Compromised for Christmas Read online

Elizabeth’s breath. His arms tightened around her, and his body pushed hers against the cold, stone wall. The soldier’s voices grew louder. Elizabeth knew this was a ploy on his part, but it didn’t make the heat of his body any less warm. She tilted her head and wove her arms around his shoulders.

  Jean Pierre groaned and pulled her closer than she thought possible, and she clutched him just as tightly. Goodness, she had no idea kissing could be so delightful. She didn’t even know how to describe it. All she could do was allow Jean Pierre his way and mimic him the best she could.

  Her head spun when she touched her tongue to his, and her knees almost gave way. Perhaps all of the bragging he had done about his gifts as a lover was more fact than fiction. She was certainly starting to believe the possibility.

  Soldiers laughed and directed a few crude comments towards them, but Elizabeth didn’t care. All she wanted was to continue kissing Jean Pierre. To think she had kept refusing him this while they were still at the palace. Of course, that was all a game and the part they played. Now she wished she would have challenged him.

  Silence surrounded them. Jean Pierre was gone as quickly has he had come. The cold wind smacked at her face, and she reminded herself they were still playing a part, no different than being actress. One he was a master at. She needed to remember that kiss meant nothing to him, just as it shouldn't mean anything to her. It would be easier if it hadn’t been her first kiss.

  Jean Pierre stepped away, looked up the stairs, and turned towards Maurice’s boat. “They are gone.” He was a bit breathless.

  She took a step towards the boat but Jean Pierre pulled her back under the bridge. “Wait.”

  She stood still in the shadows beside Jean Pierre. Soon Maurice’s boat approached and pulled up to where they stood. “Hurry,” the older man ordered.

  They clambered onto the deck, and Jean Pierre pointed for her to go below.

  “Halt,” a voice called out from the opposite shore. Elizabeth glanced up. Four soldiers who had recently been with Maurice’s boat raised their guns and aimed. Jean Pierre fell to the deck as the shots rang out, and Elizabeth hastened below, but not quickly enough. Pain seared at her side as if someone had stabbed her with a hot poker, and she allowed herself to fall below deck. Had Jean Pierre been hit? Was Maurice injured?

  She struggled to stand, but waves of dizziness washed over her. She couldn’t tell if the boat was moving away from the soldiers or if it was the simple movement of the waves along the Seine. Were they stuck here waiting to be arrested? Elizabeth tried to find the will to care, to get up off of the floor and help, but darkness descended.

  “Lisette!” Why wasn’t she responding? He needed her help. He glanced to his left. Maurice, ducked low, unfurled another sail. The winter wind blew and their speed finally picked up. Unless they moved quicker, the soldiers would catch up to them. As it was, they could run along the shore, taking as many shots as their guns would allow while he was left alone on deck. “Lisette!”

  She didn’t even bother to answer. She had to have heard him. John glanced towards the stairs and his heart seized for a moment. There was blood on the deck and more on the top step. John fought the urge to go to her to see how badly she was wounded, but he couldn’t leave his post or he would be an open target. He had long run out of ammunition, but inch by agonizing inch, their vessel was pulling away from the soldiers. Ahead was an island, and Maurice navigated along the right side, successfully blocking the soldier from view.

  John scrambled below deck to find Elizabeth crumpled on the floor. He lit the lantern and hung it on a peg above for better light. He could not see an injury through her dark cloak, so he pushed it aside. Her black dress didn’t make the task any easier. He moved his hands along her arms, then torso, until he touched warm liquid. Blood smeared his palm. He leaned in closer for a better look. There was a small tear in the material of her dress on her left side. John tore it wider. The bullet had entered just above her hipbone. He rolled Lisette to her side and she moaned. As much as he hated to hurt her, he needed to see if it had gone through or not.

  There was no exit wound. He gently laid Lisette on her back. He pulled up her skirt and tore her chemise before he brought the material up and pressed it against her wound. She needed a doctor now, but it was too dangerous to stop. All he could do was see to her comfort until they could find help.

