by Shana Galen
Chevalier sat beside her. “So once again I have caused the trouble?”
“When we return to Paris, I’ll have our forger make you false papers. Dewhurst and I have them. We would have had no trouble from the mayor, but your presence would have raised questions.”
“My identity would have freed us quite easily as well. No one could claim I am not a patriot.”
“Yes, but once we returned, you would be under suspicion. If you are under scrutiny, that defeats our purpose.”
“Which is?”
Alex gave him a sidelong look. “We’re not ready for that conversation yet.”
SHE DIDN’T TRUST HIM...not yet, Tristan thought, leaning back against the log. It was too hard to sit on for long. Citoyenne Martin had also given it up, resorting to pacing instead of resting as she ought. They were clever not to trust him. He hadn’t really proven himself—not yet. Yes, he’d freed the abbé, but the man was probably guilty of nothing more than being associated with the church. It had been a worthwhile venture to find out more about the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel and to discover the traitors in the farmhouse near Saint-Germain-en-Laye.
And Tristan knew if he did not return to Paris and go directly to Robespierre and tell his superior all he knew, any excuses he might make later would seem paltry and weak. Tristan had enough evidence to destroy the League, and that was what he would do when he was home once again.
They might destroy him in turn, but perhaps if he accompanied the guard when they made the arrest, he could find the papers that damned him and burn them before they could do him any harm.
And more than likely not. They’d be hidden away, somewhere the league could direct the guard to look during their trials. Then Tristan would be labeled a traitor as well.
It was a label he deserved, and he could not help but think perhaps the republic needed more traitors if the rampant bloodshed were ever to end.
Then again, he might just be one more death in a sea of them. His sacrifice would mean nothing.
But he couldn’t think like that. Alexandra Martin and her royalist ideas were corrupting him. His loyalty was to the revolution, not to these traitors.
He watched Citoyenne Martin pace and wondered what motivated her to risk her life. This was not her country. The people she saved were not Englishmen. She was not even of noble blood. What did she care if France killed its former ruling class?
“I think it’s been long enough,” she said, stopping midstride and whirling to face him. “We should start for the road.”
“You haven’t even rested,” he pointed out.
“I promise you won’t have to carry me. I’m stronger than I look.”
“I have no doubt.” He rose and brushed his trousers off, though he hardly saw the point as he’d spent the night in a barn and now muddied them in the woods. “You do seem quite the most determined woman I have ever met.”
She looked about, gauging their direction, then started toward what she assumed was Paris. As Tristan’s own sense of direction told him Paris was that way, he did not argue.
“I would take that as a compliment,” she said, picking up their conversation as she walked.
He fell in step beside her, his eyes on the ground for any roots that might trip him or her. “And it would be a compliment if your cause was not the wrong one.”
She scowled at him, then looked down to watch her footing. He waited until she had stepped over a muddy puddle. “Tell me, why have you allied yourself with the Scarlet Pimpernel? Why do you risk your life for that of a handful of nobles who would never have done the same for you?”
“Now you are capable of seeing into people’s hearts and minds?”
His jaw tightened. “With few exceptions,” he said coldly, “I do not need to see into an aristo’s heart or mind. They are all the same. They care for nothing and no one but themselves and their fortunes.”
“That is not true, but even if it were”—she raised a finger before he could interrupt to argue—“they are still people. No matter their sins or imperfections or shortcomings. They are people, who deserve basic rights, no matter what class they were born into.”
“And under the republic they are given a trial where they might prove their guilt or innocence, which is far more than these nobles you claim are people ever gave my family.”
He closed his mouth immediately, angry for revealing so much. He hadn’t meant to tell her. He’d had enough of what the nobility and their sycophants called pity.
She paused and looked back at him, but there was no surprise in her eyes. “I am sorry for what happened to your family. The Duc du Mérignac was known to be a cruel man, but you cannot judge an entire class based on the actions of one person.”
She had known. Somehow she had known what had befallen his family all those years ago. What else did she know about him? They would be poor spies indeed if they had not watched his comings and goings of late, but for some reason this peek into his past felt like a violation.
“What else do you know about me?”
She swallowed, her pale throat working, and looked away.
“You think you know me? You think I joined the revolution for revenge and now that I’ve had it, I will change loyalties.”
Her steady gaze met his. “You didn’t want revenge? Because if not, the duc and his family paid a very high price indeed.”
He took her by the shoulders and all but slammed her against the nearest tree. She didn’t flinch, and her gaze never left his. “I know what you had done to them,” she said in a low voice.
“You don’t know anything. You don’t know how the duc came to our house in the middle of dinner. My sister, my mother, my father, our apprentice boy, and I were eating a simple meal of bread and soup. Then a knock came at the door. My mother went to open it, and the duc pushed his way in.”
“He was angry about a libelle you had published.”
“Yes, and justifiably so. The libelle painted him in a very negative light. And though we did not always verify the contents of the pamphlets and libelles we published, the information in this one was quite accurate.”
