Page 14 of Lord Fournier’s Shameless Princess (Scarlett Affairs #4)

T hat night, they traveled to a tiny village ten miles east before he settled them in an inn. Dirk hated to prolong their journey, but he continued to fear that the French would come across the Rhine. True, Vaillancourt was said to have taken his contingent south, but that was no guarantee he would not send others under his command into German territory. Dirk had to avoid Bonn and Cologne and any towns on the way to Amsterdam. The Belgian provinces and the Dutch were now allies of France, and he would not risk their lives by going there.

Nor would Dirk call upon any rulers whom Liesel knew to take them in. Those men might be persuaded by the French to hand over the likes of the Crown Princess of Rittenburg, who had worked against them. Neither did they enter any towns Liesel had been through on her previous journeys. If she knew a shopkeeper or an innkeeper, or even the local magistrate or the cleric, Dirk skirted the town, even if it meant that added another day or two to their trip to the sea.

In reality, this diversion toward Hanover and the sea meant they would travel another month at least to reach a northern port. The deeper route into German territory was safer.

Yet each day was a weary trail of hours in old, uncomfortable coaches drawn by slow horses. Liesel uttered no complaints. She was setting an example. The children grumbled and complained about the food, the beds, their dirty clothes. The dog was the happiest soul, content simply to be with those he loved.

Eating the meals cooked by innkeepers was not so bad, but the beds—short and old, cold and thin—were the worst problem. At least, after weeks of this, they were all healthy. What saved their journey was mild, sunny weather—and jovial company.

Dirk, however, had his own challenge. Preserving his sanity became a minute-to-minute exercise. Duty kept him occupied during the day—changing carriages, arranging nights at coaching inns, assuring the other three that they were safe, secure, that no one followed them. But sitting across from Liesel for endless hours, he found himself learning the fullness of who she was, hearing tales of her childhood, her father’s instructions in democratic rule, and her love of her land and her people.

He understood those values. He lived them himself. Then, for the first time in many years, he heard himself sharing stories of his youth, his friends—one of whom, Tate Cantrell, she had met that first night she burst into his house in Karlsruhe.

Long days of idle conversation informed him of more and more who she was, and his admiration for her grew. The revelation of her character, strong and resilient, fused with his reverence for her beauty. That first time he’d seen her, he concluded she was the loveliest woman he’d ever beheld. True then, but it was doubly so now. Her vivacity and her wit stunned him. His desire to possess her was a challenge in the confines of a tiny carriage in the presence of two children.

But now, as they gazed upon each other all through each day, she also showed him, by act and deed, her growing desire for him. The way she regarded him, admiration in the tip of her head. Yearning in her large amethyst eyes. Consternation in her pout when he withdrew his hand. He dared not touch her more than necessary—he would not cross the boundary of propriety, even though at night, their every mood changed.

His days were an elegant misery of travel wrapped in an electric attraction to her every word, her every look. His nights were a living hell. Always, everywhere they stopped to rest in an inn at night, the two of them shared a bed. It was necessary. The establishments were always small, the rooms few. He would insist upon two beds, but often what they were offered was one room with one eiderdown or a pile of hay. Always attempting to remain a gentleman, he had proclaimed at the start of their journey that he would sleep on the floor. Liesel would not have it.

“I cannot do that,” he began one night.

She put two fingers over his lips. “I will not let you sleep on the cold, hard wood. Come lie down with me here, or I will lie down with you there.”

He went. Lured by necessity to sleep and desire to be so near her, God help him, he went.

Flat on his back, he would start the night. Staring at the ceiling, tossing one way, then another, he rotated like a chicken on a spit. His thoughts wandered to how he would take her, strip her of her simple cloak and gown, unlace her corset, and trace the elegant lines of her arms and her hips and her thighs. How he was to fall asleep, he could not fathom. But he would, granting himself few hours of nothingness. Still, he’d awaken in the middle of the night—and find Liesel flush against him, one arm, one leg over him, her lips a temptation away.

He’d disentangle himself and fight to sleep again. But often in the morning when he awakened, she was snuggled close, too near, too dear. And he had to find what restraint he could summon.

Often, that was so very little. He’d not had a woman in so very long. More than a year, even before Liesel had stormed into his bathing room in Karlsruhe. He’d vowed celibacy after the disaster in London with Alicia Sedgwick. Not because he felt guilty. No, he had no guilt that Alicia and the man who accused him of ruining her had been successful. On the contrary—he found it useful to behave in such a way that no one could accuse him of being a scoundrel. Since then, he had broken his promise to himself three times. Each time, he had carefully chosen and paid well for a suitable companion for a few hours. But now, in this time of desperate need to flee and survive, he was eaten alive by the desire to touch and caress, to adore and claim the one extraordinary woman whom he could never take as his own.

