Chapter Twenty-Six
“Mademoiselle!”
It was no easy task to catch up to the Flower. She was quick, but his legs were longer.
Gripping her arm to stop her and bring her around to face him, he caught a glimpse of a white face and large eyes before her fist connected with his jaw. Stars exploded behind his eyes as pain lanced through his chin and face.
“By all the saints!” He doubled over, as much to avoid her fist a second time as to recover.
“Do not touch me.”
He straightened, quick as a whip snapping, to stare at her. “You sound afraid.” He hated it. Anger he could understand, but the fear layering over her voice stabbed through him. Seeing it blocked the pain in his jaw, the throbbing of his lip.
“I am not afraid.” She stepped back. She seemed very small, as though she’d closed in on herself. “Do not touch me,” she repeated, more quietly now.
“I would never hurt you.” He wanted to touch her again to prove it. His hand reached out, fingers spread to find some part of her.
“I know.” She didn’t flinch, didn’t even tense, but some inner part of her withdrew more than her body did.
He let his hand fall away. If he touched her now, she might run again and never return to him. The thought clawed at his chest, so he took a step back himself and gave her the physical space she so clearly needed.
“What were you looking for in Manchester Square?” he asked.
She shook her head, the delicate features of her face grim.
“Tell me.” Whatever it was, he wanted to remove the residual fright in her gaze. It was important, somehow, to discover if he could ease her pain.
“The servants in this area, they will soon be awake,” she said, avoiding his question entirely. “It is nearly morning.”
So it was. The eastern horizon was beginning to lighten from blue to yellow, so he could more easily see her lashes as they swept down to cover her gaze. He stepped toward the nearest building, into the shadowed doorway where he was masked by pillars and a small portico, and gestured for her to join him. She hesitated, then edged into the space.
“There’s time before the sun rises.” Now they were partly hidden from the world, he wanted to draw her in against him.
Her inhale was slow and bracing. Impossibly long lashes swept up, and though her eyes were dry when they met his, her chin quivered just the slightest bit.
“The girl,” she whispered. “I found her.”
He sucked in his own breath and stepped toward her. Gripped her upper arms. “That was Marchand’s house?”
She shook her head, and a thick, curling lock of hair fell from beneath the confines of the cap she wore. “It is simply a place one of his agents uses. I have seen the agent come and go, and the room I searched held a prisoner recently, but they were both gone.”
Beneath his fingers her arms were taut. He relaxed his hands and slid them down to cup her elbows. “The man that shouted out the window? Who was he?”
“Just a man, I think. A servant hired to keep watch on the empty house.” She tilted her face toward his, almost in the same position a lady would request a kiss. “He was bumbling and loud, and he did not pursue us, so he is not a spy. I woke him, as I was careless in my search when I realized the house was empty of any spies—or the girl.” Her voice broke, but still she did not weep.
“Who is she to you?” he asked quietly.
A long, weighty silence ensued. He gave her time to think, as it was clear that’s what she was doing. If her brain had been made of gears and pulleys, he would have seen them moving.
“She is no one. An innocent girl.”
Her face had lost all expression, and he could not tell from it whether she lied—but he did hear the hitch in her voice. Slowly rubbing her arms, Maximilian trying to calm her with long, slow strokes. He continued the movement, whispering, “We’ll find her,” even though he hadn’t the slightest idea how.
“I know you cannot make such a promise, but I wish you could.” Her sigh was as quiet as the breeze ruffling the curl spilling from beneath her cap. “I wish I had some assurance that all our efforts weren’t in vain.”
Beneath his hands, her muscles had gone lax. She raised her face again, and the brightening light beaming through the pillars gilded each delicately drawn feature. He felt her fear and uncertainty as though they were his own, as though they flowed from one to the other of them.
Standing on a street with clouds of gold and pink lighting the sky, Maximilian did something he’d never done before.
Kissed a lady to comfort her.
…
In but a moment, she could force him flat onto his back. He would fall hard, this large and gentle man. But she did not want him to stop. His lips were warm and firm, and they filled the cold place left by Anne’s absence. She wanted to sigh with relief, cry and burrow into him, all in a single heartbeat. His lips pressed against hers, held, shifted to press again.
She could not say why she found it acceptable for this man to kiss her.
It simply was. He simply was.
She should step away. Run away. Plans must be made, and there were people she needed to speak with. Instead, she slid her arms around his waist and gripped the side seams of his coat. She wanted to hold onto something. To someone.
Knowing a spy had no right to this moment, she still chose to remain in his embrace. Heart aching for Anne, body aching for this man, she would stay just a moment longer. She needed him. Maximilian. He was not just the monsieur. They had moved beyond that. He was Maximilian to her now.
So when his mouth became a little persistent, when his tongue nudged at the seam of her lips, she parted them. Opened for him. He tasted of man, of mist. Of some mysterious thing that could only be Maximilian.
She sighed and let his body and mouth soothe all the sadness and need swirling in her.
Now, she was not so alone.
His tongue danced along hers. In turn, lightning bolts danced in her body. Her hands no longer gripped his jacket but slid up to his shoulders—the broad, broad shoulders that bore responsibility with such ease. She rose on her booted toes, pressing against him, wanting to be closer.
“Vivienne.” The word was a whisper against her mouth.
It stopped her, checking her movements.
Vivienne was not her name.
She wanted him to say her name. Her real name.
The idea was terrifying. Utterly, completely, and deeply terrifying.
She stumbled backward, only to realize that the sun was over the horizon now. It was brilliant, kissing London’s rooftops as Maximilian had kissed her.
But he did not know her, did he? The fault of that lay on her.
“Vivienne?” Hazel eyes were concerned, but also hot with desire, the gold bright among the green and brown. Awareness trilled down her spine, leaping across each vertebra.
“It is dawn,” she said carefully.
He studied her face, gaze flicking over each feature one by one. His translator’s mind would be deciphering her expression. She blanked her face. She did not want him to read everything. Some things a spy could not share.
“I must go,” she said. “We should not be seen.”
“I suppose not.” His words were very careful. Measured.
“Good-bye, Maximilian.” She had not said his name aloud before. It hung between them in the air. Meaningful, as the easing of her heartache had been meaningful, as the building of liquid warmth in her low belly had been meaningful.
“Good-bye, Vivienne.”