by Shana Galen
“Fortunately, I am rather tall, and if I assist you, together we shall accomplish it.” He set the candle on the nightstand and moved toward her, reaching for her waist. She jumped out of his reach, pressing herself against the bed.
Laurent raised a brow. He was unused to women rejecting his touch.
“What are you doing?” she asked, eyes narrowed.
He smiled, somewhat amused at her skittishness. “I planned to lift you so you might free yourself.”
“I would prefer you do not touch me.”
“Very well.” He gave her a courtly bow and returned to the basket of food and squinted. “Shall we have whatever this is or artichokes first? Or perhaps more wine. Everything tastes better with wine.”
“You cannot leave me here, locked to the bedpost.”
He spread his arms. “You asked me not to touch you. I do not see any other way of freeing you. In the morning I will search the wardrobe again. The key must be in there.” If not, in the light, he could better search the house.
She closed her eyes and blew out a breath, as though exhausted from arguing with a small, recalcitrant child. “Very well.”
“Very well you would like more wine?” Laurent poured more in his glass and then looked for hers. Once he remembered she had smashed it, he found another and poured her a measure. He imagined she would need it, though he would watch where she put the glass carefully, lest she fling it in his direction again.
“I would like to be free.”
“Then I must touch you.”
She nodded.
“I prefer you say the words. I’d rather you didn’t accuse me of attacking you later.”
“I am agreeing to your plan,” she said through clenched teeth.
“And I may touch you?” Oh, how quickly his rakish ways returned to him. But how could he resist teasing her a little when she was so lovely with all that high color in her cheeks?
“Yes.” Those eyes might have burned through him.
“Yes...” He smiled at her and the look she gave him made him glad he had not yet given her the glass.
“You may touch me.”
“Excellent.” He set the glasses on the nightstand and approached her cautiously. This time when he reached for her, she didn’t flinch away. He placed his hands on her waist—a rather small waist—and slid them slightly lower so he might lift her more easily.
She didn’t look at him, but her breathing grew more rapid. He did not dare look into her face either. He did not want her to see what he was certain was bare lust in his eyes. When his hands had slid to her hips, when the sweet swell of them had filled his hands, he’d wanted nothing more than to pull her close. She was warm and he craved the warmth of a woman pressed against him. He wanted this woman’s sweet scent in his nostrils and the taste of her on his tongue. How he wanted to find out if her skin was as soft as it looked.
“Ready?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
In one swift motion, he lifted her. Her skirts slid under his hands, and he was forced to move his grip lower, almost to her derriere. He did not mind, but she let out a small sound of protest. And then he heard the sound of metal on wood. “I am free. Let me down.”
He lowered her, holding her lightly until her feet were on the ground. With a smile that all but dazzled him, she held up the empty fetter dangling from her wrist. “You may release me now,” she said.
“I could,” he agreed. That smile made his head spin with desire. “But I don’t think I will.”
Seven
Honoria could not breathe. She felt as though the air had been squeezed out of her lungs, when in fact, the marquis held her very lightly. She could have moved out of his embrace easily. She should have moved out of his embrace when he refused to release her.
But she did not.
It was not because she liked the man.
He was arrogant and vain.
It was not because she admired his manners.
He’d cuffed her to a bedpost!
And it was most certainly not because she admired him or his cause.
Of course, she wanted the little prince and princess freed from the Temple, but his means did not justify the ends.
And still she did not move away, even when they’d stood with their bodies touching for several long moments. Even when he lifted a hand and swept his knuckles across her cheek. His touch was achingly tender, so tender she wanted to lean into it. No one had ever touched her so tenderly before.
His hand rested in her hair, twirling one lock of it around his finger. “I do not exaggerate when I say you are the most exquisite woman I have ever met.”
All of the warmth in Honoria seeped out through her toes. “You mean my beauty.”
“It is incomparable.” He bent, and she could only assume he meant to kiss her. Instead she brought her hands up and shoved hard against his chest. He took two steps back before regaining his balance, but it was enough to separate her from him and break the last vestiges of the spell he’d cast over her.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked with a mocking smile. The man seemed completely unaffected by their closeness a moment ago or her abrupt rejection.
“Thank you for your assistance.” She held up the chain. “Do not touch me again.”
He made a sweeping bow, more suited for a royal court than the benefit of a commoner like herself. It was clear he did not intend to take her back to the safe house, and even if she were to persuade him tonight, it was too late and too dangerous to attempt such a journey. She would be forced to sleep here. Perhaps that was why he had not argued about freeing her.
He had moved to the nightstand and held out one of the glasses of wine. “If I give this to you, will you throw it at me later? I don’t have an unlimited supply of wineglasses, and I do so detest drinking from the bottle.”
She refrained from rolling her eyes, barely. “I will not throw it.”
He handed her the bottle and as he neared she realized his hair and the collar and shoulders of his shirt were wet. “Is it raining?”
“No.” He followed her gaze to his wet linen. “I washed before I came back in. I suppose I should change before I catch my death of cold. You did say you could light a fire in the brazier?”
