not believe that Belle would be content in her little village. Any more than if she had managed to remain married to the dull, but virtuous lean-Claude. But Sinclair knew he would only anger her by raising such speculations.
“Such a tame life would not suit me,” was all he said.
“Then you must spend your share of the money some other way.” Despite her efforts to stay awake, her lashes drifted downward. “Though you may be right about one aspect of it,” she mumbled. “The pretense, hiding my past, would grow tiresome after a while.”
She forced her eyes open long enough to give him a drowsy smile. “You know that is the one thing I truly adore about you, Sinclair.”
“What’s that, Angel?” he asked.
“That there is never any pretense between us. No deception. Yours is probably the first honest relationship I have ever had.”
Sinclair’s answering smile froze. He was glad when she closed her eyes again so that she would not see how she had disconcerted him.
That is your cue, Carrington, a voice inside him nagged. Time to tell her the truth about who you are, what you are really doing in Paris. But how could he, after what she had just said, especially after what had taken place between them? He could just hear himself trying to explain. “I work for the British army,Belle. I was sent here to spy upon you and your companions, to discover which of you is a traitor.”
