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The blood thundering in his ears, he lowered his head until his lips almost touched hers. The scent of roses filled his nostrils. At once she drew closer. Before he could decide how to proceed, her lips met his full on.

Reacting purely by instinct, his lips responded to hers tentatively. He expected her to pull away at any moment in disgust.

Instead her lips parted beneath his.

He lost all reason.

His fingers dug into her shoulders, drawing her closer. Her mouth was more than he had ever dared dream—soft, pliant, warm, sweet. He couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arms around her, until her body was flush against his.

Instead of pulling away in shock, she only clasped him more tightly about the neck, deepening the kiss.

For the next few minutes, all thought was drowned out by the roar of his own blood. Nothing mattered to him but the warmth of her lips eagerly searching his.

He touched her cheek, soft as down, and trailed his fingers over its
curve, down her arched neck, feeling the pulse at its base. He rubbed her chin with his thumb as his fingertips caressed her earlobe, as if to memorize every bit of her.

His hands moved downward the length of her back, feeling her contours through the thin silk of her costume. He forgot his purpose for being there, forgot the war, his position at the Foreign Office, all his ambitions and goals . . . all he wanted was Céline. He wanted to shout out her name.

He envisioned laughing with her, talking, sharing everything. But where, how? How could their two lives ever be joined here on earth when their countries were at war? When he was betraying his own by kissing her like this?

Did she even know who was kissing her? Would she kiss a stranger with such abandon, or was she merely toying with him?—these thoughts collided with the overwhelming desire he felt for her, sobering him and bringing him back to some semblance of reality. With an effort of will, he drew apart enough to search her eyes. Her chest was heaving, like his, her eyes watching him. Yet, she didn’t remove her hands from around his neck.

“Do you think he is gone?” she mouthed barely above a whisper.

The words jolted him as nothing else could. He’d completely forgotten the reason for their kiss, too caught up in his dreams.

But she had not.

Unlike him, she had not lost her head. She was probably accustomed to playing such games of deceit. The bitter thought spread like acid in his gut.

He eased away from her some more, this time both physically and emotionally, though still unwilling to let her go completely. He glanced behind her, studying the dark path and surrounding bushes. “I think we can trust so. Or, at least, that he is fooled by our . . . performance.”

“Will you . . . will you escort me back, please?”

He hid his surprise that she still wanted his company. What of her rendezvous? “Yes.” Almost mechanically, he offered her his arm, and
she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. Without thought, he covered it with his other hand, as if to keep her closer to him, loath to break the contact between them, even now. He guided her over the dark path, no longer mindful of how much sound their footsteps made.

Neither spoke. His thoughts were too full of what he’d just experienced with her to be able to think of the reason she’d been out there in the first place.

When they neared the terrace, before emerging into the torch-lit portion of the path, she stopped and gently extricated her hand from his. He let her go and stepped away from her.

“I think it best if we part here,” she said softly.

“Yes—” He stopped himself before adding “my lady.”

She reached out and cupped his cheek with the hand she’d just loosened from his grasp, startling him with her warm touch.

“
Merci, mon cher
pirate.”

He gazed down at her, a profound disappointment—and longing—filling him. Ruthlessly, he shoved the feelings down. Too much was at stake for sentiment. “At your service.” He bowed and forced himself to walk away from her.

Céline waited just long enough for MacKinnon to disappear into the palace before following him inside. Her legs shook so badly she was afraid she would collapse before reaching her rooms.

What had she done? Not only kissed but passionately embraced a man who was out to destroy her. She’d surrendered herself completely the moment his lips had touched hers, with no thought to her own safety.

She had not abandoned herself so to a man, not even to Stéphane, and never to her own husband.

He spoke almost flawless French. He was employed in her household, and it was clear after tonight that he was watching her every move.

Where had he learned French so well? It only made her realize how little she knew of him.

