Taken by the Rake (The Scarlet Chronicles, #3)

by Shana Galen

  His family name was tainted, and Laurent had wallowed in the muck. He couldn’t right his father’s wrongs. Why should he try to clean a stain that would never be wiped free? Why not simply add to the dirt, become the man everyone thought he was already?

  No one loved the Marquis de Montagne. Men might have envied him. Women might have desired him. Courtiers might have pitied his bad blood or cursed his relationship with the royal family or lusted after the money and favors he won. But no one loved him. No one but his sister Amélie had loved him, and she’d died because they’d been playing together.

  “I don’t want you to hate me,” he said, almost before he knew the words were out of his mouth. And then he was across the room, standing before her without knowing he had even moved.

  “Yes, you do, and you needn’t explain. I know what you are doing and why. I suppose I wish I’d realized this would happen before we went to bed.”

  “Would you have refused me?”

  She glanced up at him, her violet eyes hard with the anger she was taking great pains to hide. “No.” She shook her head, almost as though she were chastising herself. “No, but...”

  He moved closer, and she shot him a wary look.

  “But?” he prodded.

  “But I might not have given so much of myself.”

  Pain lanced through him at her admission. She’d given herself to him completely, and he’d taken that trust and stomped on it. How could he make amends when his every instinct told him making her hate him was the correct course of action?

  “Honoria, next time—”

  She laughed. “Next time? Oh, there will be no next time. I forgot where we were and what we were doing.” She gestured to the Temple, casting its shadow on the floor of their lodgings in the fading light. “I will not forget again.”

  He wrapped an arm around her before she could squirm away. “Let me go!”

  He caught her hand and kissed her fist. “If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t do this.”

  “Oh, yes! You only hurt me because you care.”

  “And because I’m selfish. Because I want to protect myself. If I don’t keep you away, I’ll go mad imagining my mouth on yours, my skin sliding against your skin, the way your eyes go dark and hazy when I make you climax.”

  “Laurent.” Her eyes flashed a warning, but her voice was breathless, betraying the effect he had on her. He should stop this now. He should step away, but he did not have the resolve to let her go when he had her in his arms.

  “What you do to me,” he murmured before wrapping a hand in her hair and taking her mouth with his. And there was the heat again, the flash of fire, the hard jolt of arousal. It was a fever raging through him, driving him mad with wanting her. The kiss turned hard and fierce as he pushed her up against the wall and lifted her skirts to touch the silk of her thighs. He could not live without the feel of her skin on his fingertips.

  A loud rap on the door sent them both stumbling apart.

  Honoria seemed to recover first, smoothing her skirts and her hair. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  Laurent shook his head. “It must be someone from the League,” he said in a low voice. She still looked rumpled and as though she had just been thoroughly kissed, but if the visitor at the door was anyone other than a member of the League, that might work in their favor. “Who is it?” Laurent called. He tensed, praying it was not the National Guard or an emissary of the Committee of Public Safety.

  “It’s Phillipe, your cousin from Burgundy,” came the answer.

  Laurent felt his shoulders slump and Honoria blew out a breath. It was the League. This was the agreed-upon code.

  Laurent crossed the room and pulled the door open. Ffoulkes stood in the corridor, looking both patriotic and fashionable in red and white striped trousers, blue waistcoat, red carmagnole, and a large cockade pinned to his breast. “Cousin! It is so good to see you.”

  To Laurent’s surprise, Ffoulkes embraced him. “Pretend you are happy to see me and let me inside. The sooner all of these eyes are off me, the better.” He hissed the words in Laurent’s ear before ending the embrace with hard slap on the shoulder.

  Laurent moved inside and closed the door behind Ffoulkes, bolting it. When he turned back, Ffoulkes stood surveying the room, hands on hips. “This is cozy.” He crossed to the window, peered out at the Temple, then down at the notes Laurent and Honoria had taken.

