What a Hero Dares

She turned back to face the man, studying his features in the flickering light from the small torch. “Why are you telling me this? For all you know, I could use such information against Max, against all of you.”

“I’m not quite certain why. Perhaps it was the way you reached out your hand as if to touch him and then turned away before he might see you. Or it might have been the tears in your eyes that blinded you to my approach. You’ve both been quite interesting to watch these past minutes. When you stand at a distance, see only the gestures, without hearing the words? Sometimes, young lady, that’s when the heart hears more clearly than the ears ever will.”

Zoé looked at Richard levelly. “Your heart and eyes deceive you, sir. Max has no heart, and neither do I. We’re cold, fairly terrible people, intent only on survival.”

“And the game,” Richard added, raising one eyebrow. “I lived by my wits at the card tables for the majority of my life, young lady, traveling all of England and the Continent. Always in search of the next adventure. To win, yes, winning is always important, as one can become accustomed to regular meals and a dry bed. But it isn’t paramount for people like us. We’re different from most of the world, aren’t we? For people like us, it’s the thrill of the hunt, the chances you take. The risks that make your blood pump hot in your veins, always skating on the thin ice of detection and even death—and feeding off that danger. That’s what I see in you, in Max. Together, you must have been pure beauty to watch in action.”

A hundred memories came crashing unbidden into Zoé’s mind. “Yes, we were both quite good at what we did. Thank you, Richard, for reminding me,” she said simply before heading toward the end of the tunnel, eager to get out from beneath the crushing confinement of the boulders overhead. “I’d say it’s time to go meet the family.”

CHAPTER TWO

MAX LAY BACK in his bath, his injured head propped against a thick, soft length of toweling. He’d vowed never to see her again, never ask about her, never think about her. He’d willed his heart and mind to forget her.

And then, there she was. Here she is. Under his brother’s roof and his grandmother’s at least temporary protection thanks to Richard Borders, and disturbingly back in his life. Clearly not forgotten.

Zoé. Blonde, beautiful, courageous, passionate, daring, clever. Lying, cold-hearted, devious, deadly Zoé Charbonneau.

From the beginning they’d been inseparable, paired together by the Crown and sent off to the Continent. First as wary partners, then as friends, then as lovers; they’d variously played the parts of siblings, husband and wife, priest and holy sister.

They’d even been so daring as to attend one of Bonaparte’s luxurious fetes as minor Flemish royalty, Max standing guard outside Boney’s private office after midnight while Zoé rifled through the drawers of his desk. She’d committed two dispatches from his field marshals to memory and then pocketed a small crystal paperweight bearing a gold eagle, just so the man would know someone had breeched his supposed impenetrable security—yet have no idea what information had been compromised.

Max’s contribution, a week later, had been to wrap up the paperweight and post it back to Paris, even as Zoé scolded him that such an action might be considered rubbing salt into an open wound.

And then she’d laughed, and he’d laughed, and they’d made love in the hayloft of a barn just outside Marseilles.

They’d been so good together. In every way.

They’d come together in passion in more than a dozen countries, sometimes in rainy meadows, sometimes on silken sheets, at times in leisure and other times in haste, to rejoice, or to conquer unspoken fear after near disaster.

They were two. They were one. They thought alike, anticipated each other’s every move, guarded each other’s back.

How many times had Max begged her to give up the game and allow him to take her to Redgrave Manor? Where she’d be safe, where he would visit her when he could, where he wouldn’t have to worry about her.

And how many times had she told him no, she couldn’t live not knowing where he was, the dangers he faced. They’d begun together and they would finish together, only when Bonaparte accepted true terms of truce, and proved his word. Until then, with war formally declared or not, they would live out their oath to the king.

Besides, if they’d only admit it, they were having themselves the adventure of a lifetime. Existing on the edge of danger and heart-pounding tension, loving freely and fiercely, relishing each new challenge, each victory, applauding each other for their combined brilliance. Were any other two people ever so alive?

Was any one fool ever so badly hoodwinked and betrayed?

“Dozing, or fading into unconsciousness again?”

Max opened his eyes, grateful to be rescued from his thoughts. “Gideon,” he said flatly. “If you’re referring to that moment climbing the hill to the horses, I did not swoon. I stumbled.”

“And quite gracefully at that. In either event, it’s a good thing your new friend was behind you. You’ll have to tell me more about him.”

“I’ll do that, just as soon as I know more than that I woke on the beach with him looming over me with that extraordinary grin of his, as if I’d just mightily delighted him. Now, can I safely assume you’re it as far as unwanted company tonight, or is Trixie close on your heels?”

“She’s otherwise occupied, welcoming home her new husband,” Gideon said as he shifted Max’s clothing from chair to floor and sat down. “You’ve missed a lot, Max, but you can hear it all tomorrow, after Jessica and I have departed for London.”

“You have a meeting with Perceval?”

