Free The Forbidden Rose by Joanna Bourne Page A

find this natural, considering the men I have met lately.”
    Damn, but I like you. “Does it help if I apologize? I shouldn’t have touched you the way I did. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
    “It is not important. What happened between us was a . . . a nothing. It was the most insignificant of kisses.”
    “Was it now?”
    “I became involved in it. For one moment only.” She looked down in her lap, to where she was twisting up the linen of the fichu. She had a little blush on her, just across the top of her cheeks. “It was a small mistake.”
    “I’m glad to know you feel that way.”
    “You are pleased to be ironic. But, in truth, it was not your fault. You were under great temptation. I do not boast when I say that. I was naked, after all, and you are a man.”
    “Last time I took an inventory. Yes. You want me to promise it won’t happen again?”
    The taut line of her shoulders loosened a fraction. “It will not. Neither of us wants that. It was surprise between us, as much as anything else. There was a suddenness.”
    It wasn’t surprise. It was damn good lust. Don’t fool yourself. “I don’t make a habit of assaulting women. If you were safe last night, you’re safe today. You can put yourself in my hands for a few miles of road.”
    “That is logical. We are rational people, we two.” She smoothed the wrinkles out of her damp fichu and pulled it over her shoulders, then wrapped it across her breasts. She made a crease here and there and it lay down smooth and perfect. “If you are willing to come with me on the road, I will thank you very much. I will also pay you. I’ve been cowardly, seeing a threat where none existed.”
    “Always glad to turn an honest profit. You’ll need papers. I’ll write some up.” I get to name her. Something pretty . . . No. Something that will annoy her. That’s better. “I got what I need in the baskets. We’ll let them dry on the rock here.”
    “You are a forger.” She smiled at him. “That is a handy skill.”
    Her smile was like being stroked, right on his privates. All that sensible talk, and his cock was still stupid as a barn owl.

E ight

    AN HOUR ONWARD, THEY CROSSED THE CREST OF a hill. Marguerite looked into the countryside beyond. Gypsies had stopped by the road in the straggly trees that marked a trickle of stream between two fields. Three wagons with canvas tops made a rough triangle surrounding a small campfire. In the fields above, women and girls picked blackberries in the bushes that fingered away from the stream, their skirts and scarves vivid as poppies.
    She wiped sweat off her face. This was Crow’s family. His kumpania .
    She’d recruited Shandor—called the Crow—into La Flèche years ago, almost at the beginning. He was head-man of a large group, a practical man, cautious to a fault, shrewd in keeping his people inconspicuous and safe. He was endlessly protective of the sparrows he carried.
    Today he was not following orders.
    Guillaume LeBreton, walking beside her, pushed one finger on the brim of his hat, tilting it so the men down below would see his face. Now they wouldn’t be surprised by the scar when he came closer. He didn’t slow down, approaching the Gypsies. He didn’t hurry himself either. Everyone on both sides was given ample opportunity to assess and study each other to their heart’s content.
    Shandor had chosen a private spot to lie in wait for her. No farmhouse overlooked them. The road that led off to Paris was a mile ahead, out of sight. How she was going to discuss the business of La Flèche when she was encumbered by Citoyen LeBreton and his inquisitive hobgoblin of a servant, she did not know.
    “We come upon the Children of the Road. The Egyptians. Engaged in harmless pursuits.” LeBreton had hidden himself behind the facade of the big, good-natured countryman. His eyes, however, were hard and calculating. “Or not so harmless. There is something just one hair out of place about this.