“Do not be superior. You know nothing about me.”
“I know you like your work. Not every woman would. You give us exactly what we want, don’t you, pretty Annique? Leblanc. Henri. Me. You become every man’s private fantasy. What he dreams of, alone at midnight. You’re doing it now. Before I realize what I want, you’re offering it to me. I never knew a woman could do that. A man touches you in peril of his soul.”
“You may keep your soul. I do not want it.”
“I don’t give a damn what you want, Annique Villiers. You’re good, though. That sound you make in your throat, that buzzing like a hive of contented bees. That’s perfect. I felt it through my whole body when you did that.”
His muscles were dense with tension, shaking. That was his anger, which she had not yet earned, and his hunger for her, which would have been obvious to an idiot. How she was to ride these twin beasts to her advantage she could not at all imagine.
“You like to set the puppets dancing, don’t you? Tweak a string here. Tweak a string there. Be soft and vulnerable and…responsive. I don’t think there’s a man on earth who could resist you.”
Without warning, he twisted his fist into the shirt and pulled tight. She was jerked and dragged forward, up onto her toes. She gasped and grabbed to hold on to him. “Don’t try this again.” He shook her, once, briskly. “Not with me.”
“I do not—”
“No more games. Go shuck yourself out of this damned teasing shirt. Put on the silk I sent in or slither into bed naked. I don’t care which.”
“I will not wear that indecent thing. I am not—” She stopped herself and swallowed and made herself say, “I am not some woman of the streets to be bought for the price of a hot meal. I do not—”
“For God’s sake, don’t be so bloody dramatic.” She was set upon her feet. His grip loosened slowly and released. “And damn your nonexistent modesty. From now on you wear clothes you can’t hide weapons in. That’s all. Get in bed and sleep.”
“I will sleep as the mouse sleeps beside the cat. Do not lie to me, English. I have no patience with it.”
“I don’t have a hell of a lot of patience myself right now. So unless you’re offering me a poke at this…” The deep vee of her shirt flipped open. Cool air rushed in. “…experienced, devious little body, get into that nightgown and get to bed.”
“Monsieur, do not do this to me.”
“Not a damn thing’s going to happen to you if you behave. You follow orders, and you’ll be treated well. Fight me one more time, and I swear I’ll tie you to the bedpost. Accept it.”
Accept it, he said. But he lied to her and to himself, too, if he thought he would lay her down in that soft bed and not take her.
He was no monster. He would not force her. But he wanted her fiercely, and he thought she was of light morals, and willing. Tonight, in the long quiet hours, he would put his hands upon her and confuse her until she made the answers he wished, softly, in the intimacy of the covers. In the end he might make her want what he did to her. She was not strong and sensible when it came to this man.
That was yet another reason she must escape.
When all other weapons are gone, one must depend upon cunning and lies and terrible schemes. Vauban had taught her that. Maman had taught her. René and Françoise and wise, cynical old Soulier had taught her that—all her old friends in the spying Game. She had known this since she was a child. Sometimes one must do things one does not exactly like.
She could not commit despicable acts as Annique. She must be someone of greater resolution. There were roles within her…She took a steadying breath and chose. She would be the Worldly Courtesan. Had she not played this role often in Vienna?
She crossed her arms over her breasts and bowed her head and let the role of the Courtesan settle across her spirit. It wrapped round her like a thick, protective cloak. The Worldly Courtesan was years older than Annique, knowing and cynical. She did not give a fig whatsoever about an enemy English. The Courtesan would not worry about wearing that obscene scrap of cloth…or whatever else it might become necessary to do.
She raised her chin. The Courtesan was not dismayed because a man desired her. It gave her power.
She shrugged. “You have won this futile small victory of yours.” Being the Courtesan, she could push past Grey, impatient and contemptuous, and saunter across the room. It was three long steps from the window to the table; she had counted after dinner. She turned her back on him and tossed the slippery silk of the nightgown across the table, next to the candlestick. She touched that one last time. Her bones and muscles would remember where it was when all was in disorder. The scene was set. Everything was prepared.
“Go away. I will dress in this vulgar garment. But I will not strip naked in front of you.” Her voice was cool and patrician, heavy with ennui. The Courtesan’s voice. She set two fingers on the tabletop to keep her body oriented exactly as she wanted it. “Whatever you think, I am not a woman of light amusements with strangers.”
“It’s too dark to see much. Do it now, before I strip you down and toss you into bed myself.”
“How alluring you make it sound.” The Courtesan she had molded around her mind could say that. “With the women of England you are a great success with such methods, no?” Playing the Courtesan, she could reach nonchalantly for the hem of the shirt, as if she undressed every night in some man’s company. “If you will not leave, at least turn your back.”
“To preserve your modesty?”
“It is not such a large favor to ask. I am less accustomed to humiliation than you seem to think.” The shell of her role cracked, and a quaver of her shame and fear showed through. She could not have done better if she’d practiced a week.
“That much I can do.”
She heard the rustle of his movement. Now she must undress. It was hard, playing the whore, the first of several difficult acts. She lifted the shirt up over her head and revealed her nakedness. Perhaps the room was dark enough that he would see nothing. Perhaps he had turned his back as he said. If not, she must hope he would be distracted, as men always were by her body, and not notice exactly what she was doing.
Now. No more delay. Now.
One. Two. Three. She tossed the shirt onto the table. Under cover of that, she picked up the heavy brass candlestick. She flipped it to be a club. Spun toward Grey. Lunged toward the sound of his breathing and swung.
Missed.
She staggered, off balance. Where was he? She tried to hear him. Where?
A whisper of air. Pain exploded in her wrist. She dropped her weapon. He’d kicked her wrist. Hit the bone of it. The candlestick rolled clattering on the floor.
“Sapristi!” Such pain. This was disaster. She had made a miscalculation of great magnitude. She backed away quickly, unarmed and naked before him, shaking her hand out to get feeling back within it. “You are fast, monsieur.”
“Fast enough.”
Another step back. Here was the table. Thank le bon Dieu. She scurried for the other side, plucking across the wood till she touched silk. The nightgown. “You did not look away. That was deceitful.”
“Let’s talk about deceit, shall we?”
“That is a problem between us, I agree.”
Feverishly, she grappled with the nightgown, one-handed and clumsy. It was vital she get this on. She got it right side up and pulled it around her and pushed one arm into the sleeve, then the other. Here was the cord. Good. Very good. Fumbling, she tied it.
He made his way around the table, edging her ahead of him by slow, deliberate footfalls. She was not stupid enough to think she could escape. It was no surprise to feel his hands close on her, gentle and insistent, as if he held a sack of rebellious eggs. He was being careful with her. His hunger for her vibrated between them like discordant music. His touch was perfectly impersonal. She was totally unnerved by this.