about to kiss me?’ didn’t seem at all a proper thing for a young lady to ask, even a young lady who had been so unladylike as to sit unchaperoned with a man on the deck of a boat at midnight. Besides, what if he said no? Drat that railing!
Amy bit down on her lower lip, utterly at sea. Plans, plans…when was she ever without a plan? True, it was terribly hard to plan when one wasn’t at all sure what one wanted. Did she want him to kiss her? Or just to admit that he had intended to kiss her? And why did it matter if he had? Oh, heavens! Amy squirmed on the hard deck. Planning the restoration of the monarchy was so much easier thandealing with the aftermath of an almost kiss!
And really, Amy reminded herself, she should be concentrating entirely on her plans to find the Purple Gentian and restore the monarchy, not agonising over a man of dubious morals. Even if that man did have cheekbones to make a sculptor weep, and the most intriguing play of muscles along his back…Amy went back to gnawing her lower lip.
Richard leant back on his hands, letting the rough wood against his palms drag him back to his senses. Kissing Amy. Bad idea. What the devil had he been thinking? He hadn’t been thinking at all; that was the problem. At least, he hadn’t been thinking with any part of him that worked in a logical manner. Logic. Richard scraped his hands against the splintery deck and tried to approach the situation logically. Logically, kissing Amy was a terrible idea. He repeated that to himself a couple of times. After all, if he’d kissed Amy, he would have some sort of obligation to her, and that would mean spending time with her once they both got to France.
Of course, he really wouldn’t mind spending time with her… Richard squashed that thought posthaste. No matter how much he might enjoy spending time with Amy, he couldn’t. He just didn’t have the time to spend. Not if he wanted to discover Bonaparte’s invasion plans before French troops set foot on English soil. Nobody knew better than Richard how quickly Bonaparte could move (except, perhaps, the Italians, and the Austrians, and the Dutch), and as for Amy… Richard sensed that she could be a rather massive distraction.
But if he didn’t kiss her, he wouldn’t be obligated to her, and therefore she wouldn’t distract him. It all made perfect sense. Logically.
Richard glanced at Amy, sitting uncharacteristically silent beside him. She had drawn her knees back up to her chest, and she was staring straight out over the dark waters, biting her lip. It was too dark to discern the colour of her lips, but Richard remembered them well, a surprisingly deep pink against her pale skin, soft, inviting. Heremembered watching the way her lips moved as she talked, as she smiled. Biting them was probably making them red and swollen, just as his kisses would. Logic, logic, logic, Richard reminded himself, tilting his head back and staring at the sky. When he looked back, Amy was still biting her lip.
Richard hastily looked away again.
‘What is your brother’s name?’ Richard asked, just to ask something. She couldn’t bite her lip and talk at the same time, could she?
‘Edouard,’ Amy replied absently. ‘He’s several years older than me.’
‘Edouard.’ Richard sat upright so hastily that his head swam. ‘Not Edouard de Balcourt?’
‘Yes! Do you know—’
‘Edouard de Balcourt is your brother ?’
‘You do know him, then?’ Amy asked eagerly.
‘We know each other slightly,’ Richard replied cautiously. That was true as far as it went; Richard had done his very best to keep the acquaintance slight.
‘Would you tell me about him? Please? Whatever you know. I haven’t seen him since I was five. He doesn’t write much,’ she confessed. Knowing Balcourt, Richard could well believe it. ‘I suppose he’s afraid any letters to England would be searched. What can you tell me about him?’
‘Um…’ Richard drummed his fingers against the
Amy bit down on her lower lip, utterly at sea. Plans, plans…when was she ever without a plan? True, it was terribly hard to plan when one wasn’t at all sure what one wanted. Did she want him to kiss her? Or just to admit that he had intended to kiss her? And why did it matter if he had? Oh, heavens! Amy squirmed on the hard deck. Planning the restoration of the monarchy was so much easier thandealing with the aftermath of an almost kiss!
And really, Amy reminded herself, she should be concentrating entirely on her plans to find the Purple Gentian and restore the monarchy, not agonising over a man of dubious morals. Even if that man did have cheekbones to make a sculptor weep, and the most intriguing play of muscles along his back…Amy went back to gnawing her lower lip.
Richard leant back on his hands, letting the rough wood against his palms drag him back to his senses. Kissing Amy. Bad idea. What the devil had he been thinking? He hadn’t been thinking at all; that was the problem. At least, he hadn’t been thinking with any part of him that worked in a logical manner. Logic. Richard scraped his hands against the splintery deck and tried to approach the situation logically. Logically, kissing Amy was a terrible idea. He repeated that to himself a couple of times. After all, if he’d kissed Amy, he would have some sort of obligation to her, and that would mean spending time with her once they both got to France.
Of course, he really wouldn’t mind spending time with her… Richard squashed that thought posthaste. No matter how much he might enjoy spending time with Amy, he couldn’t. He just didn’t have the time to spend. Not if he wanted to discover Bonaparte’s invasion plans before French troops set foot on English soil. Nobody knew better than Richard how quickly Bonaparte could move (except, perhaps, the Italians, and the Austrians, and the Dutch), and as for Amy… Richard sensed that she could be a rather massive distraction.
But if he didn’t kiss her, he wouldn’t be obligated to her, and therefore she wouldn’t distract him. It all made perfect sense. Logically.
Richard glanced at Amy, sitting uncharacteristically silent beside him. She had drawn her knees back up to her chest, and she was staring straight out over the dark waters, biting her lip. It was too dark to discern the colour of her lips, but Richard remembered them well, a surprisingly deep pink against her pale skin, soft, inviting. Heremembered watching the way her lips moved as she talked, as she smiled. Biting them was probably making them red and swollen, just as his kisses would. Logic, logic, logic, Richard reminded himself, tilting his head back and staring at the sky. When he looked back, Amy was still biting her lip.
Richard hastily looked away again.
‘What is your brother’s name?’ Richard asked, just to ask something. She couldn’t bite her lip and talk at the same time, could she?
‘Edouard,’ Amy replied absently. ‘He’s several years older than me.’
‘Edouard.’ Richard sat upright so hastily that his head swam. ‘Not Edouard de Balcourt?’
‘Yes! Do you know—’
‘Edouard de Balcourt is your brother ?’
‘You do know him, then?’ Amy asked eagerly.
‘We know each other slightly,’ Richard replied cautiously. That was true as far as it went; Richard had done his very best to keep the acquaintance slight.
‘Would you tell me about him? Please? Whatever you know. I haven’t seen him since I was five. He doesn’t write much,’ she confessed. Knowing Balcourt, Richard could well believe it. ‘I suppose he’s afraid any letters to England would be searched. What can you tell me about him?’
‘Um…’ Richard drummed his fingers against the
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