by Shana Galen
Tedious hours lay before them. He hoped she knew how much more pleasurably they might have spent their time. It was her loss.
The problem was he still wanted her.
Twelve
The damp cold of the cellar was nothing compared to the chill emanating from the former Marquis de Montagne. Honoria hardly dared look at him for fear the daggers shooting from his sharp green eyes would find their mark and strike her down.
Finally, finally, the shadows in the cellar grew longer and the golden light of day faded to a dusky gray. Montagne took a few steps and Honoria rose without having to be asked. “Is it time?”
“Give me a moment.” Silently, he crept up the stairs. Since she still wore his coat, she had a clear view of his firm buttocks in the trousers he wore.
She quickly averted her eyes. She had made the correct decision earlier. The man was a libertine who only wanted to use her. Had she not made enough mistakes with men? She knew his type and she knew herself. A few more kisses like those they had already shared, and she would be firmly under his spell. And the debauched Marquis de Montagne was the last man she wanted holding her heart in his hands.
Above, the marquis opened the door and slipped out. Honoria imagined he crept through the back room and peered into the wine shop, judging whether enough patrons had gathered so they might slip among them unnoticed. Honoria wished she had not lost her cap. A woman in male garb was far too conspicuous, no matter how large or inebriated the crowd.
Her legs were stiff from the cold and inactivity, and she paced the small area where they’d hidden. Gradually Honoria’s muscles loosened. The sky outside the window had darkened further. So where was Montagne? Had he left her? Abandoned her to fend for herself? Men like him always lied to women. Why shouldn’t he lie about this?
I will never lie to you.
Why had she believed him? Of course he would lie. He was a man.
Honoria’s stomach tightened, panic and nausea rising in her throat. How would she ever find her way back to the safe house alone? She didn’t know the city. She tried to calm herself with a deep breath. Regardless, she was all but gasping when she heard a step on the stairs.
She ducked down, her knees so weak she feared they would crumple under her. She banged her shoulder on one of the casks of wine, but she bit back the hiss of pain and slid into the shadows.
“Mademoiselle?” came a familiar voice. It had to be the marquis. No other man in France would refer to her as anything other than citoyenne.
“I’m here,” she said breathlessly. Her chest hurt from the pressure in her lungs. She rose slowly, her legs still wobbling like a newborn colt’s.
He took one look at her face and his dark brows drew together. “Do you have a low opinion of all men or is it only me in particular?”
She rubbed her eyes to stave off the pounding megrim. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You did not think I would return.”
“You have been upstairs for a good quarter hour or more.” She scowled at him.
He nodded and came to stand beside her. “Planning our exit strategy. I wanted to steal a cap for you, but I have no talent as a thief and the shop owners were not so accommodating as to leave one lying about.”
“We will not go far if anyone looks at me too closely.”
“Then we will make sure they don’t look too closely.” He explained his idea, and though Honoria had her doubts, she didn’t have a better solution. Five minutes later they staggered into the shop, where wine and conversation flowed. She hoped it appeared they had just risen from one of the tables in the back, but her head was down and she could not see if anyone had noticed that they’d emerged from the storeroom.
She began to raise her head to gauge her surroundings, but Montagne hissed a warning. “Keep your head down. You are inebriated. Act like it.”
Honoria swayed, the dark hair he’d pulled down around her face swaying with her. The rest was tucked back into her shirt. Montagne wore his coat again, and she could see the dark sleeve and little else through her dark tresses.
“I think we’d better go, citoyen,” the marquis said. She hoped his attempt to sound like a peasant was convincing. Her own facility with the language was not so agile. “Lean on me,” he said, as they’d agreed.
She stumbled forward, and he put an arm around her, ostensibly supporting her. She allowed her head to loll forward as he shuffled her through the patrons, of whom she saw only sabots and scuffed boots. Please God do not let those boots belong to a member of the National Guard.
She closed her eyes, feeling real dizziness sweep over her as they trudged slowly toward the exit.
Montagne kept up a steady stream of comments, pretending to struggle to keep her upright so he did not have to look the other patrons in the face. He too kept his head down. When her eyes flicked up, she could see the line of his jaw, now dark with stubble.
And then cool air greeted her and the scent of manure and the river and someone’s dinner cooking nearby made her nose itch. She didn’t dare look up, but the marquis moved more quickly, all but carrying her around a corner and toward the quay.
“Are we away?” she asked.
“Yes, but keep your head down until we reach the quay. We’ll walk there and then take the Rue Saint-Honoré to the safe house. Once we’re away from this quarter there won’t be as much light.”
A few minutes later the scent of the water mingled with that of fish and mud caused her to raise her head. The dark water of the Seine was before them, and Honoria could finally draw in a breath.
As soon as they were out of sight, Montagne released her. She missed a step, then had to jog to keep up with him. The sudden absence of his warmth made her aware how quickly winter would descend upon them.
“I do apologize for polluting you with my touch,” he said, with a quick glare at her.
Honoria realized he must have mistaken the way she rubbed her arms as a desire to rid herself of the residual warmth from his body.