  “Sir Andrew,” Honoria said, making a slight curtsy. “We are so glad to see you.”

  He gave her a long look. “Are you?”

  “Yes. We’ve noted the routines and procedures at the Temple for the past two days, and we even spotted the princess walking in the gardens. We have been busy.”

  Ffoulkes, who hadn’t ceased walking about the lodgings and taking in everything else, pushed open the door of the bedchamber. “Yes, I can see you have been busy.”

  Laurent pressed his fingers lightly to his eyes. He could only imagine the state of the rumpled bedclothes.

  “Unfortunately, we have no more time to indulge your covert activities.” Ffoulkes closed the bedchamber door and eyed them both with disdain. Laurent moved closer to Honoria, who had jerked her chin high.

  “I would hardly think planning the rescue of the royal heirs to the kingdom of France an indulgence.” Her voice held a hint of steel.

  Ffoulkes crossed his arms over his chest. “And have you planned the rescue or have you merely wrinkled your bedclothes?”

  Laurent stepped in front of Honoria. “I resent your implications, monsieur.” He would have given a thousand livres for his sword right now.

  “Is it implication if the facts are clearly before me?” Ffoulkes raised a brow. Then he blew out a breath. “Forgive me, I am merely...disappointed.” He leveled a gaze at Honoria, and not for the first time Laurent wondered if Ffoulkes had wanted her for himself. Honoria would have been better off with Ffoulkes. The man could more likely give her some sort of future.

  But Laurent had always been a selfish man. He’d wanted her for himself and damn the consequences.

  “You will not be disappointed when you see the work we have done,” Honoria said, crossing to the table. “Monsieur le Marquis has refined his map of the Temple, and we’ve both made copious notes as to the schedule the guards in the prison follow. With a little more time, we should be able to proceed with confidence.”

  “I cannot give you more time.” Ffoulkes looked from one to the other, and finally Laurent understood the purpose for this visit. The League, perhaps the Pimpernel himself, was putting an end to this mission. “Today we received word that the queen’s trial will begin tomorrow.”

  Laurent put a hand on the table where his notes were scattered and sat. “Then Robespierre really does mean to try her.”

  “He intends to accuse her of all manner of wickedness,” Ffoulkes said. “And she will be found guilty too.”

  “You cannot know that.”

  Laurent looked up as Honoria’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. Did she understand the pain he felt knowing his queen would be convicted of heinous crimes—treason against her country for certain, but others as well? Of course she did. She was the only one who understood what the queen’s friendship had meant to him and why he needed to rescue her children from the same prison he’d visited as a child.

  “The verdict has been decided,” Ffoulkes said. “The trial, like all others brought before the Tribunal in this godforsaken republic will be a sham. The queen will be found guilty and sentenced to die.”

  Honoria’s hand tightened. “No!”

  Laurent rose. “That is ridiculous. She is a woman and not even French born.” Although she’d lived in France since the age of fourteen, the people had never forgotten she was an Austrian by birth. Cries of L’Autrichienne—Austrian bitch—had followed her all of her life. “Surely she will be exiled to Austria or confined to a convent to live out the rest of her years.”

  “She will follow her late husband to the guill
otine,” Ffoulkes said without blinking. “My source declares it has been decided, and he has yet to be proven wrong.”

  “My God,” Honoria whispered.

  “God is dead,” Laurent said, aware his voice sounded bitter and hard. He looked up at Ffoulkes. “How long do we have?”

  “We must act tomorrow night.”

  Laurent had been so eager to act, but now that he had no choice, he was not certain he was ready. “We have not yet seen the dauphin or managed to verify he is in the Grande Tower.”

  “I have my orders,” Ffoulkes said.

  “Has the Pimpernel returned?” Honoria whispered.

  Ffoulkes’s expression did not change. “I cannot say. What I can say is that our mutual friends have their hands full. Miss Martin has already departed for her next mission. If you want the assistance of the rest of the League, tomorrow night is your last chance.”

