Silently she guided his hand across her torso from one side to the other. Broad palm, strong fingers, gentle as a kitten’s breath as his hand smoothed over her nightgown.
She realized that his gliding touch felt good. Sensual. The fact that she controlled where he touched removed the fear.
Guided by her hand, he continued to caress her slowly. Warmth spread through her, moving to her breasts upward and . . . downward toward her loins. She’d almost forgotten how that felt.
Enjoying the sensation, she moved her hand lower so that he was stroking over her waist. She’d recognized when they started to share a bed how much she enjoyed touching, and this was a more intimate form of touching.
She felt like a cat being petted—until she moved his hand lower yet and she realized how close he was to her most private places. She stiffened. “That’s far enough. At least for now.”
“Agreed,” he said in a thickened voice. He moved his hand from under her hands and curved his arm over her, drawing her close.
Realizing how aroused he was, she exclaimed, “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t thinking of you, only myself.”
“No matter,” he said in a warm voice. “It’s good that tonight was about you.”
“That can change.” She separated herself from him enough to allow her hand to move down his torso and under his night wear.
He gasped and hardened fully when she reached her goal. She smiled in the darkness. She loved giving him pleasure and he loved letting her take charge.
It made for a thoroughly satisfactory prelude to a very good night’s sleep.
Brussels
Chapter 17
Suzanne woke early in the warm, unfamiliar bed, sliding quietly from the warm, familiar embrace of her husband. They’d arrived in Brussels so late the night before that not much had registered about Kirkland’s house other than that it was well kept by the servants and that it was attractive without drawing much attention.
She opened the window and leaned out to breathe deeply of the fresh air. The delicious scent of baking bread came from somewhere nearby. Suzanne inhaled happily.
The morning was mild for mid-March, with hazy sunshine and daffodils blooming in window boxes. Their narrow street was quiet, but a couple of blocks to her left she could see a park that seemed busier.
“Good morning,ma belle.” Simon joined her at the window, one arm going around her waist to snug her close. “What is it like to be back in Europe in a city that isn’t in France, but feels very French?”
Suzanne leaned into him. “It’s interesting and not so overwhelming as London. I look forward to seeing more of Brussels.”
“Would you like to spend the day seeing the sights?”
“It’s kind of you to suggest that, but I know you want to start the hunt for your cousin,” she replied. “We can admire the city while we search.”
“You’ve read my mind,” he said with a half smile.
“Kirkland gave me the name and address of a monk who can help us sort out the possibilities. I’ll send a message to Frère Antoine before we eat breakfast to ask when we might call.”
Suzanne assumed that the monk was another of Kirkland’s informants. “Sooner rather than later, I hope.”
Simon nodded, his eyes showing resignation tinged with hope. As Suzanne rang for Jenny to help her dress, she sent prayers to whatever deity might be listening that Simon would get his miracle.
* * *
After a breakfast of feather-light croissants, exquisite raspberry preserves, and richcafé au lait,Simon and Suzanne set out to find Frère Antoine, who had invited them to call that morning. Kirkland’s household included Maurice, a weathered Englishman with a limp who had lived in Brussels for so long that his French had only a trace of English accent. He had no trouble conjuring up a light double-benched carriage and horse from a local livery.
Simon would have driven if he knew the city better, but Maurice knew exactly where Argenté Abbey was, so he sat on the front seat with reins and buggy whip while Simon and Suzanne held hands in the rear seat. Simon suspected Maurice had been a soldier, and that like the other servants in Kirkland’s house, he provided information that might be useful to Kirkland.
It was a pleasant day for a drive. Maurice made laconic remarks about buildings of particular interest, while Suzanne enjoyed the busy narrow streets thronging with cheerful merchants and housewives. “Being in a French-speaking city again takes me back to my childhood,” she observed.
“Mostly French speaking, though we’ll hear Dutch and a fair amount of English, too,” Simon said. “There’s a British garrison here, and because living costs are lower in Brussels, a good number of Britons have moved here since Napoleon abdicated.”
“That makes Brussels a good transition between London and France. I’ll soon be ready to visit Château Chambron. It’s not far. South of Charleroi, only a few miles beyond the border between France and Belgium.”