If he only knew the truth. If he only knew how much she would have liked to be able to turn into his warmth and trust him with not only her body but her heart.
And now she knew she was half deranged. She blamed it on exhaustion and hunger. She was not in her right mind. She did not need this man to save her. She had taken care of herself for years, and she would swallow glass before admitting she needed a man to save her.
They walked with only the sound of the water lapping on the quay for company. He had slowed, either because he was a gentleman and did not want to force her to run or—more likely—because walking quickly was suspect.
Finally, he turned away from the river.
“Why are you turning?” she asked.
He indicated the streets before them. “The Rue Saint-Honoré is this way.” He reached for her, almost placed his hand on her back to guide her, then thought better of it and nodded for her to precede him. They’d taken no more than a few steps when she looked at him for directions.
He moved ahead, giving her a curious look over his shoulder. “You really do not know Paris at all, do you?”
“I’ve never been to France before,” she said.
“I cannot quite place your accent. How is it you speak the language so well?” he asked. Indeed, they’d spoken almost exclusively in French since he’d taken her from the safe house.
“My parents were from Brussels.”
He paused and stared at her. It was too dark to see his eyes, but she could see the surprise on his face. “You are not English?”
“Oh, yes, I am. I was born in England. My parents immigrated from Brussels about six months before I was born.”
He continued walking. “You sound almost pleased.”
“England is not the country chopping off heads of its nobles for public amusement.”
“England has chopped off its share of noble heads,” he retorted. She could not argue and saw no need, when to compare the execution of a few traitors over the ce
nturies to the full-scale massacres occurring daily in Paris was laughable.
They continued on, and Honoria supposed they had reached the Rue Saint-Honoré. It was not yet full dark, but she still felt a sense of urgency to reach the safe house before the curfew. The few men and women on the streets hurried past them, rushing to complete their errands before it would be too late.
A distant rumble she had mistaken for thunder or a carriage became more distinct then, hoofbeats on cobblestones.
“It’s the Guard or a contingent of soldiers,” Montagne said, putting a hand back to stay her. “Let’s step into that courtyard until they pass.”
He took her hand, a gesture that surprised her until she saw how close the group of men on horseback were. Then she was too terrified to think much except hurry.
The marquis dragged her into the courtyard, and they ducked behind a wall. A few moments later the thunder of hooves clattered by.
Honoria tugged her hand from his, and he released it without any protest.
“On their way to the Hôtel de Ville,” Montagne speculated. “I hope there isn’t any unrest.”
Honoria hoped the same. “Should we wait here until we are certain no other soldiers will pass this way?”
“Yes. But not too long.” He eased his back against the wall, close enough to the edge that he could peer around it. He did so now, then looked back at her. “Your parents spoke French, I take it.”
“Yes. It was the first language I learned.”
“That explains why you do not speak it with an English accent. Did your father and mother never take you to Brussels to see their homeland?”
“My mother died when I was very young,” she said. “I barely remember her.”
His eyes turned kind, but she didn’t need kindness from him. Not now. She did not mourn her mother because she hadn’t really known her.
“And your father?” he asked.
“He was busy with his work.” And if there was a more apt description of René Blanc, she did not know what it might be. She did not have a single memory of her father in which he hadn’t been reading, writing, or studying. He did like to tell her of his life on the Continent. At one point he’d been in the employ of the Holy Roman Empress, Maria Theresa. He’d fallen out of favor with her successor, Joseph II, and he’d collected his pregnant bride and immigrated to England, where he then made a living out of cataloguing the rare and ancient artifacts in the collections of many of the homes of the nobility.
When ancient Greece and Rome became fashionable in dress and design, Monsieur Blanc—who changed his name to Blake when he began publishing—had been hired to verify the authenticity of artifacts that had graced not only museums but also stately homes and castles. Honoria’s mother had died only a few years after the family had immigrated, when Honoria was just a toddler. She’d spent much of her youth at her father’s side, and although she’d had governesses and been educated in the arts of embroidery, sketching, and the pianoforte, she had an affinity for antiquities and her own knowledge of Roman antiquities was only rivaled by that of her father’s.
“I can only assume he had an interest in Roman artifacts,” Montagne said.
“He did. I learned all I know from him. In fact, he was one of the foremost experts on the Romans. He wrote many papers and even a book.”
“Was?” That penetrating gaze never left her face.
“He died from a fever. It was quite sudden.” Now she did have to wipe away a stray tear, and she dared not look at Montagne. Kindness from him now would only make her cry. “One day he seemed well and the next he was ill. He did not suffer. His sickness was short and took him quickly.”
“How old were you?” He handed her a handkerchief and she used it to blot her eyes and nose.
“Fifteen. Not so very young.”
“Young enough.”
Her head came up. “What does that mean?”
“It means he left you vulnerable and alone.”
“If you think I blamed my father for taking ill with a fever, you are mistaken. Nor can I fault him for failing to provide for me. I was not penniless when he died. I had enough money to live on until I could find the means to support myself.”
“And that would have been quite sufficient were you plain. But beautiful young women attract attention.”
