by Shana Galen
It didn’t render him unconscious, as Ramsey had hoped. But nothing was easy in Paris these days. And if these damn revolutionaries didn’t live so well, they might have a vase with some heft to it, rather than such a thin, fine porcelain one.
The guard was on his knees, and now he turned and reached for Ramsey. Ramsey danced out of the way, but the man caught his leg and brought him down. The escort was instantly on top of him, his hands around Ramsey’s neck. The man slammed Ramsey’s head down, and for a moment he saw black. Thank God for the plush carpet. He shook the fuzziness off, bucked, and threw the escort aside.
It was coming back to him now—this kind of no-rules, roll-in-the-dirt fighting. He’d been in more fights than he could count as a lad, mostly with his brothers. This was no ring at Gentleman Jackson’s. This was kicking, biting, and punching until one of them was out cold.
Ramsey knew if he could keep the guard’s bayonet out of the fight, he had a good chance of winning. The guard rolled, and Ramsey caught his arm, pulled him back, and punched him hard. Blood splattered the rug. Ramsey winced as it soaked in, distracted just long enough for the man to kick him in the belly.
He let out a rush of air, bent, then butted the man in the head when he drew close. The escort reared back, and Ramsey swept his legs, bringing him down in a crashing heap. A chair overturned as well, and Gabrielle opened the door.
“What are you doing? You’re louder than a coach and four on cobblestones!”
Ramsey was holding down the escort, but he looked up in time to catch her disapproving expression. “You’re welcome to take over.” He panted, trying to catch his breath and keep the squirming man still.
“Just hurry up!” she hissed and closed the door.
Ramsey looked down and met the escort’s gaze. “You heard the lady.”
“Lady?” The escort looked back toward the door, and Ramsey hit him hard. The man groaned, and Ramsey stood. While the escort rolled on the floor, clutching his face, Ramsey divested him of the bayonet.
“Sorry…” He lifted the butt and struck the guard in the head.
The man stopped moving. Ramsey knelt and felt his neck—he still had a pulse. Ramsey looked about for something to tie his hands and feet. The curtains were secured with a silk cord, and he yanked it off and bound the man tightly, rolling him behind the desk to hide him from view.
He was heading for the door when Gabrielle opened it and stepped inside. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered. She kept Saint-Just’s door open a sliver and they peered out. A man wearing a powdered wig, a high-necked silk coat with a flowing cravat, silk breeches, and shoes with ornamental buckles walked by.
Gabrielle closed the door silently. “I think that’s Robespierre.”
“He dresses better than I do.”
“The country might be in turmoil, the people starving, but at least its leaders are togged in twig.” She cracked the door again. “Let’s go.”
Ramsey grabbed her arm. “It’s only half past ten. Robespierre might return.”
“I know, but I checked the room next to his. It’s empty. We can hide there. We should be able to hear him leave.”
She was clever, he thought, following her. They skated down the corridor and ducked into the empty office. She closed the door and leaned upon it, letting out a long sigh. No lamp burned here, so Ramsey opened the curtains, allowing moonlight to spill inside.
This office was not quite so well outfitted as Saint-Just’s. It was probably that of a clerk’s, which meant they were safe for the night.
Or until the guard at the gate began to wonder what happened to his compatriot and why he and Gabrielle never exited.
“This will never work,” Gabrielle murmured.
“My thoughts exactly,” he said.
“Now you realize this?” She glared at him, hands on hips. “Why didn’t you tell me when I was making the plans?”
“I did tell you when you were making the plans.”
“Oh.” She dropped her hands. “I suppose that was when I told you we would make it work somehow and stomped off.”
He raised a brow.
“Your cheek is bleeding,” she said.
“Madam, that’s the least of my worries. What I really want to know is—“
“Shh! I hear someone coming.” She sank down on the floor, behind the door so that should someone open it, they would see an empty room. Ramsey crouched beside her, and the smell of lilies immediately filled his nose. Good God, why had he ever let her leave dressed like this? Not only would anyone looking closely never believe she was a boy, they’d never believe she was a peasant. She smelled too good. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on listening. He heard muted voices and then the sound of the office door beside theirs opening and closing again.
“It’s Robespierre,” Ramsey whispered. He made the mistake of leaning close to speak to her, and there was that intoxicating scent again.
“Yes.” She pulled her knees under her chin, as though that would make her invisible. “At least we know where he is.”
“In the next room. Probably discussing who next to execute with the head of the police.” He was looking at her. That small freckle beside her mouth was tempting him again.
“Will you stop that?”
“If I’m to die helping you, I think you might at least allow me the fantasy of kissing you a last time.”
“What?” She stared at him. “I meant stop pointing out all the dangers we face.”
“Ah.” He sat back. He could still hear voices in the room beside theirs, but he could not make out the words. Too bad. He might have learned information valuable to the Scarlet Pimpernel.
He shook his head. Now he was thinking of helping the Pimpernel? He couldn’t even save himself.
