And in the morning, she would leave him. Tomorrow all the barriers would be firmly in place again, perhaps with an additional layer of shame on her part, for what she had done so shamelessly.
The irony was crushing. Rafael Whitbourne, fifth Duke of Candover, had been beloved of the gods—blessed with health, intelligence, charm, and wealth beyond imagining. Those who crossed his path gave him admiration and respect.
Yet he damned his fate with dark, despairing anger that this one woman, who mattered more than all else, could not love him. She had cared for him when she was young, surely, but not enough to be faithful through the short months of their betrothal. He had never come first with her, not then, and not now, when a traitor and spy held her first allegiance.
Staring upward into the softening dark, Rafe wondered what deep, crippling flaw made him unable to love any woman except one who could not love him back.
Tomorrow would be time enough to ponder that. For now, he would savor this handful of moments with the only woman he had ever loved.
With the bleakness that lies beyond hope, he knew that it was all the time he would ever have.
Chapter 16
Maggie felt deeply rested when she awoke, though the angle of the sun showed that it was still early. In the clear light of day, it was hard to believe that she had had the audacity to ask Rafe to make love to her. Yet the warm length of his body lying beside her was irrefutable proof of what had happened.
As a woman of the world, she had thought it likely that he would oblige her, though females needed a reason for intimacy, men usually needed only a place. She had had a reason, and Rafe had supplied the place.... Yet what had passed between them had gone far beyond anything she had been able to imagine, and it would stay etched in her brain forever.
Turning her head slightly, she studied Rafe's sleeping form. His numerous bruises had matured to melodramatic purple-black. God only knew how he had gotten her away from that mob. Take away his title and his wealth and his influence, and he would still be a man among men—strong and brave and heart-stoppingly beautiful, in an utterly male fashion.
Maggie closed her eyes in anguish. She had always known that if they became intimate, she would be helplessly in love with Rafe again, and it had happened. The love had always been there, since she had first met him thirteen years ago. Perhaps that was why she had never been able to love Robin as completely as he deserved.
No, the problem was not how much she loved Robin, but how she loved him. She cared for both men more deeply than words could ever express, yet Rafe she loved with conflict as well as harmony, challenge as well as understanding.
Strange to think that it was the harsher elements between them that gave her feelings for him such depth and intensity. With Robin there was always harmony, and their love was that of friends, almost siblings. Rafe she wanted as a mate, the archetypal male who made her feel most deeply female.
She swallowed hard and slid away from Rafe's arm, careful not to wake him. Though she would like nothing better than to spend the rest of her life in his bed, that was impossible. Conspiracy and death still surrounded them, and there were the charges against Robin.
One way or another, the business would be resolved, and then she would never see Rafe again. Considering the sexual fire between them, he might still want her for a mistress, if his pride wasn't too deeply injured by the way she had used him. But she would never dare accept. The memory of the previous night's passion made it almost impossible to imagine life without him. If they became lovers in truth, she would never survive the end of the affair.
When the end came, Rafe would be perfectly charming, of course, kind and a trifle bored. She could imagine it already.
Laying the back of her hand against his cheek, Maggie said a silent farewell to their brief hours of intimacy, resisting the temptation to kiss him one last time.
Since her clothes were neatly folded on a chair, she dressed, wincing over the incredible range of aches and bruises she discovered. A little crude mending disguised the worst of the rips in her garments so that she was more or less decent. Apart from being dressed as a man, that is.
Then she went to the window seat and curled up, hugging her knees to her chest as she waited for Rafe to awaken.
It was perhaps a quarter of an hour until he stirred. His first movement was toward the side of the bed Maggie had occupied. The emptiness woke him, and he pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze scanning the room until he found her on the window seat.
Relaxing fractionally, he stared across the intervening space, his face unreadable. Maggie found herself distracted by the elegant patterns of dark hair on his bare chest. Last night she had experienced them as a texture, but now sight provided a different kind of pleasure.
Hoping that some of the previous night's intimacy would survive the light of day, she said tentatively, "Good morning."
He watched her with damnably cool gray eyes. "Is it a good morning?"
He was going to make this difficult for her. Maggie swung her feet to the floor and forced herself to meet his gaze. "Well, I'm alive, for which I am profoundly grateful. There wouldn't have been much left of me after the mob was done." After a brief struggle with the panic that flared at the thought, she continued, "There are no words strong enough to thank you for saving my life."
"Don't bother trying," he snapped, his gray eyes like ice chips. "I didn't do it because I wanted gratitude."
With dread, she knew that she must refer to what had happened in the heat of the night. If she didn't, he would, and she feared what he might say. "I also owe you an apology," she said unevenly. "You saved my life, and I used you in an unforgivable manner. Asking you what I did was... an offense against honor and good taste. You helped me survive a nightmare—I hope you can also find it in your heart to forgive me."
A caustic edge in his voice, Rafe said, "Think nothing of it, Countess. I'm sure that a woman of your experience knows that men don't usually mind servicing distraught females. And you're remarkably skilled. It was a privilege to have the opportunity to sample your wares."