  “We’re not ready.”

  Laurent held up a hand. “We are not as ready as we would like, but there are advantages to acting now.”

  Honoria sat in the seat across from him. “Such as?”

  “All eyes in Paris will be on the queen and the trial.”

  “That does not mean the Temple will be left unguarded,” Ffoulkes reminded him.

  “Of course not,” Laurent agreed. “But it does mean some of the usual attention will be pulled away. If we have a team of five—”

  Ffoulkes shook his head. “I can give you two men.”

  Laurent glared at him, then rose to his feet. “I am proposing to save the children of the king and queen of France from nearly certain death, and you tell me not only do I have one day to finalize a plan, you can only spare two men to help?”

  Ffoulkes’s gaze didn’t waver. “That is exactly what I am telling you.”

  “Who? At least tell me what men I can expect to aid me.”

  “Dewhurst—”

  “Merde. I knew you would say his name.”

  “And Mackenzie.”

  “The Scot?”

  “Sir Edward is brave and cunning,” Honoria said. “He will be an asset, and Lord Anthony has completed dozens of missions, some of the most dangerous yet. He marched into La Force and rescued you.”

  She has a point, but that didn’t mean Laurent had to like the Englishman.

  “Three men...” he mused, trying to picture the Temple and location of Madame Royale in his mind.

  “And one woman,” Honoria added.

  Laurent spun to face her. “Are you certain? You’d be safer here.”

  “I’d be useless here.” Her hands landed on her hips.

  “You could gather information.”

  Before Honoria could say the clearly angry words on the tip of her tongue, Ffoulkes held up a hand. “She can be an asset for you, and not just because she can make you the requisite passes and documents. A woman in less suspicious and will be able to move around more freely in the prison. Disguise her as a servant or use her as a distraction for the guards. From all accounts, Madame Royale and Madame Élisabeth are suspicious of men. You may encounter resistance from them if Tony or Mackenzie attempt to free them. I think it more likely they will go with a woman. In the meantime, you send the male members of the League to find and rescue the dauphin.”

  “Any idea how all of that should be accomplished?” Laurent asked.

  Ffoulkes smiled. “I have a few, as I imagine you have your own plans.” He took a chair, pulled it to the table, and sat with his arms crossed over the back. “Why don’t we compare notes and strategies?”

  With a nod, Laurent drew out the map of the Temple and began to describe his rescue plan.

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER Honoria worked by the light of a single candle to finalize the last document they’d need for entrance—and hopefully exit—from the Temple. Outside the window behind her, the dark prison loomed like a menacing giant. She must be mad to think of entering a prison when all of Paris was doing its best to avoid imprisonment. She wasn’t even certain Laurent’s plan would work. She was less certain Sir Andrew’s modifications would succeed.

  By this time tomorrow night they’d either be on their way to safety or the guillotine. There was no room for error and victory was their only option. They would not have another chance. Ffoulkes had retreated to the safe house a couple of hours before, eager to be back before the curfew. Sir Edward Mackenzie and Lord Anthony would return with him before evening. They wanted to be inside the prison before nightfall.

  Honoria blew on the ink she’d just added to the last document and tried not to think of what might go wrong tomorrow. The work had been good for her. It had kept her mind from going over and over the plan and dwelling on every weakness. It had also kept her from pacing a groove in the wooden floors as Laurent had been doing for the past several hours.

  She turned now to find him standing at the window, staring at the Temple, his expression brooding. He was one of those men who looked particularly handsome when he brooded. Although, truth be told, he looked handsome when he was smug and disdainful as well. This was their last night together. If they managed to rescue the princess and the dauphin, they could not stay in Paris. Laurent would escort Madame Royale across the border and to safety with her Hapsburg cousins, and Honoria would return to London.