“But the duc was a powerful man. Surely your father knew the risks of offending such a man.”
Tristan nodded. “Prison, the confiscation of our printing press. It had happened before, but my father didn’t believe the nobility should be immune to censure. He dared speak out, and he died for it.”
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t excuse the duc’s actions. I understand your anger.”
“You understand my anger?” He whirled away from her. “You cannot understand my anger until a dozen men storm your house. The duc directed three to grab my mother, three to grab my father, three to take my sister, and three to take me. I cursed at the duc. I challenged him, and he called me an upstart and bid me watch as he ran my father through with his sword.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “No.”
“No trial. No judge. No jury. He stabbed my father in the stomach and left him bleeding on the floor while he moved on to my mother. He did not rape her. He gave her to his men to take on the floor beside the dying body of my father. But my sister...” His voice threatened to break, but he would not allow it. He could not allow himself to feel the pain anymore, else he would never numb himself to it again. He had thought vengeance would ease the pain, but nothing except cold detachment made it bearable.
“They took my sister and I into the front parlor. They laid on the couch, ripped her clothes, and raped her. But though I would have burned each and every one of those men’s faces into my mind, I could not focus.” Now he raised his chin and looked into her face, telling her what he had only ever told one person before. “Because they raped me too.”
She reached for him. “Monsieur—”
He held up a hand. “It’s citoyen, and do not say you are sorry. We published a piece of paper, and the duc repaid us with murder and rape. He had our shop set on fire. When I came to, I tried to save my famil
y, but my father was already cold, and my mother’s throat had been slashed. My sister would not come. She wanted to die. She would rather have died than live with the shame of what had been done to her.”
He paced away, waiting until his hands had stopped shaking and his voice was level again. “So yes. I repaid the duc in kind. When the revolution came, I gathered my fellow patriots and we visited the duc’s house on the Rue du Bac. But we were far more merciful.”
“You sent his entire family to the guillotine. That is not mercy.”
What did she know of mercy? How dare she question his? Rage boiled up in him, and he rounded on her. “The duc was granted more mercy than he deserved!” he shouted “He was fortunate to be gifted a quick and painless death. His sons were among the men who came to my house, who raped my mother and sister. They paid a small price for their crimes.”
She sighed, but her features didn’t soften. “Perhaps the duc did deserve his fate, but what had his daughters done to you? Surely they were but children when the duc attacked you.”
He frowned, confused. “The duc’s two daughters were spared. Unlike my sister.”
“The duc’s daughters were not spared. Perhaps you did not hear, but they were killed attempting to flee the city.”
He had not heard that news, but he had to admit that even if he had, he would not have felt pity. He could not feel sympathy for any member of that family. He looked away and into the darkness of the woods.
“And now that you have had your vengeance, has justice been done or must more nobles die to satisfy your lust for blood? Tell, me how much blood is enough?”
He whirled on her. “I have no desire for more blood. I am only here with you now because I wanted the bloodshed to end. It has gone too far.”
“Robespierre will never agree.” She stepped toward him. “He does not think justice can be served until every last man, woman, or child who stands against him is sacrificed on the altar of the guillotine. You know it’s true!” she shouted when he shook his head. “I know you know because you made a choice, citoyen, to give evidence that can bring Robespierre down. And now you have another choice to make.”
He stilled, knowing this was his chance to find out her secret. “What is that?”
She hesitated, holding his gaze for such a long time he felt as though she looked through him. He did not possess the power to look into men’s hearts and minds, but it would not surprise him if she did. What would she see? His dark, cold heart? His jumbled and conflicted thoughts?
“You can choose to be merciful and compassionate. You can choose to do what no one else has the courage to do: save an innocent child.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What are you talking about? What child?”
“The boy suffering in the Temple Prison.” She must have seen something in his eyes because she spoke more quickly. “He is a child, an orphan. His father and mother are dead. He is separated from his sister. From all accounts, he is ill and alone and terribly abused.”
“You want me to rescue Louis Charles of France?” He gaped at her as though she had gone completely mad, which she quite obviously had. He might regret the extreme turn the revolution had taken, but he did not regret the end of the royal family.
“I want you to rescue a little boy.” Her eyes were pleading, but those pleas were blunt arrows.
“You want me to rescue the next king of France, and that, citoyenne, is something I will never do.”
Seven
She shouldn’t have told him about the dauphin, who was indeed King Louis XVII now that his father had been executed. She had been ordered to keep the mission a secret until Chevalier could be trusted, which would be never.
Not that she could blame him. He hated the nobility with good reason. In his place, she might feel exactly the same.
They’d finally left the wooded area behind, walking in silence until they reached the main road to Paris. Several coaches passed, but no farmer in a cart who might be willing to allow them to sit in the back with his produce. Alex wasn’t certain what time it was, but her growling belly told her she had missed the midday meal and was overdue for dinner.
And then the rains started.