The questions went around and around in her head with no answers. And yet a part of her didn’t care—would give anything to be in MacKinnon’s arms again. She smothered a wild laugh—she didn’t even know his real name! She couldn’t think beyond the kiss she had just enjoyed with him . . . who above anything else was strong, watchful . . . and kind. He had warned her of someone following her.

Her mind homed in on that fact, forgotten until now.

It wouldn’t have been Roland. He would have been at the temple ahead of her.

Taking up a taper and lighting it from a branch of candles, Céline made her way to her room. She had to think.

Finally reaching it, she closed the door behind her and affixed the taper in a stand without bothering to light any more candles. She didn’t want any brighter light to see herself at the moment. Would her wantonness be written all over her features?

Thankful that Valentine was nowhere about, Céline sank down on her bed, removing her hat and taking off the mask. She gazed at it in the dark. Hateful thing that had unloosed a wild, unknown fiend in her.

She had lived for years without giving herself to any man. What was it about this . . . this butler—this spy—this Brit—that had her forgetting all propriety, all caution?

How could she have kissed him like that? Heat filled her face at the memory of her boldness in offering MacKinnon her lips. How could he have responded so passionately? Had she given him any indication before tonight that she would accept such an improper advance from her butler? Shame and consternation filled her. What must he think of her?

And why did it matter? She covered her mouth with her hand, forgetting everything else in the memory of the feel of his lips on hers.

If he indeed was her enemy, why hadn’t he betrayed her? Why had he come to warn her tonight?

The thought brought her to a standstill. Why would an Englishman do this?

She didn’t know who he was or what his game was. She remembered his question to her.
What game are you about?
She patted her chest and felt the crinkle of paper. It was no game.

She would have to think of another way to give the papers to Roland before they were discovered missing.

After scouting the grounds for some minutes more, Rees returned to the ballroom. He hadn’t seen anyone more—other than couples on genuine assignations.

He surveyed the ballroom again, but he didn’t see Lady Wexham’s harlequin costume. As his gaze returned to the doorway, it narrowed on Monsieur de la Roche. Dressed in a somber black outfit with a white ruff of the Commedia dell’Arte’s doctor, he stood there doing the same thing Rees was doing, surveying the company.

A chill traveled up Rees’s spine. He’d seen a patch of white like the collar in the dark, and the wide-brimmed hat was the same as that of the dark figure who had followed Lady Wexham.

De la Roche’s gaze crossed his then doubled back as if he’d seen something of interest in Rees. Rees quickly looked down then pretended to focus on a lady. He walked toward her and bowed, asking for the dance.

When he was able to glance back at the doorway from his position on the dance floor, de la Roche was gone.

Forced to continue the dance, Rees couldn’t leave the ballroom to go in search of him. All he could do was fret about Lady Wexham’s safety.

When he was finally free of his dance partner, Rees left the ballroom but saw no more sign of Lady Wexham. He returned to the attics and stripped off the costume and donned his butler clothes.

Off with one role and back to the other. Harrison MacKinnon, butler.
At your service, my lady. As you wish, my lady. I am yours to command . . .

It was exactly what he’d done this evening. She had led, and he had followed like a pup. He clutched the pirate garments loosely in his hands, reliving those moments in her arms. What had he done?
Like a lamb led to the slaughter . . .
He gave a dry, humorless laugh. Except he was no innocent to claim he’d been forced into something. He’d gone along eagerly, fully participating in the kiss.

His thoughts turned reluctantly to Jessamine, the young lady he considered himself promised to, although nothing had as yet been declared between the two of them.

How little romantic feeling had come into his choice of wife. He’d found her company pleasing, but beyond that, he’d measured her assets: a well-brought-up young lady, demure, modest, well able to take care of a man’s household, and who would be satisfied with a man such as he—one who could provide adequately but who was by no means wealthy. She had been raised frugally. He knew her mother and approved of her having taught her daughter all the important aspects of running a house.