And he knew that if he broke, if he weakened and pulled her to him in the night, if he put his arm around her or lifted his leg to draw her to him, he would make such sweet love to her that he’d never forget it. Nor would he ever pardon himself the crime.

Once home, in England, Liesel would return to her place in Society. She would go to her control agent in London, and share where she’d been and how she had escaped the clutches of René Vaillancourt. She would take her two siblings and create a new life for herself.

He would have no part of that. Society had cast him out long ago. They would not accept him back into the fold. To them he was damned, marked by lies of two more powerful than he. He would return to the Continent. Hide himself away from the French. Reconnect with Scarlett’s agents, who were merchants, clerics, and civic leaders. He’d establish himself with runners who would relay messages across the land and sea, back to London and Scarlett and those in government who needed to know everything from numbers of soldiers to movement of arms.

He had a purpose in this life. It had fulfilled him for years. But purpose would never equal love. He knew it, and felt the hollowness of his future in his bones.

But what could he do to change that?

His list, his cursed list of remedies, sprang to mind. Each night, each day.

Torture left him only when he imagined how to confront his accusers. To kill them was impossible. To ruin them was necessary.

But how?

And if he could, if he did, to what end? None. Liesel would not be able to have him as her husband. She was betrothed. A crown princess. He was a baron. British, at that. A man sullied, he would never be her equal. He was unworthy.

Irredeemable.

But he had to try, didn’t he?

*

Three weeks out of Rittenburg, they reached a small port outside Bremen. This was Hanoverian territory once owned by George III. Now it was aligned with the French, but they were few and weak here. The hearty merchants and fishermen of this bustling area near the waters of the North Sea avoided the French in the Channel at all costs.

Liesel sighed, thrilled to be safer here and about to depart the Continent. As their coach approached an inn on the harbor, the children squirmed to be set free. Nikky clapped. Katrin squealed as their carriage came to a stop and they all climbed out.

Liesel accepted Dirk’s hand, then hooked her arm through his. Such little touches he allowed her more each day. Their nights spent so close broke more barriers to their everyday ease with each other.

Nikky stood, his mouth open at sight of the huge ships at anchor. He caught Dirk’s free hand. “Please, sir, might we stay here tonight and walk around the city?”

Rolf lifted his furry head in expectation.

“I don’t know if it’s safe to do that,” Dirk replied. “Let’s go in, and I will ask the owner if it’s wise.”

Shown to a clean room on the topmost floor of the guest house, they washed their faces and hands and went down to dinner. The roast turning on the spit in the huge fireplace had them all licking their lips in anticipation.

Full of meat, potatoes and apples, they sat on wooden benches and grinned at each other.

“How much longer, sir?” Katrin asked Dirk.

“Not long. Depending on the weather, we may be in England within days.”

Liesel recalled her own tempestuous crossings and said nothing to refute him.

“And then what?” Katrin asked.

“We travel to London. That may be two or three days too, depending on where we land.”

At that news, Nikky sulked.

Katrin pondered that with a frown, then folded her arms. “How many have you saved like us?”

“A few.”

Liesel suppressed a smile. His modesty was wonderful.

“Did you accompany all the families to the coast?”

“No, only you.” He grinned at both children.

But Katrin got the devil in her eye. “And how many ladies in distress have you saved?”

“Two.”

“Were they princesses?”

“No.”

“Did you like them as well as you like Liesel?”

He was solemn as he said, “No.”

“How old are you?” This came from Nikky.

Dirk took a breath. This personal inquiry held a bit of surprise for him, judging by how he shifted on the bench. “Thirty-one.”

“Liesel is twenty-three,” Katrin offered.

Liesel held back a smile. Her sister was match-making—again. And Dirk knew it.

Katrin leaned toward him. “Have you ever courted a lady?”

Liesel was as much amused by her sister as she was embarrassed. “Katrin, please.”

Dirk grinned at the young girl. “No, never.”

“Why is that, sir? You are young and in good health. Handsome—and a baron, too. Do you not wish for a wife and children?”

He arched a long blond brow. “There has been no lady I have wanted.”

“What if there were?”

“There was a scandal, Katrin. It shaped my life.”

“It propelled you, here, yes, an immigrant among your mother’s people. But even here, have you not found anyone you favor?”