“No, not this time. In fact, we’re rather avoiding each other, the prime minster and I. He nearly had Valentine clapped in irons, a sentiment I’ve shared more than once, but that also is another story, and I won’t deny our youngest brother the delight I’m sure he’ll bathe in as he tells it. Only then should you allow Kate to corner you and tell you all about how wonderful love with her marquis is, which can be damned embarrassing when we’re more used to her challenging us to races.”

“Kate and Simon Ravenhill. Kate with anybody for that matter. It will be a while until I get used to that, although Val being conked on the head by Cupid’s shovel, as he explained the thing to me, probably is the news that really bears off the palm. I’m on the Continent, risking my life, and all anyone here has been doing is billing and cooing.”

“You underestimate your siblings. I’d say we’ve been doing a trifle more than that since last you and I spoke. As have you.”

Gideon’s tone told Max that, athough there would be questions to come concerning how and why he’d been on the smuggling craft, he and Zoé would be the only topic of discussion tonight. “Just ask your questions and then leave me to my misery. My head’s pounding as it is.”

“And you look like hell, there’s also that.”

“While you’re always impeccable,” Max said, “even when running about on a moonlit beach like some revenue officer, rounding up smugglers.”

“I don’t know about that, but I do manage to shave.”

“I shave,” Max protested, rubbing his face. Zoé used to shave him. He’d actually trusted her with a straight razor.

“If you say so, although I’d be interested in hearing how you do that, and yet always look as if you haven’t. Although I will admit you look less the too-pretty young Greek god with half your face fuzzy. Is that your hope?”

“I won’t deny that. But as I said, I do shave. Every three or four days.”

“Such a pity I’ve yet to be in your company on any of those glorious days.”

“Are you finished now? Or is this leading us somewhere?”

“No,” Gideon said, tugging lightly at his shirt cuffs. “I’d just realized we hadn’t yet welcomed you home in our usual loving, brotherly way.” He smiled at his brother. “Welcome home, Max.”

His older brother bore the closest resemblance to their Spanish mother. Dark, smoldering, his bearing both aristocratic and intimidating. Max had visited the bullring while in Spain, and had no trouble visualizing Gideon dressed all in gold and black, standing with his long legs tightly together, his spine bent gracefully back as he swirled the red-lined cape daringly, encouraging the bull to charge. With Gideon, however, it was the ton he dared, the ton he ruled, seemingly with no effort on his part. If Max had a hero when he was growing up, it had been Gideon.

Now he wished he’d just go away. But he’d really like to hear more about Richard Borders, the man Max knew only as a friend of Jessica, Gideon’s recent bride.

“Before you launch your inquisition—tell me about Richard Borders and Trixie. That’s going to take some getting used to, as well, you know. I thought she hated men...on general principles, I mean, which had nothing to do with bedding every last man in England.” Max had already stepped out of the tub and wrapped the toweling sheet around his waist. “Here, give me those,” he said, motioning toward the clothes on the floor. “They may be two years away from the latest style, but that doesn’t mean they deserve such shabby treatment.”

“Four years, at the least. It’s been a long time since you’ve graced Redgrave Manor with your presence.” Gideon handed over the clothes. “Oh, and not every last man. Only those she thought useful, trainable, biddable, and—is this a word? Blackmailable?”

“Probably more of a description.” Having drawn on a pair of tan breeches, Max shoved his damp arms into a white shirt with flowing sleeves, the unturned cuffs sliding down to his fingertips, the shirttails hanging. He didn’t bother to close more than a few of the buttons before adding a red and black paisley waistcoat, also left open.

“Always the epitome of style and precise grooming. It still amazes me why women are so drawn to you,” Gideon said, shaking his head. “All that’s missing, other than hose and shoes—and underdrawers—are those damn blue-lens spectacles you were wearing last I saw you in London. For which, may I say, you have my enormous gratitude. The scruffy facial hair is more than sufficient.”

“Don’t be too grateful. They’re around here somewhere, not cracked or even slightly bent. What do you want to know, Gideon? I’ve still got business tonight.”

“Yes, and that’s why I’m here. I’ve never before had a guest—allow me to clarify that, a female guest at the Manor locked up for the night. And we haven’t even been formally introduced.”

“You make it sound as if we keep a dungeon.” Max grabbed up his brushes and began working his way through his damp, faintly shaggy black hair that fell from a slight center part to below his ears, swearing under his breath as one of the brushes hit the now barely scabbed-over bump on the side of his head. “I told you her name. Zoé. Zoé Charbonneau.”

He then headed for his bedchamber, knowing Gideon would follow him, which he did.

Gideon turned around a straight chair and straddled it as Max looked toward the door to the hallway. His brother was demonstrating how this was all just a friendly chat. That was one way of seeing the thing. But what the move really meant was sit down, Max, because you’re going nowhere until I know all I want to know. Sit down, now. “Lovely name. French, although her English is perfect, not that you allowed for more than three words before having her sent off to the Manor. But that does nothing but spur more questions.”