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Sinclair did not look as though he agreed, but he vented a sigh of frustrated acceptance. “You just be careful around that man, Angel. Do you hear me?”

Sinclair’s commanding tone should have irritated her, but strangely it did not. She gave a shaky laugh. “I am always careful, Mr. Carrington. But if Lazare wanted vengeance, believe me, he would have tried to take it long ago. He is not a subtle man.”

“All the same, I would never turn my back on him for long, especially on board the packet. I don’t want you anywhere near him on that open deck.”

“No fear of that. I will spend the entire crossing below in one of the cabins.” Although it hurt her pride to admit to what she considered a foolish weakness, Belle said, “I am frequently prey to seasickness.”

Sinclair’s grim expression softened. “So is Admiral Lord Nelson,” he told her with a grin.

“Truly, is he?” Belle asked eagerly, then eyed him with suspicion. “Sinclair, you made that up.”

“No, upon my honor, I did not.”

Whether Sinclair had or hadn’t, it didn’t matter. Once again he had lightened her mood and charmed a smile from her. She became aware that he was yet grasping her hands. Rather reluctantly she disengaged herself.

They strolled some little ways along the dock together in companionable silence. Having resisted accepting Sinclair as a partner, it occurred to Belle that she had learned to be comfortable with him in a short space of time. He was so easy to talk to?—

Too easy, she thought, frowning. What other man had ever induced her to reveal painful episodes of her past or to expose her weaknesses?

Especially a man who was a virtual stranger to her.

What did she truly know of Sinclair Carrington?

Belle cast a sharp glance at him. He gazed out across the rough channel waters, making no effort to shield his already sun-bronzed features from the elements, seeming to take a keen enjoyment in the wind that tousled his hair and snapped the ends of his coat.

His face indicated nothing to her except the countenance of a handsome rakehell, too damnably attractive from the lazy arrogance of his smile to the heat that radiated from his eyes when he looked at her.

Perhaps it was time she posed a few questions of her own. Belle halted so abruptly that Sinclair outstripped her by several steps, his boots ringing against the weather-beaten boards of the dock. When he realized she was no longer with him, he turned back, his thick brows arching an inquiry.

“Sinclair, I have been thinking—” she began.

“That sounds rather alarming, Angel.”

She refused to be put off by his teasing. “You have learned some things about me these past ten days. Yet I still know next to nothing about you.”

A certain wariness crept into his eyes. “What did you want to know?”

“To start with, you know my motive for working for Victor Merchant, but what about yours? And don’t try to tell me you are a devoted royalist, because I don’t think I will believe it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying to humbug you, Angel. Quite simply, I work for the money. I am a soldier of fortune, an adventurer, the same as you. Didn’t I tell you at the outset that you and I have a great deal in common?”

His voice had dropped to an intimate pitch that she found as warm as a caress. Belle tried to ignore the way her pulse quickened in response.

“But despite how much money Merchant was offering,” she said, “you seemed most reluctant to accept this assignment, traveling to France?—”

“Speaking of traveling—” Sinclair reached inside the flap of his coat. “I have our passport right here.”

Was he trying to distract her? It was not going to work. He would soon discover she could be as persistent with her questions as he. When Sinclair offered the traveling papers to her, Belle snatched them and subjected them to the most cursory inspection, intending to thrust them right back at him.

She hesitated as one line of the scrawled print leaped out at her. Issued to Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair Carrington, accompanied by one maidservant, Paulette Beauvais.

“Mrs. Carrington?” She subjected Sinclair to an icy glare. “I wasn’t aware that you were bringing your mother along.”

“You know full well that refers to you, Angel. I decided it would be best if you pretended to be my wife.”

“You decided! It is my habit to select my own roles, Mr. Carrington.” She slapped the passport back into his hand so hard that he winced. “And if you think for one moment I will?—”

“Hold a moment, Belle, and reason it through clearly. If we hope to get near Napoleon, we will have to invade the upper reaches of French society. To do that we have to appear respectable.”

“I could pretend to be your sister.”

Sinclair’s eyes drifted over her in one of those lingering appraisals that never failed to set her nerve endings a-tingle. “I would never be able to make anyone believe you were my sister. We look nothing alike. Besides, as a married woman, you will have greater freedom of movement.”