Maggie felt as if she had been slapped. Though she had guessed that he would be angry, this was far worse than she had imagined. No man would like the idea of being used as an anodyne against pain, and this one would like it less than most. Pride was undoubtedly the deepest of his emotions, and she had gravely wounded that.
At least he didn't taunt her with the words of love that had escaped when all her defenses were down and her heart spoke uncensored. If he had mocked her unguarded declaration, the hurt would have been unendurable.
Yet in her secret heart, Maggie could not regret what had happened, even though she knew how much it would cost her in the future. Quietly she repeated, "I'm sorry," as she stood and turned to leave.
His voice lashed across the bedchamber. "Where the hell do you think you are going?"
She stopped, but wouldn't look at him. "To Robin's, of course. I must talk to him."
"Do you mean I actually managed to raise a few doubts about him in your irrational female mind?"
Turning to face Rafe, she retorted, "Yes, damn you, you did. Now I must give him the chance to explain himself."
He sat upright, the covers spilling across his lap as his gaze bored into hers. "What if he has no satisfactory explanation?"
"I don't know." Her shoulders sagged. "I just do not know."
"Ring for breakfast when you reach the drawing room. I'll join you in fifteen minutes."
When Maggie started to protest, he cut her off. "You're not leaving here without some food in you. Afterward, I'll take you to Anderson's myself."
She started to sputter, unsure whether to be amused, alarmed, or outraged at his high-handedness.
Fixing her with a gimlet eye, Rafe said, "If you think I will let you walk the streets alone looking like that, the kick in the head did more damage than the physician thought. Every night men are killed in the streets of Paris—two bodies were found near the P
lace du Carrousel just the night before last.
"Speaking of physicians..." he picked up a small bottle and tossed it to her. "The doctor left this for what he assured me would be the devil of a headache. Now kindly get out of the way while I dress."
Not waiting for her to leave, he swung from the bed, magnificently naked. Knowing that if she didn't leave instantly, she would be tempted to drag him back among the covers, she hastily averted her face and headed for the door.
As soon as Rafe had mentioned the probability of a headache, she realized that her head was throbbing. Once she was safely in the drawing room, she swallowed one of the doctor's pills.
What a pity that heartaches could not be treated as easily as headaches.
* * *
Too foul-tempered to wait for his valet, Rafe started to shave himself, his mind seething. Apologies and gratitude were not what he wanted from Margot. In the ultimate idiocy, he wanted her to have magically fallen in love with him. But as soon as he awoke and saw her curled on the window seat, as bristly as a hedgehog, he had known that there had been no miraculous transformation in her feelings.
As his hand clenched involuntarily on the handle of his razor, he felt a stinging pain on the edge of his jaw. He swore as blood dripped messily into the china basin. Christ, if he wasn't more careful, he was going to accidentally slit his own throat. He pressed a towel to the cut to stop the bleeding, wondering what the devil was happening to him.
Margot was what was happening. He had always prided himself on rational, civilized behavior. In the House of Lords and among his friends, he was known for his ability to coax opposing factions into finding common ground.
Yet the moment he had walked into that small room in the Austrian embassy and recognized Margot, he had started to fall apart. He had lost his temper and his sense more often in the last fortnight than in the previous decade. It was becoming obvious that the only reason he had a reputation for an even disposition was because there hadn't been anything in his life that he cared enough about to make him lose control.
He couldn't face Margot in such a state, so he forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. She had been completely honest about why she wanted him to make love to her, and he had no right to be furious with her. For the sake of his own pride, he must stop acting like a spoiled schoolboy.
He lifted the towel from the razor cut and found that the bleeding had stopped. Margot had managed to master herself after her terror of the night before, and he could do no less. He supposed that he should feel proud of the fact that his exertions on her behalf had had such a beneficial effect.
And he was. Bloody proud.
* * *
By the time Rafe finished dressing and joined Margot for breakfast, The Duke was once more in control. After a wary glance at him, she relaxed. He was glad that he could still maintain the appearance of being a civilized man.
There was little discussion over the excellent coffee and croissants, or on the first part of the ride to Anderson's lodgings. Then their carriage reached the edge of the Place du Carrousel and was forced to stop by a milling crowd.
As the driver carefully turned the carriage around, Rafe and Maggie saw that the plaza was sealed off by thousands of Austro-Hungarian troops, the sunlight dazzling on their white uniforms and brass artillery. With such protection, the task of removing the bronze horses of St. Mark's was proceeding without incident.
As the first horse was lifted from the arch, the Austro-Hungarian troops cheered and the French crowd howled in anguish. This time, Napoleon's loot was leaving for good.
Rafe smiled grimly. "Wellington must have been furious when he heard about last night and decided on a show of force. Paris might not love him now, but, by God, she will respect him!"
Maggie's flat voice drew him back to the implications. "Let us hope that increased unpopularity won't increase his chances of being assassinated."
The rest of the journey was made in silence. They detoured around the Place du Carrousel and the Louvre to reach the small hotel where Robin had rooms. Rafe waited in the carriage while Maggie went in, warning that he would follow her if she was gone more than ten minutes.