“Easily.”
While he went to the wardrobe, presumably to change his clothing, she tended the brazier. In a few minutes she had a low fire crackling. She’d built it higher than she might have, but the rooms were cold from disuse and she wanted the heat. She warmed her hands, giving the marquis time to dress.
“I shall have to ask you to show me how to do that sometime,” he said from behind her. “I find I am ill equipped for this new regime.”
She turned, some biting quip on her lips, but it died the moment she saw him.
He had changed clothing, donning breeches—or culottes, as the French called them—and these fit him like a second skin. He’d also pulled a dark coat and a stark white shirt from his wardrobe, but he had not yet dressed in them. In the glow of the fire, she could clearly see the wide expanse of his chest and his hard, flat stomach. She had seen men dressed in less, but never had such a sight left her breathless.
Why had she made the fire so hot?
He caught her gaze on him and dropped the linen shirt over his head. “Prison was not kind to me, I’m afraid.” For a moment she did not understand, and when she did, she furrowed her brow. Did he think his body had displeased her? She quickly banished the idea of telling him otherwise. She should not have been looking at any rate.
“Not enough food, not enough rest.” He fastened the buttons at his throat. “One could always tell who had been in the prison the longest because he or she was the thinnest. Even my money could not buy me better food.” He spoke of starvation as he did everything else. His tone was that of a man suffering acute ennui. As though prison was nothing more than merely tedious and the lack of food or basic hygiene, the threat of death hanging over one’s head, and the lice and
other vermin were little more than a tiresome nuisance.
“You must be exhausted,” she said, not completely fooled by his tone or his gift for understatement. He had been through a harrowing ordeal these past two days. “Why not eat and then you can rest?” She indicated the bed.
“And while I sleep, you will make your escape?”
“I am not that big of a fool.” She crossed to the basket and examined the contents. She was relatively certain the preserved vegetables were green beans. She had no idea what to do with a raw artichoke. Perhaps they could roast it. The beans might be heated if he could unearth a pot of some sort.
“Then you will make the documents I require to rescue the children?”
She looked up at him. “I did not say that. You may have no desire to live, but I would like to return to England with my head still on my shoulders.”
“What if I promise you that once you create the papers I need, I will take you back to the safe house?” As he spoke, he walked toward the basket where she knelt. He crouched down before her. “I will make certain you are returned safely.”
“Why would you do that? It’s obvious you care for nothing and no one save yourself and your own schemes.”
“It is a bargain we will strike. You give me something, and I will give you something in return.”
She had no choice but to agree. He would force her to make the papers if she refused, and then he would not help her return to the Rue du Jour. And what did it matter if she forged papers for him? If he wanted to attempt to smuggle the royal offspring from the country, who was she to stand in his way? She imagined the guards at the Temple would do that well enough.
“If I do this your death will not be on my conscience. Do you know how many rumors of escape plans I have heard? No one can reach the inmates of the Temple.”
“I can.” He lowered himself to sit across from her, his face illuminated by the fire. The light played on his high cheekbones and green eyes, while the shadows enhanced his full lips and the planes of his face. He was a handsome man by any standards. He would have been irresistible when in his prime and in his element at Versailles. Thank God she had not known him then.
“So certain are you?”
“It is part arrogance, I grant you that, but I am also in a unique position. Do you know why your Scarlet Pimpernel spared me from Madame Guillotine?”
Her hands rested on the side of the basket, and now she found her fingers traced the wood that had been used to weave it over and over. It gave her a distraction when she fell too deeply into the spell of his eyes.
“You have been inside the Temple,” she replied. “Were you imprisoned there before La Force?”
“No. The Temple is more than simply a prison. It does have dungeons. After all, it was a medieval fortress built by the Knights Templar. But there is more to it than the tower housing the royal family. There is also the Temple Palace and the king’s youngest brother, the Comte d’Artois, as the Grand Prior of France, was its proprietor.”
“And so it was actually a royal residence.”
“Yes. In fact, Artois made it his residence when he came to Paris. It just so happens Charles Phillipe and I are close friends.”
She was hungry and all of the names and titles made her head spin, but she made her best effort. “Charles Phillipe is the Comte d’Artois?”
“Exactly. And he has now fled the country, but if anyone besides the comte knows the rooms and the corridors and the secret passageways of the Temple, it is I.”
“And that is why you think you can rescue the prince and princess.”
“That is why I know I can. But more importantly, I am duty bound to try.”
Duty. It was a common theme among the nobility, but she had to wonder if it was not merely a pretty word with no more substance behind it than the fog that settled over London most mornings.
“Why?” she asked him. “Surely your life is in as much danger as theirs if not more. It is hard to believe even such a man as Robespierre would condone the murder children.”
“After what I saw in prison, I put nothing past these bloodthirsty revolutionaries. I promised to keep Marie-Thérèse safe, and I will do it no matter the cost. If I die, then at least I die having done something worthwhile in my life.”