She hated to admit it, but Sinclair’s arguments made sense, although she still distrusted his motives. Exactly how far would he try to take this pretense?

While Sinclair returned the offending document to his pocket, she grumbled, “Do you truly think you can carry it off? Frankly, you strike me as too much of a rake to convince anyone that you are a married man.”

A mischievous glint appeared in Sinclair’s eyes. “You can always give me the opportunity to practice.”

Belle stiffened. That was exactly the sort of attitude upon Sinclair’s part that she feared.

Before she could prevent it, he had slipped both arms about her waist and was drawing her closer.

Belle splayed her fingers defensively against his chest. Even through the layers of fabric, she could feel how tautly honed were the muscles beneath.

“This is not how respectable married people behave,” she said, her heart beating erratically.

“No? This is how I would behave if you were my bride.”

He was teasing her, as he was so fond of doing.

Perhaps it would have ended there if their eyes had not chanced to meet.

A spark of attraction coursed between them as undefinable as it was irresistible.

Sinclair’s easy smile vanished, his expression becoming more intent as he drew her closer.

Her hands suddenly seemed too weak to hold him at bay.

As his mouth slowly descended to claim hers, a tremor shot through Belle.

His lips tasted of the salt sea air. Her resistance melted, and her lips became soft and pliant, allowing his questing tongue to explore the sensitive recesses of her mouth in slow, fire-wrought circles.

Desire flickered to life, stirring a sweet ache deep within her, a need that she had denied for far too long.

She retained enough sense to break free of Sinclair’s all too seductive kiss and turn her head aside. “No,” she said as his lips caressed her temple, the side of her cheek, his breath hot upon her skin. “We agreed that we should not- This is not wise— I—oh!”

Her protest ended in an exclamation of dismay. She found herself staring deep into a pair of wide gray eyes that peered up at her from beneath the brim of a straw hat. Bare yards away, a small boy with wind-tossed sandy curls watched her and Sinclair with unblinking fascination.

“Sinclair!” Belle wrenched out of his arms. “We have an audience.”

“Hmmm?” Sinclair’s ardor appeared to wax too hot for him to make sense of her words.

Then he saw the boy, too, and grimaced as though just doused with cold water.

A blush surged into Belle’s cheeks. If their passionate embrace had attracted ribald comments from one of the dockhands, that would somehow have been less embarrassing than the child’s innocent regard.

For once, even Sinclair seemed at a loss for words.

It was the boy who broke the tension. His snub nose crinkled like a rabbit’s. He scratched it and broke into a grin whose charm was enhanced by a missing tooth.

“I like kissing pwitty girls, too,” he announced.

After a moment of stunned silence, Sinclair flung back his head and gave a shout of laughter. Belle’s lips curved into a reluctant smile.

“But I like sweets better,” the boy added.

“Do you indeed? That will change when you grow a little older” Still chuckling, Sinclair slipped his hand inside his coat. He produced a small tin of peppermints, which he flicked open to share with the child.

Not in the least shy, the little boy dipped into the tin and crunched down upon one of the drops. “It’s hawder to eat when your tooth gets knocked out by a wock,” he confided, his mouth full.

Sinclair solemnly agreed, popping a peppermint into his own mouth and savoring it with the same boyish relish as the child did. When he noticed Belle’s surprised stare, he said, “I have a sweet tooth, Angel—another of my vices.”

“You appear to have so many of them, Mr. Carrington.”

“At least this is one of my harmless ones.” He cast her a wicked look, his gaze lingering on her lips, which yet felt tender from his kiss.

A kiss that would not happen again, Belle vowed.

Deciding to ignore Sinclair, it seemed by far safer to concentrate upon the child, who was emptying Sinclair’s tin.

She stooped down so that she was at eye level with the boy’s piquant features.

She straightened his straw hat, which had been buffeted by the wind.

The boy reminded her of an element there had never been any place for in her life—children.

Once soon after her marriage, she had hoped, but a fall from a horse had taken care of that.

A son like this with bright gray eyes and sandy curls was but one more thing that would forever be denied her.

Brushing aside a wave of self-pity, Belle asked, “What is your name, young sir?”

She had to wait several seconds until the boy chewed and swallowed, “John-Jack.”

“And how old are you, John-Jack?”