“Did you…” Gabrielle began. He cut his gaze to her. Even in the gray light of the moon, he could see how blue her eyes were. He could see too the way the light caressed her cheek, limning her soft skin. “Did you want to kiss me?”
His gaze fell to her lips. And that freckle. He’d kissed her enough to know how she would taste, how her mouth would feel on his. “I always want to kiss you.”
Her face was turned to his, and he couldn’t resist lifting a hand and placing it on her cheek.
“Why?”
He frowned. “Why do I want to kiss you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. A chair scraped across the floor in Robespierre’s office.
“You…” He would have said she was beautiful, but that wasn’t the reason. He’d known many beautiful women. “You intrigue me,” he said finally. “You always have.” He rubbed his thumb in small circles on her cheek, descending slowly toward the freckle and her lips.
“The first time we kissed, in Exeter’s greenhouse—“
“I remember.”
“I felt there was something between us.”
“Yes.” His thumb caressed the freckle, brushed over her lips, soft as rose petals.
“But you let me walk away.” She closed her eyes as his thumb dipped inside her mouth. Her tongue touched his skin briefly before he withdrew.
“I was a fool.”
“Do you mean that?”
He looked into her eyes, knew what she was asking. “I do, but I’ll let you walk away again. In fact, I’ll insist on it. I’m not good for you.”
“No.” She moved into his arms. “You’re not.”
And then suddenly she was against him—all the warmth and scent and softness of her. He put his arms around her and pulled her hard against his chest. She looked up at him and slowly pressed her lips to his.
Her touch was feather soft, her lips moving so lightly against his he wasn’t even certain she was kissing him. And then he felt her teeth, lightly nipping at his lips. He couldn’t say why the sensation should excite him, except that he could imagine her doing so all along his body.
“There were times,” she whispered against his mouth, “I wished I had married you.”
“You
would have been miserable being married to me.”
“I was miserable anyway. And you and I would have this.” Her mouth met his with a fierceness that almost overwhelmed, except he could meet her fervor kiss for kiss. His mouth slanted over hers, taking what she was giving, and giving in return. After a moment, he wasn’t certain who was kissing whom. His hands were under her shirt, touching her bare lower back, rubbing against the bindings circling her torso. He wanted to free those bindings. He wanted to make love to her right here. He wouldn’t do it, not with Robespierre just feet away, but increasingly he was aware their time together was limited.
And he wanted to show her how it could be between a man and a woman equally matched in passion. He had known George would always leave her wanting. Now she’d all but admitted it.
Her hand was on his chest, and he felt it snake down, making his heart thunder in his ears. “Gabrielle.” He caught her wrist.
“Let me touch you,” she whispered against his neck. “You don’t know how often I’ve dreamed of touching you.”
How was he to refuse her? How was he to do anything but close his eyes as her hand stroked his thick, hard length over the fabric of his breeches? What he wouldn’t give to be alone with her, somewhere he could lay her down, undress her slowly, kiss her until she was all but drugged by the sensation.
But this was all they had—all they might ever have.
“You want me,” she said, her lips on the skin of his neck driving him to madness almost as much as the rhythm of her hand. “Why did you never take me?”
“McCullough was my friend.”
She looked up at him. “You are so noble, but you hide it well.”
He wasn’t noble. He was far, far from it—as she would soon learn.
“You were a good friend to George, one of his only true friends.”
“He—“
She put a finger to his lips. “I don’t want to speak of George. I want to speak of us. No, I don’t want to speak at all. I just want to feel.” She released him and climbed into his lap, a feat made easy by the breeches she wore. But how he wished she wore a dress. It would be so easy to free himself and plunge into her. Instead, she moved against him, the barrier of their clothing a slow path to madness.
His hands found her breasts and cupped them, even within their bindings. His lips found her neck, traced a path to her ear, making her shiver and sigh.
“Au revoir, citoyen,” a voice said, and Ramsey stilled. In his arms, Gabrielle was a statue.
“Au revoir.” That was Robespierre. He and his companion were in the corridor, just on the other side of the door Ramsey and Gabrielle hid behind. “Get some sleep, citoyen. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
“You as well, citoyen.”
“Ah, what is the old saying? No rest for the weary?” His voice faded as he moved away.
Ramsey looked at Gabrielle. His heart still pounded from her touch, but her gaze was on the door now. Not on him.
“He’s gone,” she whispered. “This is it.”
“Let’s go.” He rose, pulling her to her feet. “I want to see this fabled bracelet.” And he did. He would worry about the curse later.
“As do I.” She kissed him quickly as he turned the door latch. “For luck.”
They would need it.
Chapter 14
Gabrielle had a bad feeling when Robespierre’s door was locked. None of the other doors had been locked.
“This will slow us down,” Ramsey muttered behind her.
“Not much,” she promised, extracting her special hairpin, kneeling before the door and beginning on the lock. Ramsey kept watch beside her. She could still feel his hands on her, still feel the way his fingers slid over her skin, making her want more. She had to put aside the kisses and the feel of him, hot and hard even through the fabric of his breeches, and concentrate.