Honoria could only imagine the sort of debauched life a man with wealth and charm might lead in Versailles. She had read the papers and the libelles, and she knew many of the accounts of life at court were widely exaggerated. But even the most overblown stories had a kernel of truth. Had the marquis been one of Marie Antoinette’s many lovers? Had he promised her to save the children out of love? Or perhaps there was some reward he hoped to gain. He could ransom the children to the highest bidder.
“If you want me to help you, then you had better tell me everything,” she said. “What was this promise you made? Was it to Marie Antoinette?”
“The queen?” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck as though it pained him. His hair had curled slightly as it dried, falling in waves over his forehead. It was not as long as many men wore theirs, but it did curl about his neck. She imagined he had worn wigs and kept his hair short beneath. Now that all the trappings of nobility had been banned, his hair had grown longer. “She never asked for a promise from me, but I gave it nonetheless. I’m no soldier, no strategist like von Fersen, but she knew I loved her and the children.”
“So you were one of her lovers?”
His eyes narrowed. “Not you too.”
Honoria couldn’t say why the words stung so much, but she actually shrank back. “Everyone says von Fersen and she are lovers,” she added.
“And how do these writers know this information when they know neither the queen nor the comte nor have they ever spent a moment in either’s presence?”
“Then they are not lovers?”
He looked away, staring into the fire as though remembering a long ago past. “Only the queen and von Fersen can answer that. I spent many, many hours with Her Majesty, and I never witnessed anything inappropriate between the two. And before you accuse me of bedding her, I never so much as touched her hand. I have done many reprehensible deeds in my life, but I would not think of cuckolding the King of France.”
As he spoke, his face softened, his eyelids lowering.
“But you loved her,” Honoria said quietly.
He gave her a sharp look. “What makes you say that?”
“Your face. When you speak of her it looks softer, kinder.”
“That is because I am a great fool.” He rose and paced across the room, coming to stand before the fire. He leaned one arm on the mantel and stared down into the flames. “I did not love her, not in the way you mean. But I did love her charm, her joie de vivre, her impeccable taste. I loved that she was a good mother to her children. I saw in her—” He broke off, and she wondered what he had meant to say. Shaking his head, he continued, “No, I was never in love with the queen.”
Honoria knew she should not press him. His voice had grown strained, his mouth tight. But she could not seem to stop herself. If he were to go to such great lengths to ensure he had her skills to forge these documents, she wanted to know why he was so determined. “Then how are you a fool?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Because I cannot let the ancien régime—as the revolutionaries call it—go. Because I want that way of life back. Because like the king, I steadfastly ignored every warning sign and stayed until it was too late to leave. Charles Phillipe left in 1789. I went with him, him and the hundred other nobles and friends who fled the country. But I did not stay away.”
“You can still go. The Pimpernel—”
“Not without the children.” He rounded on her, his face hard and determined. “You asked if I loved the queen, but you did not ask about the children. Marie-Thérèse and Louis Charles are the ones I love.”
“They are your cousins?”
“Distant cousins, but so are a thousand other nobles spread over the Continent. Thos
e two are more like brother and sister to me. The first time I saw Madame Royale she was barely a month old and squalling like her limbs were being torn from her body. Charles Phillipe and I were both suffering the effects of overindulgence in drink the night before, and we simply wanted the noise to end. The princess’s nannies were trying everything they could to quiet the baby, but finally I stepped up and demanded they hand her over.” A smile played on his lips. “As soon as she was in my arms, she quieted. She looked up at me with those large blue eyes and that’s when I fell in love. I have been devoted to her and the dauphin ever since.”
“But I have always heard the princess was haughty and spoiled.”
At that his smile widened. “She can be. But that does not mean she deserves the fate to which she’s been consigned. I don’t have the luxury of time to list all of her merits or tell you stories about the princess. The queen is on trial and will go to her death soon. I must rescue the children before they follow their mother. I cannot allow them to die.”
“There is nothing you can do,” she whispered.
“No!” He sliced his hand through the air between them. “I refuse to believe that. I have been helpless before. I am not helpless now. I will not let them die, not like Amélie.” He sucked in a breath, and she knew he had said more than he’d intended.
“Who is Amélie?” Honoria asked.
Montagne looked at the floor for a long moment, so long she did not think he would answer her. Finally, he raised his gaze to hers, and his eyes were full of pain. “She was a child who died. I loved her, and I could not save her. I would rather die trying to save the royal children than endure the pain of watching them die and knowing I did nothing to stop it.”
Honoria’s eyes stung. Had Amélie been his child? A daughter? How had she died? She had so many questions, but she couldn’t bear to cause him more pain by asking them. Before he’d spoken of her, the princess had been little more than a title on a piece of paper, but now she saw the girl through the marquis’s eyes. She was a child who had suffered loss and terror and who was imprisoned because of the accident of her birth. Honoria could not go home to her cozy bed in England and her safe position at the British Museum and leave an innocent child behind to suffer. Saving these children was why she had come. She might not have known as much, not when Monsieur Palomer had come to her, but she knew it now.
