England's Assassin by Samantha Saxon Page B

intentions but no sound escaped them. He was so tall, so male that she was finding it difficult to look away, to give up the pure pleasure of watching him move.
    He glanced to the right, reaching for a plate and Nicole blurted out, “What are you doing?” before he had a chance to catch her to staring.
    Startled, he turned and looked directly at her. ”I’m cookin’ dinner. You dinna eat while you were out?”
    “No,” Nicole admitted, her stomach responding to the enticing smells with a low growl.
    “Good.” Daniel Damont smiled, open and friendly and she immediately became suspicious. “Have a seat. I’m just serving up our meal now. Oh,” he said, over his solid shoulder as she walked into the dining room, “I’ve left the parcels from the list atop your bed.”
    “Thank you.” Nicole sat down on the cushioned chair, not entirely sure that she liked his entering her bedchamber. Or perhaps she like the vision of Daniel Damont lying, nude, next to a brown paper package far too much. Her cheeks flushed as the focus of her fantasy walked into the room carrying three ceramic bowls.
    “Here we are. Quail,” The man placed a bowl with braised quail topped with sautéed mushrooms on the table. “Sautéed potatoes and buttered carrots.” He set the remaining bowls in front of her and then took the seat at the head of the table that she had left vacant. “I apologize if ‘tis a bit rustic.”
    “No, it…” She met his striking eyes. “It smells wonderful, thank you.”
    He pulled his chair forward then reached for the decanter, pouring them both a glass of claret. Nicole reached for the [dish] of quail but he stopped her saying, “Allow me,” before serving her a delectable breast.
    She watched, starving, as he served her the potatoes and carrots, but a niggling cautiousness caused her to pause before eating the marvelously prepared meal.
    Monsieur Damont met her eye, confused by her hesitation. “Did you want me to pray before—“
    “No.” The man continued to stare and she dropped her eyes the moment he groaned with understanding.
    “My god, you really are an assassin.” His gold fork struck out, spearing a mushroom, a carrot, and a wedge of potato from her plate. “Poisoned a few people, have you?” he asked not needing an answer.
    Nicole blushed, ashamed that he had interpreted her hesitancy correctly.
    “One or two.” She admitted with painful honestly, banishing the faces of those men to the darkest recess of her memory.
    Her cuisinier placed the food in his mouth, chewing as he reached for her claret, not his. Sipping the burgundy liquid, he smiled and then declared, “There, you’re safe.”
    Nicole glanced at his handsome features, thinking she did not feel safe at all.
    “Thank you. I appreciate your efforts and apologize--”
    “No apologizes necessary.” He lifted his glass, inviting her to join him.
    She sampled the claret and was surprised by how much she enjoyed the crispness of the brandy mingled with the sweetness of the wine.
    “This is very good,” Nicole said, understanding for the first time the popularity of the imported drink amongst the gentlemen of the British aristocracy.
    The Scot chuckled, saying, “Yes, it is,” making her feel decidedly uneasy.
    Why she was so discomfited, she was not sure. She had never worked with anyone but Andre Tuchelles and that was primarily to receive her orders. This, however, was different. Daniel Damont intended to stay by her side while she constructed and sprung her elaborate snare.
    But that was not what was causing her discomfort.
    Nicole took her first mouthful of quail and moaned, “Mmmm,” in appreciation of the simple flavors.
    Daniel Damont beamed, and as she looked at him Nicole understood that her anxiety came from wanting him here. She had trusted Andre, but she had never been attracted to him. Nicole placed her lips on the glass where his lips had been and then swallowed a large portion of claret and continued to