  John stared down at the pale face, the light brown lashes brushed against her cheeks, the lips without color. Just moments ago he had been kissing those full lips. It was the only thing he could think of at the time that the soldiers would not think suspicious. He never dreamed a jolt of desire would strike, heating his blood in a way it had not been heated in a very long time. Had they not been in such dire straits, who knew how long he would have stood there kissing her? Or what else he would have attempted.

  From the moment he met Lisette, he had been attracted to her. Any healthy man would be upon looking into those clear blue eyes and soft face with a complexion of cream. But, until a short while ago, he’d kept his attraction at bay and his heart shielded, not allowing himself to consider her anything more than his partner working to stop Napoleon. They had a job to do, which did not include any form of intimacy. And given how that one kiss had affected him, he was glad he’d never attempted it before. Lisette would have been too much of a distraction. Men had gotten killed because of beautiful women. He now knew how easily it could happen.

  He studied her lips. Was the kiss exceptional because of the danger, or was it exceptional because it was Lisette? He needed to see that she recovered so he could determine the truth, one way or another. Had this been anyone else, John would still have done anything and everything in his power to see that they didn’t die. But the lady before him was the granddaughter of the Duke of Danby—a man he did not want to anger. Nor did he want to have to face Edgeworth just yet. Not only would Edgeworth want to beat him to a bloody pulp for allowing Elizabeth to be injured, but for kissing her as well.

  No, that was a reunion he wanted no part of.

  Elizabeth woke to the gentle rocking of a boat and tried to focus on how she came to be here. A lantern gently swayed in the door leading to the upper deck. Not that this was a ship, or even a large boat for that matter, but the small cabin beneath allowed for a narrow bed and small dresser.

  Had they gotten away? They must have or she would be in prison—not in Maurice’s bed.

  Where was Jean Pierre and how did she get in bed, anyhow? After reaching for the blanket, she pushed it aside to sit up and fell back onto the pillows with a groan. Now she remembered.

  “Ah, you should not move, Lisette.” Jean Pierre was leaning down into the cabin, a wide grin on his face.

  “I just determined that myself.” Heat rushed to her face. She was clothed only in her chemise, and she yanked the covers back up to her chin.

  He took the three steps down and entered the room. “How are you feeling?” he asked before he placed a hand on her forehead, then her cheek.

  “Tired and thirsty.” She attempted to lick her lips, but there was no moisture in her mouth.

  He grinned wider. “The fever is gone. I was worried for a while.”

  “Fever?”

  His eyebrows wrinkled in worry. “Don’t you remember being shot?”

  The moment came back to her in a flash. “Vaguely. We escaped?”

  “Barely.” Jean Pierre settled on the side of the bed, reached to the table, and poured her a glass of water. He assisted her in sitting up. “Drink slowly. You haven’t had anything for two days.”

  Two days? She had been unconscious for two days? The water was cool on her tongue, and she forced herself not to guzzle it all in one drink. Jean Pierre held her gently and patiently while she took small sips until the glass was almost empty. After setting it back on the table, he placed pillows behind her so that she could recline instead of lying on her back.

  “
Where are we?”

  “We should reach Le Havre tomorrow.”

  She knew the port. It was the one she had arrived in some three years ago. Calais may be closer to England, but it was guarded more heavily.

  “Then home.”

  His smile was gentle but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then home.”

  Elizabeth tried to swat away whatever it was that was shaking her shoulder. Didn’t they know she wanted to sleep? Her hand connected with a face. Beneath her fingers, a beard had begun to fill in. Beard? She cracked her eyes to see who was bothering her and focused on the serious green eyes of Jean Pierre. He had the nicest eyes. They reminded her of warm summer pastures.

  “We need to go.”

  “Where?” she asked in a return whisper.

  “We are at Le Havre.”

  “Le Havre?” It took a few moments for her mind to clear. “Oh.”

  She struggled to sit up and Jean Pierre placed an arm behind her back. The blanket fell away and she yanked it up to her chin. “I need my clothing,” she hissed.

  Jean Pierre produced her dress and held it up so she could slip her arms in, then pulled it down over her bodice before he efficiently fastened up the back. Elizabeth swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Her knees buckled, and blackness invaded with bright spots twinkling in her peripheral vision. Jean Pierre