“Was that water?” Chevalier had asked as they trudged along, she in front but he close on her heels. He looked up and frowned at the clouds. Alex continued walking. They were still miles and miles from Paris and their only shelter was a scraggly tree. If rain had dropped on his forehead, she did not want to know.
“It is drizzling,” he said.
She nodded and pulled the hood of her cape over her head. “Keep walking.”
He continued walking as did she, even as the rain grew steadier and the ground beneath her muddier. And then thunder cracked so loudly, she jumped and let out a small scream. Lightning followed, and the skies opened in a deluge Noah might have recognized.
“We’d better find somewhere to shelter!” Chevalier called over the roar of the falling water.
“There’s a posting house in two or three miles,” she called to him. “We could shelter there.”
“We’ll both have caught our death of cold by then.”
She couldn’t argue. Her teeth were already chattering. Her once warm cape was soaked through and now felt like a heavy weight on her shoulders. “Do you have another suggestion?”
He blew out a breath. “No.”
She trudged ahead, the mud miring her feet in its muck and the wind trying to blow her over. She had her head down to keep the water out of her eyes when Chevalier called out. “There!”
She looked at him, following his outstretched hand to where it pointed toward a cluster of farmhouses in the distance. “They will never give us shelter,” she said. “Living this close to the road, they have grown wary of anyone passing by.”
“Then you must be at your most charming and persuasive.”
“Me?” She scowled at him. “Why does this fall to me?”
“Because you are the actress.”
She blew out a breath that frosted in the cold air. The sky had grown darker and not simply because the rain clouds hung low. Night was upon them, and if they did not find a place to stay, they would be forced to travel in the rain and the dark. One false step, and she could break a leg. Even worse, with the rampant poverty in France, the roads could be dangerous after dark—not that any thief would go out in this weather.
But she supposed someone would have to save them. Again. Some hero this Chevalier was turning out to be. “Fine. I will do my best,” she said, marching past him. “But if I lived in one of those houses, I wouldn’t allow you in.”
“We don’t need access to the house. Ask if we can wait out the storm in the stable.”
Really, he was altogether too used to giving orders. She ignored him. He could sleep in the stable if he wanted. She wanted a warm fire and civilized company. No one answered at the first door where she knocked. She called out, but either the occupants were not home or they did not hear her.
Or this plan was flawed from the start—a point she had made in the beginning.
Chevalier led them to another house, where he knocked loudly, then stepped back so she might be the face that greeted whomever answered the door.
“Go away!” a man’s voice called through the wood.
“Please, citoyen!” Alex answered. “It is wet and cold. My brother and I beg you to have compassion.”
“Go away!” he said again.
“Please, sir. I have assignats. I can pay for shelter.”
Silence fell and for a moment she heard nothing but the pop of rain on the ground. Then the locks rattled, and the door opened. A short man with white wispy hair and rheumy blue eyes stood in the doorway. “Let me see.”
Alex reached under her cape and withdrew a bill from her purse. She held it out, and the man snatched it away. “That will buy you a half hour.”
“A half hour? This is nothing short of robbery. Give me that back.” She held her hand out, but Cheval
ier covered it with his and lowered it to her side.
“Another just like that and shelter in your stable until the rain passes. That is all we ask.”
The man looked at Chevalier, then at her. “Fine.” He held out his small, dirty hand again. With a glare, Alex reached into her purse, closed her hand on another bill, and handed it to him.
“The stable is in back,” he said and slammed the door in her face.
Chevalier looked inordinately pleased with himself. At least she thought that was his expression. It was difficult to read with all of the rain obscuring her vision.
“Why aren’t you smiling?” he asked, leading her around to the back where the small, ramshackle stable sat. Alex’s jaw dropped. The place was not fit for animals, and she had given the owner the last of her money for it.
“I’m not smiling because I have to go in there”—she pointed to the building, which seemed to be listing to one side—“with you.”
“It may not be Versailles, but it will be dry.” He seemed to get a better look at the stable. “Reasonably dry, at any rate.”
Alex glared at him. “I didn’t like you before, and now I really, really don’t like you at all.”
She marched away, but the distance didn’t prevent her from hearing his answer. “I don’t like you either.”
TRISTAN WISHED HE HAD the materials to build a fire. Understandably those materials were not kept in stables. Livestock and fire were not compatible. Of course, the only being inside, other than the she-wolf and himself, was a donkey, and its stall was in the only part of the stable that didn’t leak.
Tristan had tried to make friends with the beast, so they might share its stall, but it had bared its teeth and kicked him. He’d limped back to Citoyenne Martin, who did not bother to hide her smile. She sat back against the wheel of a cart and shivered in her wet clothing. He was shivering too, but he would rather shiver than sit close to her. Night had fallen while the rain pummeled them, and now Tristan did not see how they could return to Paris for yet another day. Robespierre must be wondering where he was. Tristan rose from the floor, brushing the dirt from his trousers, and paced back and forth. The activity kept him from falling asleep and warmed him at the same time.