Now, Rees frowned down at the garments in his hand, contrasting the man he’d been tonight with the one he’d known all these long years of abstinence and sacrificial toil to achieve . . . what? Bringing his mother and sister back to the level they used to be—deserved to be—before his father’s business had gone bankrupt . . . and to be able to support a wife and children someday?

He’d never thought of himself as a romantic person . . . not since he’d been a youth and found himself deep in the throes of calf-love for the daughter of a wealthy, neighboring baron.

Priscilla Edgecomb. They’d lived in Bristol then, his father a successful merchant. Rees had been home on a brief leave from the navy. At eighteen he’d been full of ambition. Although his father’s fortune had not yet undergone the reversals brought about by the blockade, the baron had made it known to him in no uncertain terms that a suit was unwelcome from a merchant’s son.

Rees had learned the hard lesson back then not to aspire to a lady
above his station. A baron and a tradesman came from two different worlds.

His thoughts came full circle. What about his regard for Jessamine? He couldn’t even name it love. Was he so coldhearted?

An image of Céline as his wife once again rose to his mind.

No! He mustn’t even entertain such thoughts.

15

C
éline forced her thoughts to what she must do next. Banishing all foolish yearnings, she picked up the taper, which had burned halfway, then turned the key in her lock. This time she lit a branch of candles and placed it on her desk.

Unbuttoning her costume, she extracted the papers she had stolen from the Comte’s room and spread them out. She’d have to put it in code before dawn no matter how long it took her.

Then she had best return to London. It was becoming too risky to meet with Roland at Hartwell.

With a sigh, she picked up her pen and drew her inkwell forward. It would be a long night.

A few hours later, she sat back and eased her aching muscles. The sky was becoming pink on the horizon. But she was finished. She glanced down at her papers with satisfaction.

She folded the original documents and stood, debating a moment.

It was too late to try to return them to the Comte’s room. It was too risky. By now the servants would have awakened. Too many people surrounded him. By daylight, the documents’ disappearance would be discovered. She would have to destroy them and hope that no one linked their disappearance to her departure. With all the
people leaving Hartwell after the masquerade, she would be only one among dozens of departing guests. She’d have to invent some pressing need to suddenly return to London. She’d dash a note to the Comte, which Valentine could give his valet later.

She glanced around her room. In a short while Valentine would come by. Kneeling by the hearth, Céline laid the papers on the sooty stone surface then touched a corner with the remains of a candle. The paper began to smoke and curl and finally caught light.

It flared, and in a moment the pages were in flames. With a stick of kindling, she nudged them to ensure that all were consumed.

It had been a long night, but she was still not through. She had come to some decisions in the predawn hours.

She would take only her own traveling coach and leave Valentine behind to finish packing and to organize the other servants to follow at a more leisurely pace later. She knew Valentine would protest, but Céline would insist.

She would take only Jacob and MacKinnon, who could act once again as outrider. Tom would stay behind to accompany Valentine and the other maids when they returned by hired coach.

As for how she would face MacKinnon . . .

Biting her lip, gazing down at the ashes on the hearth, she determined
not
to let on that she had recognized him. She pictured his tiny scar and wished she could touch it now.

No! She must forget this kiss.

Last night had been an aberration, but a new day had returned her to sanity. That person she had allowed to break free for a few minutes was back in its secret place.

Brushing off her hands, Céline went to the washbasin to rinse her hands and shed the clothes of dreams and fantasy. After hiding the new encoded papers behind the covers of a portfolio of other writings and household notes, Céline put on her nightgown and collapsed in her bed, hoping for an hour or two of sleep.

It seemed she had just closed her eyes when she heard Valentine’s
off-key singing in French. But a glance at the clock told her it was almost eight. She had too much to do and very little time. Throwing off her covers, she braced herself to give Valentine her instructions. As she had expected, Valentine’s first words were protest. “I will not be left behind! How are you going to do without me for even a day?” As if to emphasize her words, she gave a jerk to the corset laces.