  She’d return to the British Museum. She’d return to her role as unobtrusive mouse. She’d never wanted glory or fame. That was not why she’d agreed to help the Pimpernel. She’d wanted to save people, and she would finally have her chance. Thus far she’d been lucky. She’d evaded capture. She was not so foolish as to believe her luck would not run out.

  But she did say a quick prayer that it would last until midnight tomorrow—or was it already tomorrow?

  No matter what happened, she didn’t regret coming to France. She didn’t regret her work for the Pimpernel. She didn’t regret Laurent. He was afraid she would be hurt if he allowed her to grow any closer to him. That was why he tried to push her away after their lovemaking.

  What he didn’t realize was she had already fallen in love with him. It was too late to protect her feelings.

  “Est-ce que tu as fini?” he asked softly.

  Are you finished? Why was it when he spoke in French it sounded so much lovelier than when anyone else asked her in English—nay, it sounded lovelier than when anyone else asked it in French. The way he spoke, the way he moved, the way he stood—everything about him spoke of nobility. Even if their destinies would not take them separate ways, they were not meant to be together.

  He was the product of a long line of illustrious men and women, and she was nothing but the daughter of a merchant’s daughter and an historian from Brussels.

  She rose and brushed at the shavings on her skirts. “I will look at the documents again in the morning. The sunlight always illuminates my mistakes.”

  He peered across the table, studying her work. “The Temple is dark and lit by sconces and lamps inside. Your work is more than adequate.”

  She curtsied. “Merci, Monsieur le Marquis.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  She glanced up at him to see his brows had drawn together and his eyes flashed angrily. “I’m Citoyen Burgoyne now, if you must be formal. I prefer you call me Laurent. The ancien régime is little more than the shavings from your pen now. I must accept that if I am to go on.”

  “Perhaps the exiled Bourbons will make a triumphant return. Perhaps you will be a marquis yet again.”

  He looked at her long and hard, his gaze roving over her face until it seemed he’d memorized every feature. “I’m not certain I care any longer. I can almost believe there are some things—some people—that matter more than wealth and privilege.”

  Honoria caught her breath, trying to keep the small bubbles of hope from growing and touching her heart. “Such as Madame Royale?”

  He swallowed, and she could see the muscles of his throat working. “Such as you, Honoria.”

  She closed her eyes. The bubbles burst, causing
elation as well as pain in her heart.

  “I know what I said earlier, and I know I have no right to say what I am about to say now,” he began.

  She opened her eyes and held up a hand. “Then don’t say it.” She crossed the small space between them, taking his hands when he held them out. He drew her away from the open window. “Don’t say anything. I know what tomorrow brings, and I regret nothing. I will regret nothing except wasting the last night I have with you. If you still want me—”

  A huff escaped his lips. “How can you possibly doubt that I want you? I want you too much. I wanted you from the first time I saw you.”

  “Because I’m beautiful.” She looked away.

  He squeezed her hands. “Because you were kind. How many people would have taken me in—a man running from La Force with a price on his head? How many people would have nursed me, forgiven me for abducting—”

  “I haven’t quite forgiven you that yet.” She glanced at him with an arched brow.

  He smiled. “You have a generous heart, Honoria, and that is a commodity even more valuable than beauty these days.” What more did she want him to say? She had come to France because she wanted to be more than a pretty face, to do more than sign others’ names to false documents. And Laurent had seen she was more than beauty or a quill and ink. He’d seen her. A rush of emotion filled her heart.

  “Does such a commodity make you want to kiss me?”

  “It makes me want much more than that.”

  “Then take me to bed.” When he looked as though he might protest—to tell her it was a bad idea or they should sleep—she put a finger over his lips. “One last time, Laurent. S’il te plaît.”

  “How am I to resist you?”

  But the question was rhetorical because he lowered his lips to hers, his mouth soft and pliant as he gently took hers. He never demanded her surrender, but he had a way of making her want to surrender to his kiss, his touch, the demands of his body.