“No.”

“What power does a scandal wield in England?” Katrin demanded, sitting forward.

But Dirk sighed deeply, done with this subject. “A lot. Now, you will all please excuse me, as I need to find us passage out of here tomorrow.”

*

Rolf loped along behind him. Dirk shooed him back to the others, but he continued to follow. And Dirk did need a friend who did not argue with him. “Very well, Rolf. Guard me from those who tempt me to barter over their prices, will you please?”

The dog smiled.

Dirk wished he could. But he had work to do.

He strode along the old wooden dock. He could not fault Katrin. Her questions were valid, her concern for her sister real. But he had to get out of there. He could not grant himself such high hopes.

The first man he met along the dock spoke good German. Dirk cared not what language he spoke; he wanted a quick way home. The fellow was leaving for Calais with the tide, and Dirk was ready to pay the fees when the captain looked down at Rolf. The animal, his usual buoyant self, wagged his tail.

The fellow pointed to the dog. “ Das Hund ist verboten. ”

Forbidden? There was not a chance Dirk would leave this animal alone in this city, never to see his family again. He left the fellow where he stood.

“We’ll find someone with more sense, eh, Rolf?”

At the end of the dock stood a sleek schooner, well kept and looking very seaworthy. When the sailor told Dirk his captain was below, Dirk took the gangway. The man who appeared was young—twenty, if a day.

His name was Jacques Durand, a Frenchman with inky-black hair, long as a pirate’s, with an eye patch over one eye. He spoke French and German, even English, and Dirk liked the cut of him.

Durand told Dirk that Bonaparte was assembling his army for an invasion of Britain in the south, along the Normandy coast. The captain had sailed from there two days ago.

Dirk nodded, unhappy to hear that rumor verified. What was worse, the French fleet sat at anchor along the Channel. Their crossing, said Durand, would be a wide arc away from that naval line. Crossing this corridor to any English town could take five days or twenty. Their trip might be very long.

“I have one bunk, and it’s small,” Durand warned Dirk. “My hold is full, and you’ll all sleep together. The children in the same alcove. But I’m pleased to have you.”

“Even our Rolf?”

“Why not? All those we love must stay together, eh?”

When Dirk took them down to the berth and Katrin and Nikky saw that they were assigned hammocks, the two clapped. For them, the trip had suddenly taken a turn for the better.

They should have saved their optimism.

The open room resembled that of a ship of the line, though this was smaller— much smaller, drafty, and damp. Dirk flinched at the nightmare this crossing would be.

The sleeping alcove was tiny. The only bunk was long, able to accommodate a man of regular height. Not one six feet, two inches. Two hammocks swung from the wooden beams that crossed the rafters.

Dirk set his jaw. He’d spent the past weeks trying to keep his hands off Liesel. Yet at every new city, every new inn or coach, at every table, and now in this godforsaken Channel crossing, he would, of necessity, be near her. His arms at night reaching for her. His fingers finding the silken skin of her nape, the line of her throat, the curve of her firm thigh.

“This is the last temptation,” he swore. It had to be.

He stomped up the steps, growling to himself about his failures.

When he reached the deck, Liesel strode toward him.

Two men who had boarded behind them argued with Durand. They spoke German with a French accent.

“You said we were going to London,” one argued with Durand. “Now you say Yarmouth.”

“I predict what I can, monsieurs . A storm can destroy our course. Worse, so can a skirmish with a French man of war. I cast off in an hour. Stay if you wish to cross. Leave if you don’t.”

“Our fees, please.” One man put out his palm.

“Certainment ,” Durand grumbled as he reached inside his thick wool coat. “ Adieu .”

“Yarmouth. North of London?” Liesel turned her back on the captain as she faced Dirk. “More delay?”

He led her a few paces from the others. “Necessary to avoid the French on patrol in the Channel and a storm. This will not be a pleasant crossing.”

She sighed in resignation. “I have never sailed the Channel and kept my breakfast. I don’t need it now, with as much as we need to be free.”

How could he do without her? She rallied at every point. “Let me tell you ten thousand times how I admire you.”

“Don’t be daft, sir. I do what is necessary.” She riveted him with the sweet regard in her gaze. “Just as you do.”

He could not stop himself, and took both her hands and kissed her fingertips. For the thousandth time, he wished he could have her lips. But he pushed desire away. “After this, I promise the most elaborate traveling coach I can hire to take us to Fournier Park.”

“Ah, yes. With seats wide as the sea.”