No such action was required, for she returned quickly, her face drawn. "There was no answer when I knocked on Robin's door," she said as she climbed into the carriage. "The concierge told me that Robin hasn't been home in two days."
Rafe frowned. "Could he be staying overnight at the embassy because of the amount of work to be done?"
She shook her head. "The British delegation doesn't know where he is, either. Yesterday they sent a groom to ask if Robin was in his rooms."
She settled back into the luxurious seat, her stomach twisted into an agonized knot. If Robin had learned that there were suspicions about him and run away, he was guilty. If he was innocent, he never would have left Paris without notifying her.
Therefore, since he had disappeared without a trace, he was either guilty or dead.
* * *
Rafe was silent as he returned Maggie to her town house, his brows drawn like thunderclouds. She could only be glad that he refrained from saying "I told you so."
As soon as she reached home, she sent a message to Hélène Sorel, asking her friend to join her for a light luncheon. With matters reaching a crisis, she needed a confederate who might be able to see things she herself had missed.
Then she withdrew into her bedroom for two hours of pacing and tortured thought. She cared too much for Robin to hope that he was a dead patriot rather than a live traitor—but if he had betrayed his country, she never wanted to see him again.
Hélène appeared promptly, mild inquiry on her face. As soon as they had taken the edge from their appetites, Maggie filled her in on recent events, including Robin's disappearance.
Hélène listened gravely, her brown hair drawn back in a modest chignon. She looked like any other pretty young French matron, except for her precise, intelligent questions.
When Maggie ran out of words, Hélène said, "The picture is larger and darker than I knew. With Talleyrand out of power and Castlereagh confined to his bed, it would seem that Wellington is the most likely target for assassins, n'est-ce pas?"
"I'm afraid so. Candover has gone to speak to Wellington, to warn him to take special care. They know each other, so Wellington may listen, but he is notorious for ignoring danger. A warning might not make much difference."
"It is time we reduced the number of suspects," Hélène said. "I have finished my inquiries about Colonel von Fehrenbach, and this evening I will call on him. When I am done, I think he will no longer be a suspect."
"I can't afford to lose any more friends," Maggie said soberly. "Candover is asking Wellington for the use of some soldiers, so please take him and an escort, for safety's sake."
"I will if you insist, but they must wait outside and not come unless summoned." Hélène's brown eyes showed amusement as she selected a pastry from the tray between them on the dining table. "They will not be needed."
Maggie wished that she shared her friend's faith. If she could be disastrously wrong about Robin, Hélène could certainly be wrong about a man she barely knew.
"If von Fehrenbach is eliminated, that will leave General Roussaye as the most likely prospect." Maggie sighed. She wanted to retire to her room and sleep forever, and not have to face a world where she had lost Robin, where Rafe despised her, and the fate of European peace might be resting on her weary shoulders. Planting her elbows on the polished mahogany table, she buried her face in her hands and rubbed her aching head, telling herself not to be melodramatic.
A knock sounded, followed by her butler and a female caller. The butler said apologetically, "I know you didn't wish to be disturbed, my lady, but Mrs. Northwood said it was most urgent."
Pulling herself together, Maggie got to her feet. "Very good, Laneuve."
The butler stepped clear of her guest, and Maggie gasped at the sight of Cynthia's violently bruised face. In a shaky voice, the girl s
aid, "I didn't know where else to go."
"My dear child!" Appalled, Maggie walked over and put her arms around her guest.
Cynthia sagged against her for a few moments, then resolutely pushed herself away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that. I must talk to you." She looked doubtfully at Hélène, who had poured a glass of brandy and now offered it.
Maggie said, "Don't worry, you can speak freely before Madame Sorel. She and I are close friends, and she can be trusted with anything. Now, what has happened to you?"
Accepting both the assurance and the brandy, Cynthia sank into a chair and set down the small portmanteau she carried. "I was able to search my husband's desk."
"Did he catch you and beat you?" Maggie exclaimed, feeling horribly guilty for having put Cynthia up to it.
"No, he beat me for quite different reasons," her guest said bitterly. "When I searched the desk yesterday, I had ample time to find a secret drawer, copy everything inside, and leave the papers as I found them." She pulled half a dozen sheets of writing paper from her portmanteau and handed them to Maggie. "I didn't dare bring the originals, but I thought you might be able to make sense of these."
Maggie set the papers down for later examination.
"If Northwood didn't know of your search, why did he beat you?"
"I had finally decided to leave him. To stay was insupportable, and Michael swears that he is willing to face the consequences, no matter what Oliver might do. However, Michael was sent to the fortress at Huninguen and won't be back for several more days, so I had to wait. Unfortunately, reaching a decision made me almost giddy with relief, and I think that Oliver guessed that something was in the wind."
She looked down at her hands, with their short-bitten nails. "This morning Oliver came into my room unexpectedly when I was dressing, and immediately saw that I was increasing. He knew the baby couldn't be his, and he was enraged. He made my maid leave and began to beat me, calling me horrible names and saying that he hoped I'd lose the filthy brat, and if he was lucky, I'd die, too. Then he locked me in my room."