by Shana Galen
She’d wanted to kiss them, which made him all the more dangerous.
And Alex asked what he had done to her.
“He didn’t touch me,” Honoria answered, looking over her shoulder.
Alex raised a skeptical brow, but Honoria bit back her amendment—very much.
Alex sat on her bed, crossing her legs on the mattress. It was a most unladylike pose, but as usual, Alex didn’t seem to care. “Then why have you decided to assist him?”
Honoria sighed. “I explained all of that.” She returned to brushing her hair. “At length.”
Indeed, she’d explained it more than once. First to Sir Andrew and Alex, then to Lord Anthony and Sir Edward Mackenzie, and finally to Lord Edward Hastings. Each member of the League had argued with her.
Sir Andrew’s argument had been that she was not prepared for the dangers of the mission. Honoria could not argue. Notwithstanding the past day, she had done nothing in Paris but forge documents in the peace and quiet of the safe house.
Sir Edward Mackenzie had argued that the princess was in no danger. The revolutionaries had no reason to kill her.
Lord Edward Hastings had argued that they would rescue the dauphin in good time and this attempt might ruin all their planning.
Finally, Lord Anthony had given his own opinion. “You have gone completely daft.”
“Even if you do manage to rescue the princess and the dauphin, how will you smuggle them out of France? The king and queen already failed once in their attempt to escape,” Alex said, reiterating her earlier argument.
Honoria scowled. “As you well know, that escape attempt was ludicrous. The royal family insisted on traveling together in large, luxurious coaches and the king was recognized after stepping out to dine in public. An idiot could make a better plan than that.”
“Then what is your plan?”
Honoria’s brush caught on a tangle and she winced. “I leave that to the marquis.”
“Yes,” Alex drawled. “He seems quite adept at evading capture.”
Honoria jumped to her feet. “Then perhaps those of you who have done this sort of thing countless times could lend some assistance. If you are all so afraid of me failing and exposing the League, why don’t you help me?”
“You forget that neither I nor Ffoulkes nor Tony have the final say in what we do or do not do in the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“Then we send him a missive.”
Alex rolled her eyes in the dramatic fashion that had made her so popular on the stage. “And you think that so simple? He is not in France at the moment. If you and the pretty noble would only wait a few weeks—”
“Everything could change in a few weeks. The children may be moved or die from abuse or neglect. We cannot afford to wait.”
“We cannot afford to fail, and we must plan this carefully.”
Honoria crossed to Alex and took her hands. Alex had small hands, as befit her petite, slender frame. “Alex, we are discussing children. Children. We cannot allow them to languish in prison. They are fatherless and will soon be motherless. The Scarlet Pimpernel would want us to act.”
Alex closed her eyes, her brow knit in consternation.
“If we cannot even save two innocent children,” Honoria whispered. “Then why are we here?”
Alex blew out a long breath. “When you put it that way...”
Honoria’s heart soared. She and Montagne could not help but succeed if the League was behind them. “I knew you would help!” She embraced Alex, but the woman pushed her back.
“I haven’t agreed yet.”
“But...” Honoria said hopefully.
“But I will speak with Sir Andrew.”
“Thank you.” Honoria tried to embrace Alex again, but Alex rose and stepped away.
“I have still not agreed to anything.”
“But you will.”
“We will see what Ffoulkes says.” She hadn’t yet donned her night rail, so she crossed to the door, presumably to speak to Ffoulkes right away. She paused at the latch. “Are you certain nothing happened? Not even a kiss?”
Honoria’s gaze flicked down before she could stop it.
“I knew it! I knew you could not be that unmoved by a man that beautiful. And the way he looks at you—”
“It was one kiss, and it’s not the reason I want to help him. This mission has nothing to do with him whatsoever. It’s the children I care about.”
“Of course, it is.” Alex smiled and opened the door.