He laughed. “And fat squabs fit for a princess.”

She rolled her eyes. “She asks for nothing more.”

“She deserves everything I can give her.”

Her mellow regard paled as her desire flared and seared his bones.

She stepped nearer. “I will never be able to thank you enough for all of this.”

“I ask nothing.” Her heat drew him so close that he felt the contours of her breasts.

“I wish I could.”

Her plea had him drawing backward. He sought some objectivity. “You won’t praise me when you see the sleeping quarters. Bear in mind, I use that term loosely.”

“Terrible?”

“Beyond compare.”

She shivered. They were still so close that he felt her distress, and his hands went to her shoulders.

“The bunk is not worth the name. Katrin and Nikky find the hammocks fun. That is, if the rocking of the boat does not bring up their accounts.”

She nestled against him. The move was novel and not wise. The children scrambled up from below and saw them. Nikky did not question their friendship, but Dirk had caught Katrin eyeing the two of them more often. He would not damage Liesel’s character in the eyes of her family.

Yet for the world, their passport papers said they were man and wife. So she could stand here. He could draw her close, breathe in her lingering scent of lemon, and yearn to keep her. No one would tell them nay. Not today.

“At each new turn of this journey,” she murmured, her cheek soft against his shoulder, “I need this more.”

How many times had he declared their affections were not wise? That his attraction to her was not rational? That his desire for her was a passing fancy built of circumstance and proximity?

But he’d lied to himself.

And his entire life was built on truth.

This desire for Princess Elizabeth of Rittenburg was as impractical as it was fantastical.

He dropped a kiss to her forehead. How could he not? She was vibrant and strong, wild and determined to be free…and he wanted her more each hour. But he pulled back. “I apologize. That will not happen again.”

She looked as if she’d dissolve into thin air before him. “I don’t promise I will not say the same again.”

“Please, Liesel.”

“Are there so many women you’ve had that you can refuse one who desperately needs your arms and lips and body as her own?”

“No.” He jerked aside to clutch the ship’s rail.

“Are they so available to you that I am not a temptation?”

“You are every bright lure a man could want.”

“And you resist with every word. And yearn with every look. Every kindness.”

“You are so far above me.”

She let out a laugh. “A princess without a land—without a home, without money or influence? A woman who ruined herself?”

He whirled and gripped her. In the act, he brought her full against him. The press of her lithe body was a nightmare that sent him into a hell filled with the golden aura of all that she was to him. “I am your escort. Only that.”

She shook back her unbound hair, and in her violet eyes was a prayer. “Can you not be my friend?”

“Yes, that.”

“Nor my lover?”

“No. Never. You know it to be true.”

“Do I?”

“We return to England, and the queen will find you a different man to marry. One you’ll like, even love.”

“I’ve already found him myself.”

He glared at her. “One with a home and family you can be proud of.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“No. You must not be.”

She sighed and put a hand to his heart. “You may not say you love me, but this”—she burrowed her hand beneath his waistcoat to his shirt—“this beats wildly. I know it is for me. But you are stubborn. Such a pity. You waste so much time, my darling man.”

He stepped toward her, ready to gather her to him, take her, kiss her, taste the depths of her.

But she inched backward. “You have no idea how patient a woman can be.” She tilted her head and smiled serenely at him. “I can wait. I will hate it. But I can wait. How long will you hold out?”

She tsked, then walked away to gather her brother, sister, and old, wet Rolf, and shoo them down the steps to the ungodly quarters.

*

Through wind and rain, storm and thunder, each night Dirk and she shared the cramped wooden bunk.

There was little choice how to position their bodies. They’d learned how to lie on other beds, how to sleep conveniently close, slumbering in each other’s surrender to the tiny space.

But on this small schooner navigating a raging sea, their challenge to sleep together became a battle. This was to be their last span of hours together before they landed in England and headed to Fournier Park along the southern coast. With that looming over them, they gazed at each other as they took to the ridiculously tiny berth. They slept in their clothes, in the thick layers of their coats. The layers provided an insulation to the desire that in the night drew them instinctively into each other’s embrace. Dirk understood in his heart that what they did together, how they lay together, would be the greatest gift they gave each other—and the final one.

*

Their miserable crossing of the North Sea took seven days and nights. The storm and the French had them meandering north, south, and west.

“Tomorrow, we should reach Yarmouth,” Durand told them.

Liesel stepped down into their alcove as the sun lowered to the glassy sea’s horizon, feeling her heart clamp with sorrow. This was the end of her time with Dirk. Never to be duplicated. Ever to live her memory.

