Now what was she to do? Herr Benn was an English spy. And Mr Jacques was all too clearly a Bonapartist. She swallowed hard, trying to control the nausea that had engulfed her when she heard those fateful words on his lips. He was a brave and generous man, he had rescued her with no thought for his own safety, but he was a Bonapartist. They were enemies, but she must not let him suspect that. She must keep him always at a distance and treat him with the utmost care. She had thought, for that fleeting moment when he touched her, that he might be a friend. Nothing of the sort. He was an enemy, to her and to everything her family believed in. She must beware of him.
Marguerite’s hands were automatically clearing away the mess the surgeon had left. Herr Benn was deeply insensible and pale as a ghost. She fancied that the surgeon was a butcher as well as a Bonapartist. He had removed the bullet, but what else had he done? She dropped the last of the bloody cloths into the basin and turned to the dressing table to wash her hands. The water there was clean. Neither the surgeon nor Mr Jacques had washed off the blood.
She shuddered. Blood! If Bonaparte had indeed returned, there would be a great deal of blood.
She glanced around for a towel. There was none. She shook the drops of water back into the bowl and turned to her valise for her own towel. In a moment, she found it, tucked alongside the raw silk cocoon which normally held her phial of laudanum. She dried her hands, extracted the phial from her pocket and restored it to its place beside the basilicum powder. It would be best to give Herr Benn no more laudanum. But did she dare to let him alone? What if he began raving? Mr Jacques was surely not to be trusted. On the other hand, Herr Benn might not recover if Marguerite kept him dosed with laudanum. It was a wicked dilemma.
Reluctantly, she retrieved the phial in its soft wrapping and stowed it deep in her pocket. She would keep it to hand, just in case.
Was that a sound on the stairs? She looked round, guiltily, to see the door opening. Quickly, she grabbed the tin of basilicum powder and whirled to meet this new challenge.
‘Mistress?’
Marguerite let out the breath she had been holding. It was only Guillaume.
‘I have ordered food. It will be served directly, in the coffee room downstairs. Will you come?’
‘No, Guillaume.’She glanced towards the bed. ‘I cannot leave him.’
‘But, mistress—’
She waved the tin at him. ‘His wound needs to be redressed.’
‘That is not for you to do, surely? The surgeon has seen to him, and he has his companion, also. You have been more than generous to them both, but it is none of our concern. We should be on our way home.’
Without a moment’s pause for reflection, Marguerite shook her head.
‘Mistress, your sister needs you more than these men. And there is the Duchess of Courland’s silk. It has to be taken to Paris.’
He was right, of course. The family’s future might depend on the Duchess’s approval. And yet Marguerite was the only person who could save the English spy from the Bonapartists. She owed a debt of gratitude, perhaps even her life, to Mr Jacques, but she could not trust him with the English spy’s life. He was the enemy. She repeated it yet again, forcing herself to ignore the tiny voice that urged her to trust him, to value his kindness.
She straightened her back and tried to look sternly at her old retainer. ‘We cannot leave so soon,’ she said firmly. ‘Herr Benn has the beginnings of a fever. That butcher may have extracted the ball, but heavens knows what damage he did in the process. And Mr Jacques, for all his bravery in defending me last evening, is no nurse.’
‘No, but—’
‘Guillaume, I cannot leave this man. Not until he is out of danger. I am sure that it will take only a day, or two at most.’
Guillaume was shaking his grizzled head.
Marguerite would not permit him to voice the protest he so clearly wished to make. ‘No, Guillaume, we are staying, at least for a day. We must take care, though, for Rognac seems to be a nest of Bonapartists.’ She ignored Guillaume’s worried frown. ‘Do bespeak a bedchamber and make sure all our supplies are safely stowed there. I want no repetition of last night’s trouble. Take the pistols from the coach and remain with our goods. It is your responsibility to ensure they are well guarded.’
He stood there, looking her up and down. She thought she detected a new respect in his gaze. ‘And tell the landlord to send up some food. I shall not be able to leave Herr Benn.’
‘As you wish, mistress,’ Guillaume said quietly. ‘Shall I bespeak a separate bedchamber for you? Or shall you sleep with the silk?’
‘Neither. I shall sleep here,’ she said flatly. She pointed to the chaise longue under the window. ‘Herr Benn will need constant nursing, and I do not imagine that Mr Jacques possesses the necessary skill. Ask the landlord to find me some extra pillows and a coverlet. I shall be comfortable enough there.’
Guillaume hesitated for a moment, but then, perhaps seeing the determination on Marguerite’s face, he nodded and left the room. A second later, she heard the sound of his boots clattering down the stairs.
Her decisions were made. She crossed to the bed and began to untie the bandages so that she could apply her basilicum powder to the unconscious man’s open wound.
She would save him at all costs, even if she had to shoot Mr Jacques in order to do so.
Chapter Four
‘Come in.’ Marguerite did not look up from her task of bathing Herr Benn’s forehead. It did not matter who the visitor was. Herr Benn was still safely unconscious, while she was behaving like the perfect nurse, for anyone to see.
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am.’
That unmistakable voice sent strange vibrations down her spine all over again, in spite of her resolutions. The earlier hard edge was almost gone, replaced by thick, velvet richness. She clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palms. By the time she rose and turned to face him, she was back in control of her wayward senses.
Mr Jacques was standing just inside the door, staring across at the motionless figure on the bed.
‘It is too soon to expect any change, sir.’Marguerite was pleased that her voice was steady, though she found it easier not to look directly into his face. His deep blue eyes, so much more intense than Herr Benn’s, were definitely best avoided.
He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I apologise for disturbing you. I am going to the village. I wondered if there was anything you needed?’
Marguerite gestured towards the window. The sky was very dark. ‘Is that wise? I’d say there’s a storm brewing.’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘I have no choice, ma’am. Herr Benn’s valise was lost in Marseilles, and I do not have enough linen for two. If I can find a haberdasher’s here, I might be able to purchase new cravats and so on, for us both.’
Cravats? His companion could be at death’s door and he wanted cravats? His casual attitude to Herr Benn’s condition caught her on the raw. Worse, he was taking it for granted that she would continue to nurse Herr Benn, without even a single word of thanks. She was too well schooled to rail at him, but she fanned the flames of her righteous indignation. Better to appear peevish than to succumb to the strange feelings this man was able to arouse in her. ‘I have everything I require, thank you, sir. And I do not think Herr Benn has need of cravats, just at present,’ she added, with relish.
That barb struck home. His eyes narrowed. For a second, she thought he would respond in kind, but he did not, though his throat was working as