The next morning dawned cloudy and rainy. The rain was light, which meant the League went out to complete their various tasks. Honoria still had no answer as to whether or not the League would assist her and the marquis, but Sir Andrew hadn’t reiterated his objections this morning.
Instead he’d said, “We shall speak later” before leaving with Alex, Hastings, and Mackenzie through the secret passage.
Lord Anthony had stayed behind, a fact he bemoaned at every opportunity. “I don’t know why the devil I was chosen to play nursemaid,” he grumbled as he paced the dining room.
Honoria attempted to ignore him. Ffoulkes had given her several documents to prepare, and she needed to concentrate in order to do her best. Montagne lounged in one of the chairs, a cup of coffee before him.
“Of all the days to be trapped inside,” Lord Antony mumbled.
Honoria thought he seemed more like a caged animal than the son of the powerful Duke of Exeter. Surely he had spent many, many days inside when at school or at home. Sons of dukes, even younger sons, were not allowed to run wild.
She wondered where the duke thought his offspring was at present. She had no one in England who would worry over her or wonder where she was. She had taken a leave of absence from the British Museum, claiming she had to nurse a sick aunt, and no one had questioned her. Her parents were dead and she had but cursory contact with the rest of her family in Brussels. She supposed that was one reason the Pimpernel had requested her services.
That and she was the best forger in the country.
She leaned closer to her document, studying the signature she’d forged. It was good, but would it pass for Robespierre? She drew out a paper with his real signature to compare the two.
“Everyone else is out and I must mollycoddle a frog-eater.”
“I do speak English, you know,” Montagne said, startling Honoria. He hadn’t spoken in more than an hour, and his deep resonant voice warmed her through.
“Good,” Lord Anthony said with a dark look at the marquis. “Then you know I’d like to throttle you right about now.”
“It’s hardly my fault your friends went on without you. I assure you, I do not need a nursemaid.”
“If you wanted anyone to trust you, you shouldn’t have abducted Miss Blake.”
He shrugged. “We do what we must.”
“I know what I must do.” He took a menacing step toward the marquis. Honoria, who was rather tired of all the theatrics, cleared her throat.
“If you want to beat each other senseless, by all means do so, but take it out of this room. I cannot concentrate with the two of you bickering like old women.”
“Old women!” the men said in unison. Lord Anthony immediately scowled at the marquis.
“Either make yourself useful,” Honoria said, returning to the forged signature, “or go away.”
Since neither man had anywhere to go—Montagne not being allowed out of Lord Anthony’s sight and Lord Anthony trapped in the safe house—a tense quiet descended again.
Finally, just as Honoria dipped her pen to make a slight modification to the signature—the R was not quite right—the marquis said, “I do not eat frogs.”
“It shows. Even a frog knows to hop away when in danger.”
And just like that the quiet was over. Montagne leapt from his chair and Lord Anthony was ready.
The two men collided, the French marquis sending the son of the British duke smashing into a chair. Honoria’s hand jumped and ink slid ac
ross her document. She was too shocked at first to do much more than stare at the men. The Lord Anthony rolled and struck Montagne before the marquis wobbled to his feet and threw a punch.
“Arrêtez!” Honoria cried, standing for effect, though what effect it had was negligible as neither man took any notice of her. “Stop!” she tried in English.
Lord Anthony bent and rammed Montagne in the belly. Both men sailed backward, the marquis slamming into the dining table. Honoria grabbed for her inkpot before it could be upended, but she could not rescue her other tools. Stamps, pens, and papers scattered into the air.
Lord Anthony advanced on Montagne, but the marquis kicked out, shoving the Pimpernel’s man back.
And right into a small table. It flattened under Dewhurst’s weight. The sound of cracking wood echoed. Honoria could not allow this to go on or the neighbors would come to investigate. She scooted around the still shuddering table and threw her body in front of Montagne before Lord Anthony could launch his next offensive.
“Stop!” She held her arms out, blocking the marquis.