Dirk had stayed above, talking with Durand on deck. Nikky and Katrin had followed Liesel down, climbing into their hammocks. Excited that tomorrow this torture was over, they, as children could, slept deeply at once.

Liesel huddled into her wool pelisse and took her place carefully on the bed. Sorrow rushed through her like a tidal wave. She knew not how long it would take to travel from Yarmouth to Kent, but it had to be days, a week at most. That meant she would lose Dirk soon, never to regain him. So when he came and quietly, deliberately arranged himself along the arcs and planes of her body, she lay still. Not even a breath between them.

He took her hand and squeezed it against his thigh. It was more than he had ever done as they lay together. More than she’d expected tonight. And so, in the still black night, she slid nearer.

She felt his every inhalation, her own deep, soft. She smelled him, his skin sleek and musky. She snuggled nearer and dared to taste him. He was all man, his arm going around her, enveloping her, absorbing her into him as she dipped the tip of her tongue into the crevice behind his ear, along his throat, down to the hollow and his heart.

There she counted the beating of his blood, growing louder, throbbing against her lips.

She lifted one of his hands from her tangled hair and nipped the pads of his fingertips. He caught a swift breath and let her nuzzle his palm. His wrist was her favorite, his pulse pounding against her mouth. She nudged away his sleeves. The fine hair covering his forearm was like silk, the crook of his elbow a fine enchantment.

And there was the span of his chest. Broad, lean, and sculpted. She could push back on one elbow and admire it in the shards of moonlight fracturing the tempest-filled night. Here too, he had a dusting of hair, coarser than on his arms, but a mass she buried her nose into, imbibing how his ribs expanded with appreciation and surprise at her caresses and her pleasure.

One leg over his thighs told Liesel his delight in her raged through him. She could easily hover over him, encourage more, take more, but dropped her forehead to his chest and stayed her desires.

He inhaled, sank his fingers into her hair, and brought up her head. In the stark rays of light, she saw his torment. “I cannot take you only for one hour, Liesel. I would have to have all of you.”

She knew his strength, his ethics, his morality would not permit him.

The next sound in the room was her gasp of heartbreak. He would not have her. Would not take her. How could she show him she did not care about tomorrow? Or England? The queen? His ragged reputation?

She knew he did not denigrate hers. He loved her for it.

And that fact alone made her halt—and stare at him.

Then, with the knowledge stuck firm in her mind that he did love her, she promised herself she would find a way to remove some of those barriers.

She rolled off him, curving her body along the strong planes of his. One arm around his chest, she snuggled against him.

He accepted her, cradling her close as the two lovers they were in spirit, if not yet body.

But she would work for that. In England, she would ask for an audience with the queen. Not ask, but notify. That was what she would do. No one would drag her to an altar. She’d proven that once before when the queen’s equerry had come, lied to her, and tried to trick her into going to Hanover Square Church.

She’d need money. Some. She hoped she had some left from her allowance in London banks from two years ago. To save whatever was left, she would economize. First, she would cancel the lease on her little Hanover Square house. She also would have to verify if Becker could still get her allowance into London through Rothschild’s bank. With Bonaparte on the advance into Germany, the Frenchman could disrupt finances. She’d seen him bungle his own country’s, degrading its value and ignoring financiers’ pleas for stability.

Of course, she’d have to go to her contact at the Foreign Office and notify him of her arrival, tell him the tale of the woeful conditions in Northern Europe.

Lord Carlisle, a shrewd politician and agent, would welcome her appearance. His assistance to set her up in Paris had been vital to her masquerade there, although he’d had no influence on her entrance to René Vaillancourt’s household as a kitchen maid. That little deceit was her own doing. But she was that assured her intelligence had reached Carlisle through the efforts of two women. One was a widow who worked as a governess to a French naval officer. Giselle Laurent had run Liesel’s information through a lady who traveled the Loire River and Normandy up to Calais.

She smiled to herself in the dark of night. She had opportunities to rid herself of royal duties. She might never change her reputation as a crown princess of bad behavior. She cared not what the ton thought of her—and her reputation in England mattered not at all to Dirk.

He knew who she really was. And he loved her as she was. He need speak no words to verify her belief. His every action declared it. His reluctance now to take her completely to him proved it.

In the same vein, if she could not illustrate in words what she intended, she would show him by her actions.

What worth were mere sounds when deeds were the music of love?

On a deep sigh, she placed her lips to the hollow behind his ear and kissed him there.

She would tell him she loved him…and more when she was done.