Free Mary Blayney by Traitors Kiss; Lovers Kiss

his eyes again. He took a step back to the table, picked up his glass of brandy and finished it quickly. Charlotte felt the power begin to shift her way.
    “It is you who assign the worth,” she said as she tried to calculate how much he had drunk. “I prefer to think of myself as honest as I can be under the circumstances.”
    “You mean the circumstances of coming to France in all manner of disguises? Deceiving everyone but a chosen few with half-truths and outright lies. Your brand of honesty is convenient,” he spoke as he refilled his glass.
    “Yes, it is, my lord.” The last two words were an insult.
    “You remind me that I am a spy.” He made a gesture as if to brush the insult away. “Tell me how we are different, for are you not a spy as well?”
    “I have not been named a traitor.” She stood up, pulled the robe closed and faced him. “And you have. That, Gabriel Pennistan, is the real difference between our stations in life.”
    Any dominance she had lost in allowing him to undress her and massage her feet, she had regained with that truth.
    “Are you convinced a death sentence awaits me? If so, why should I even go back to England?”
    “You have no other choice. No money, no clothes, none of the papers the French are so fond of.” She could see the reality of her words strike him. “Your brother sits in the House of Lords. Perhaps his influence will save you.”
    There was a tap at the door as she was about to mention the possibility of prison. Instead she called out,
“Entrez.”
The door opened a crack. No one came in, but a man’s voice carried across to them, “Your bedchamber is ready, madame.”
    “Merci bien, monsieur.”
    The servant closed the door. Charlotte considered Lord Gabriel, looking belligerent rather than loverlike. “I remind you, my lord, whether I be prostitute or whore, for now the play continues.”

8

    T HE ROOM WAS on the third floor, and by the time Gabriel had followed Charlotte up the stairs, fatigue pulled at him. Made him wonder if he had the strength to take off his clothes before he fell across the bed.
    His muddled brain was still trying to sort out the difference between whore and prostitute. What did it matter? Even slightly drunk he understood that she was the kind of woman willing to share her body and nothing more. What made him think he wanted more than her legs wrapped around him, her body welcoming his?
    The door to the room was ajar. Charlotte pushed it open farther and went in. Gabriel tripped through and grabbed the frame to steady himself, then pushed the door closed until he heard it click shut. He leaned against it, trying to take in his surroundings, lit by the fire and two candles. One thing he could see quite clearly: a bed, large enough for two. He stepped toward it. He might be drunk, but he knew what that bed meant.
    She used a key to lock the door, and the sound of it grating shut sent a bolt of panic through him. Gabriel grabbed her wrist. “Do not lock the door.”
    “You do not want privacy?” Her surprise gave way to understanding. “I will put the key on that table so neither one of us feels trapped.”
    “You could take it the minute I fall asleep.”
    “You may put it under your pillow.” She made to hand it to him, the word
fool
implicit in her tone. “The room is too small to hide it.”
    “The table, then,” he said. “You are right, I am trusting you with my life while I sleep. Worry over the key is absurd in the face of that.” He stepped away from the door, barely able to stand on his own. “Did you drug me?”
    “Stop being ridiculous. You were the one who poured the brandy, and my hands were shaking too much to do anything secretly. You are exhausted. I cannot credit how you have lasted this long.”
    She took his still-damp coat from him and went behind a screen that must be used as a dressing area or for privacy. He undressed for the third time that day. He was out of his clothes before she could turn back