“You allow a woman to fight your battles?” Lord Anthony sneered.
“Fils de salope!” The marquis attempted to maneuver past Honoria, but she shifted to block him.
“No! No more. Do you want the neighbors to call the guard?”
Lord Anthony lowered his fists and cut his eyes to survey the room. “Merde. Ffoulkes will have my head.”
“If the republicans don’t claim it first.” Honoria leveled a gaze at Lord Anthony and then Montagne. “What is wrong with you two? You were behaving more like criminals than gentlemen.” Her gaze fell on the pile of papers and other debris from her once tidy workstation. “And look what you’ve done! Hours of work—ruined!”
Lord Anthony lowered his gaze, while Montagne climbed off the table. “Je suis désolé.”
“Now you are repentant.” She turned to chastise him further and gasped. “You have blood all over your cheek.”
He touched a hand to it gingerly and pulled back, studying his crimson fingers. “It is nothing.”
“You’re hurt.”
“The cut on my temple opened again. That is all.”
But when he moved to collect the detritus on the floor, he hissed in a breath.
“What else hurts?” she demanded.
“Hopefully, his pride,” Lord Anthony said under his breath.
Honoria glared at him. “This is your fault, you know.”
“My fault!” He blinked his dark eyes innocently. “He attacked me.”
“You were spoiling for a fight. You’ve been prowling about like a caged panther all morning.” She held out a hand at the marquis, bending to retrieve her papers, though he was obviously stiff with pain. “Arrêtez. Lord Anthony can see to that. You had better lie down.” Not only had the gash on his temple been reopened, his cheek swelled with the beginnings of a bruise.
“I am perfectly well, mademoiselle.”
She put her hands on her hips, thoroughly irritated by these two men in particular and all men in general. “If you won’t lie down on your own, I’ll make Lord Anthony carry you to your bed.”
“I would like to see him try.”
“Oh, would you?” Lord Anthony straightened.
“One more word from either of you,” Honoria said from between clenched teeth, “and I call the guard myself!”
Montagne held Lord Anthony’s gaze a moment longer, then shifted his gaze to Honoria. Finally, he shrugged and started for the stairs, presumably to return to his room. When he was out of sight, Honoria glowered at Lord Anthony. “You had better put this room to rights before Alex and Sir Andrew return.”
She stomped in the direction of the kitchen.
“Won’t you help?” he asked incredulously.
“No.”
As she walked away, she heard him mutter. “And I thought we’d finally found a sweet and docile female.”
THOUGH LAURENT HAD been reluctant to walk away from the English brute, he had to admit his head was spinning. And his arm hurt like...well, like it had been rammed by an ox, which was more or less a perfect description for Dewhurst.
He groaned as he sat on his small bed, rotated his shoulder, and rolled his head from side to side. He didn’t have a mirror in his chamber, but he took a towel from the washstand and dabbed it on his face. It came away scarlet. He’d bled more than he had expected.
He’d go down and fetch water later—damn the lack of servants—but for now he would take the mademoiselle’s advice and close his eyes for a few minutes. God knew sleep would be better than this endless waiting.
When he opened them, she was bustling about his room, pouring water from a pitcher into the washbasin. She dipped a clean towel in the water, wrung it out, and advanced on him. He lifted a hand. “I can do it myself. I would have fetched the water as well.”
“But you are too used to being waited on.”
“I would take your advice and lie down for a moment.”
She sat on the edge of his bed, making his body roll toward her slightly. The heat from her body spread warmth into him immediately. “That is a new tactic. You actually listened to me?” She leaned forward and dabbed the wet cloth on his temple. He hadn’t even been aware it too was bleeding again. Perhaps that accounted for the dizziness. She dabbed again, and he winced.
“Does that pain you? Good.”
He let out an indignant laugh. “You should stick with forgery. Nursing is not your forte.”