Before she could reply, and God knew what she would have said, he rose and pulled her to her feet. “We cannot afford to waste any more time.”
She would not argue with him. She did not want to waste any more time with him.
HONORIA KNOCKED ON the rear door to the safe house, one quick knock followed by three knocks. It was obviously some sort of code. Regardless, the door did not open immediately. Laurent had the distinct impression he was being watched. Indeed, Honoria looked up at one of the windows and waved. The curtain swished and a moment later the door opened.
The pixie with the cropped blond hair yanked Honoria inside. She would have closed the door on Laurent, but he shouldered his way inside behind her.
The pixie glared at him. “Thou poisonous bunch-back’d toad!” she said in English.
He raised his eyes to the heavens. “Save your Shakespeare for the stage,” he answered in English. “Where is the League?”
The pixie’s hands balled at her waist. “I am the League. You are not welcome here, lily-livered—”
The back door opened into the kitchen, and he strode past the stove and a table with several bowls of potatoes and a small sack of flour on it and into the dining room. Ffoulkes sat at the table, teacup in hand, looking for all the world as though he’d expected the former Marquis de Montagne at that precise moment.
“Sir Andrew.” Laurent gave a slight bow. “I think we must speak.”
“Do sit, monsieur. I thought you might find your way back here.”
Honoria came into the room, the pixie right behind her. Ffoulkes rose. “Miss Blake!” His eyes widened, and Laurent turned to see what had so surprised him. Ah. He’d forgotten Honoria wore men’s clothing and that her hair was down about her shoulders. Pity she would go and change into a dress, covering those lovely legs and that plump derrière.
“Are you hurt, miss?” Ffoulkes asked, crossing the room to take her hand. Laurent rose, not liking to see her hand in Ffoulkes’s. Not that he had any right to her hand. She’d made it quite clear she loathed his touch.
“I am quite well, simply exhausted. We’ve had something of an adventure.”
Ffoulkes looked over his shoulder at Laurent. “That is about to end. As soon as Dewhurst returns you will be escorted out of France, monsieur.”
“I won’t go.”
“That is your choice, but I must warn you the other option is death. You know too much, and that makes you dangerous.”
Laurent took a menacing step toward Ffoulkes. The marquis was not a man who tolerated threats well. He never had, and he was not about to allow this upstart rosbif to utter another word without his fist in his face.
“Stop.” Honoria stepped between the two men. “This is ridiculous. Sir Andrew.” She turned to the John Bull. “We have only just arrived. You might offer us tea before you issue your proclamations and warnings.”
Ffoulkes gave her a long look, then turned his glacial stare on Laurent. “Would you like tea?”
“No.”
Ffoulkes lunged, and Honoria had to slip between them again. “Coffee then!” she cried. “Alex, would you fetch it? I am afraid to leave these two alone.”
The pixie gave an exasperated sigh. “Very well, but do not do anything interesting until I return.”
She hurried out. Honoria faced Ffoulkes. “You, sir, sit here.” She pointed to one of the dining room chairs. Ffoulkes didn’t move right away, but finally he strode to the table, lifted his tea, and carried it to the far end.
“And you sit here.” Honoria pointed to the other end of the table. Laurent raised a shoulder and took a seat. He’d trusted her to sway the minds of the League of the Scarlet
Pimpernel, and now she had to prove she could do it.
“I would think, Miss Blake, that after the man abducted you and”—he looked at her clothing—“whatnot, you might not be opposed to the former marquis receiving a blow to the nose or a punch in the breadbasket.”
“Oh, I assure you, he deserves that and more,” she said, sitting in a chair equidistant between them.
Laurent glared at her. Fickleness, thy name is woman.
“But I convinced him to bring me here because he needs our help.”
“Oh, I have no doubt of that, but if this is more about the princess, he is wasting his time.”
Honoria’s chin jerked up, and Laurent had a brief impression of Marie Antoinette. Not that Honoria Blake resembled the queen in the least, but she had the same regal manner, the same stiff backbone under pressure. “Then I am wasting my time as well.”
“How is that?” Ffoulkes asked.
“Because I have promised to help him, and I will do so with or without you.”
Thirteen
“What did he do to you?” Alex asked that night when they were alone in their bedchamber.
Honoria started. She’d been brushing her damp hair near the fire after a thorough washing. With her small bed so close, she hadn’t been able to stop her thoughts from straying to the bed she’d shared with Montagne the night before. She had lain stiff and awake for hours, half afraid he would ravish her.
Half afraid he would not.
And then when she’d wakened, the scent of sandalwood with the hint of citrus had seemed to surround her. It was his scent, his warm weight on the mattress beside her, his quiet breathing she heard intermingled with birdsong and the rustle of trees.
She could hardly fault him for staring at her when he’d finally wakened. She’d spent a good portion of the morning staring at him. He was a truly beautiful man. The mark on his temple had been all but obscured by a wave of chocolate brown hair. Though she couldn’t see his eyes, she knew they were the same color as the countryside in spring. His lips had been parted slightly, and the contrast of pink beside the black stubble made them look all the more delicious.