This lock was the last thing they needed. She anticipated locks and obstacles inside the office. Obviously the bracelet would not be sitting on display in full view. But she had thought access to the office would be the easy part.
She turned her hairpin one way, felt the lock click, and eased the pin back the other way to complete the task.
“You do know this bracelet is cursed.”
She concentrated on the delicate task at hand. Of course she had heard about the curse of le Saphir Blanc. But she didn’t believe in it. This was the eighteenth century. No one believed in curses anymore. A bracelet was nothing more than metal and gems. It could not give bad luck. Those who had failed stealing it before were careless or amateur. Their failure had nothing to do with the bracelet or a curse promising bad luck.
Snick.
“There.” She rose and dusted off the knees of her breeches. “Just a lock. No curse.” She turned the handle and stepped forward. Ramsey grabbed her arm.
“I’ll go first.”
This was her mission and she wanted to be the first to enter the office, but she didn’t argue. A successful thief learned to be flexible. Sometimes the pilfering did not go according to plan. Sometimes a plan had to be abandoned.
But that would not happen tonight. The door lock was a minor inconvenience. Now they would search the office, take the bracelet, and find a hiding place within the building. They could not go out on the street until morning because of the curfew and the patrols. Alex had suggested making their way back to the house via the sewers, but that meant risking running into a rat or twenty. She’d rather hide in one of the offices until morning and then sneak out the back.
It would be no hardship to be confined in close quarters with Ramsey. She rather thought they might continue where they had left off. It was a bad idea, certainly, but so was stealing the bracelet, and here she was.
Ramsey gestured her into the office, and she closed the door quietly behind her. Like Saint-Just’s office, this one was sumptuously appointed. “For a man so fond of equality, Robespierre has quite a collection of the finer things,” Ramsey remarked, running his hand across the polished mahogany desk. Gabrielle’s eyes danced over the room, seeing the Turkish rug, the ornately carved chairs, the ormolu table in the corner.
“Where would he keep the bracelet?” she asked. “Should we look for a safe?” Quite suddenly she was afraid they would not find it. She wondered how Ffoulkes had known the bracelet was in this office. What if his information was incorrect?
“I’ll look for a safe. You search the desk,” Ramsey directed, all confidence.
She nodded, letting his obvious assurance infuse her with the resolve she needed. She drew the curtains closed, crossed quickly to the desk, and lit the lamp on the edge. A low fire still burned in the hearth, but it was on the other side of the room and didn’t give her enough light. Neither did the moonlight. Ramsey was looking behind picture frames for a hidden safe, and she began to try the drawers of the desk.
There were five, and all were locked. “Curse it!”
Ramsey turned from the painting he was peering behind. “It’s already been cursed.”
She frowned at him. “No, not the bracelet, this desk. Every drawer is locked.”
“Can you pick them?” he asked, crossing to her.
“Yes, but it will take more time.”
“How long?”
She studied the small locks and considered. Small locks were far more difficult than larger ones. They required delicacy and finesse, which was fine when she was in her room on Audley Street practicing, but she was in Robespierre’s office, and she was nervous. Her hands shook, and her palms were damp with perspiration.
“An hour?” she said, though she feared longer. It was already quarter past twelve. They had an hour and a quarter left. And what if Robespierre decided to end his business early? Or the escort Ramsey had tied up got free and gave the alarm? Or the guard at the gate got curious and came to search for them himself? She had wanted to be out of here quickly.
“I can do these on the right,” Ramsey told her, “but I don’t have my tools. Do you have a
n extra hairpin?”
At any other time, she would have found this fascinating. She had never seen a thief other than Cressy pick a lock. She would have liked to watch Ramsey’s long, thin fingers work their magic on a lock.
But that was a luxury she could not afford. She handed him her extra hairpin, one she had specially made and reinforced to pick locks, and began on the first lock on the left. They would leave the center drawer for last. By tacit agreement, they concluded it was the least likely to hold the bracelet. Of course, none of these might hold the bracelet. It might be somewhere else in the room. That table, for instance, or a hidden safe.
She worked on the lock with Ramsey right beside her. The companionship was pleasant, but she couldn’t shake her bad feeling. All the drawers of the desk locked? Could their luck be any worse?
“Damn!”
She jerked her head up, losing the progress she had made on the lock. “What’s wrong?”
“I broke the hairpin. I’m sorry. My own tools are…less delicate.”
She looked at his large hands and the small hairpin, which had snapped in two. She could imagine those hands on her skin—strong yet gentle. But obviously stronger than she had anticipated. She’d picked many locks and never broken one of her special hairpins. Quickly she pulled another pin free. “This is my last one.” She gave it to him, holding the end for a long moment. “Be careful.”
“I am careful,” he said, going back to work. “It’s the curse.”
“Stop saying that,” she hissed, beginning on her lock again. The clock on the mantel chimed, and she stopped herself from jumping. But she couldn’t stop her mind from racing. Half past already? They would never finish this in time. The comtesse and her daughter would die.