“I am a perfectly adequate nurse,” she said, though he could tell from the tone of her voice she was not quite certain of that fact. “I grow annoyed when I must nurse foolish men.”
Men? Had she nursed the English ox as well? Had she touched him like this?
“Stop scowling,” she ordered. “The blood will dry in the creases.”
She wet the towel, dipping it in the basin on her lap, then began to clean his chin. When she touched his cheek, he gritted his teeth to keep from cursing. It wasn’t even bleeding, but it hurt like hell. His whole head hurt.
She set the basin on the floor, and lifted a clean towel, dabbing at the water and cleaning the wound. “I wish I had some sort of poultice or medicine to put on it.”
She reached over him, giving him a lovely view of the underside of her rounded breast. He clenched his hands. If she had done this for Dewhurst, Laurent would have to hit the man again.
“I am fine,” he said. “I feel much better.”
“Very well.” She ceased her ministrations, and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“What about your arm?” she asked, reaching to touch it lightly.
Thank God—or the Supreme Being—or whomever they were praying to now. She was not finished touching him.
“It’s a strain. Nothing more.” Idiot! Why did he keep giving her reasons to leave?
With a nod, she began to rise. “I would not mind assistance removing my coat.”
“Of course.” She gestured for him to sit up, and he complied, attempting to remove the garment himself. This was easy enough on the arm that remained uninjured, but he bit back an oath when he tried to pry the other arm out.
“Let me help.” She slid her hands over his back and eased his injured shoulder out of the coat. He closed his eyes, trying not to imagine what he might feel if she touched his naked skin.
When the coat was off, she prodded his shoulder. He jerked back and glared at her.
“I don’t see any fresh blood on your shirt,” she said, ignoring him. “Perhaps we should remove it and look underneath. You must have a bruise.”
Yes, and he could imagine what sort of bruises he might receive if Dewhurst came upstairs to find him half naked and alone with her. “That is not a good idea.”
Her hands immediately fell to her sides. “You are right, of course.”
“In fact, this plan was not wise. It was a mistake to return here.”
Now she scowled at him. “And where else did we have to
go?”
“The Pimpernel’s men—”
“Shh!” she hissed at him. “One never knows who might be listening.”
If someone was listening, then he or she had already heard enough to damn them all seven times over. “The men of FR,” he began again, “will obviously not help us. We are wasting our time here.”
“I am not wasting my time. I need the tools I have here in order to make the documents we’ll need. If you could but manage to avoid fisticuffs, it would make my task easier.”
“I would avoid it more easily if I were not watched like an enfant. How do we know what documents you should make if we do not know how many of us will be in the carriage? And even if we knew that, we cannot plan the rescue without knowing something of the daily routine of the Temple. I must go to the Temple and observe, not sit here under guard.” After being on the streets of Paris, he’d realized his plan to slip into the Temple and take the children was not feasible without some knowledge of the guards’ schedules. Which meant even more of a delay.
She shook her head. “Too dangerous. If any of the former servants are still there and see you, they might report you.”
“It’s a chance I will have to take. There is no other way.” And he could not sit idle another moment.
“Yes, there is. We ask Ffoulkes to send one of his men.”
Laurent shook his head. “I don’t trust Ffoulkes or his men.”
“Do you trust me?”
He heard the tone of challenge in her voice, and his first impulse was to disarm her. It was an old habit, charming women and disarming them, but he couldn’t quite make himself answer as quickly as the lie would dictate.
She folded her arms over her chest. “You do not. I told you I would help you, and I will.”
“Your loyalties lie with Ffoulkes and the other men. If you were forced to make a choice, can you honestly say you would choose me?”
She glanced away, at a painting on the wall. The seconds ticked by, while she stared at the painting as though she studying it. Laurent tried not to feel offended. After all, why should she choose him? She had known him only a handful of hours, and in that time he had abducted her, cuffed her, and put her in danger. Moreover, it would not be him she rejected, but the mission. The dauphin and Madame Royale.
