French Leave by Maggie MacKeever Page B

hands and unpinned her hair.
    Conor buried his hands, then his face, in that golden cloud. “You smell like sunlight,” he whispered, and then moved his hands behind her head and drew her face up to his.
    It was a gentle kiss, sweet and seductive. If anything, if possible, Conor had gained in expertise. Upon how many women had he practiced since he last kissed Barbary like this?
    He said he had no more feeling for his wife. Barbary thought she might prove him wrong. She lifted his hand and placed it upon her racing heart, where it felt very much like it belonged.
    Conor had the same sensation, though to him it was very queer. No matter how strong the resemblance, it did not seem right to him that making love to this strange woman should seem so much like making love to his wife. But then, there was the resemblance. And he had not made love to his wife for a very long time.
    She had shocked him, Barbary thought. Not by what she had done, but that she had done it. Barbary had been too much the elusive coquette to ever perform so aggressive an act. Now she regretted the omission. She lifted her hand and traced the outline of his mouth.
    Like Barbary, and not like Barbary at all. Perhaps Conor’s memory was playing him tricks. No matter. She was warm and pliant and willing, and he wanted her badly. He stood up. She looked up at him. He held out his hand.
     

Chapter Twelve
     
    Afternoon’s shadows were lengthening. The lawns and gardens of Philippe-Égalité’s old garden were beginning to take on their true character. Sellers of garters and thread and lavender water, toothbrushes and sealing wax and balls of thread, were giving way to young women, and others not so young, clad in diaphanous gowns cut low in the bodice and high in the hem, whose seductive glances hinted at less tangible, but no less purchasable, delights.
    The traiteurs also were open. Parisian hotels by custom didn’t supply guests with meals, and it was the French habit to dine early at one of the city’s many traiteurs before going on to the evening’s entertainment. About one thing, at least, Mab had not fibbed to the Duc. There was indeed a certain cafè in the Palais Royale. In point of fact, there were dozens: one could chose among one hundred and fifty dishes in the restaurants of the Palais Royale alone. She entered a small cafè, which advertised that two people could have an excellent dinner of three or four courses for the equivalent of three and sixpence.
    The cafè was not doing a thriving business, although this may have been due less to the austerity of the decor than to the quality of the food. Mab looked around for someone she knew. A group of students were seated at one of the small tables. She walked across the room. “I must speak with Gabriel,” said Mab. “Where is he?”
    One of the students jerked his head. “In the back room. You must not go there, ma’mselle. He does not wish to be disturbed.”
    Who did wish to be disturbed? Certainly not Mab. She had been, nonetheless, and having been, had not the least compunction about visiting that fate upon someone else. The door was closed. She knocked.
    “Qui vive?” came an impatient voice. Mab did not try to explain, but turned the knob. The door was unlocked.
    Gabriel Beaumont was seated at a small table, writing. When Mab entered the room, he covered his papers with his arm. “You’ll get ink on yourself,” Mab observed, and closed the door behind her. “I assure you, I mean no harm.”
    “Harm?” Gabriel was derisive. “What possible harm could you do me? I wish you would go away. I have work to do.”
    Mab leaned against the door. Gabriel Beaumont had the sort of looks over which many a silly maiden would break her heart. Black curls that fell carelessly across his brow, noble features, alabaster skin, startlingly green eyes.
    Fortunate it was that Mab was no silly maiden. “I know of your work,” she said. “I wish to help.”
    “Help?” During her silence