To Tempt a Rebel (The Scarlet Chronicles, #4)

by Shana Galen

  “'To be, or not to be,’” Alex said. “'That is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer—’”

  “If you wish to recite, could you choose something more pleasant?” he asked between clenched teeth. The last thing he wanted was Hamlet’s soliloquy on suicide.

  “Of course. Let me think.” She paused. “'Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee!’”

  He started toward her. He would have to throttle her if she did not cease speaking soon. “How is that more cheerful?

  “You said more pleasant. I always find Macbeth more pleasant than Hamlet.” She held her hands up to ward him off as she must have read murder in his expression. “Very well. 'For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother, be he ne’er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition; and gentlemen in England’—or perhaps I should say France?—'now abed shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap—’”

  “At least their manhoods are warm,” he interrupted. “Do you know no plays but Shakespeare?”

  “Of course, but I do know how much you enjoy Shakespeare.” She smiled thinly.

  He sat again, leaning one elbow on his knee. “You really do hate me.”

  “Excessively.”

  “Is it because I kissed you?”

  “What has that do to with anything?”

  “You liked it. You cannot be a very good royalist if you enjoy kissing a revolutionary.”

  “Perhaps you are not a very good revolutionary if you enjoy kissing a royalist.” She shivered and rubbed her arms to try and keep warm.

  “Mark me well, citoyenne. I am a very good revolutionary. I do not agree with some of the policies of the current faction in power, but nothing could persuade me to attach myself to this plan to rescue Citoyen Capet.”

  “My mistake. I thought you had a heart somewhere under that layer of ice.” Her teeth chattered as she spoke.

  “If my soul is cold, it is the nobility you want me to rescue that made it so. Do you see this scar on my chin?” He pointed to the scar that still pained him at times, including tonight when the weather was cold and damp. “I have this as a reminder of the night my family was killed and I was attacked.”

  “And no one will blame you for wanting revenge, but others who have suffered as you have will also tell you that revenge fuels a fire while forgiveness extinguishes it.” She stood and paced, hands running up and down her arms. “Do you want to sleep at night, monsieur? Then forgive the men who hurt you and make amends for the horrors you have inflicted on the people of France.”

  “I have inflicted? I am not on the Tribunal. I have not condemned a single man, woman, or child.”

  “Nor have you stood for any. A child is suffering in the Temple—”

  “I was little more than a child. I suffered.”

  “And you will never stop feeling like a victim until you stop feeling sorry for yourself and find a cause greater than yourself. Believe me. I know.” She turned away from him, but not before he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes.

  “You know?” he said softly.

  Still facing away from him, she shook her head. “Do you think you are the only person ever to suffer at the hands of men more powerful than yourself? Do you think you are the only one to have your innocence ripped away from you?”

  He rose. “Alexandra.” He would have gone to her, but she held up a hand.

  “Do me the courtesy of not pitying me. I did not pity you.” She spun around, and tears sparkled on her cheeks. “And do you know why? Because you are stronger than the events of that night. You are more than an act of violence and humiliation. Look how far you have come. Look at the power you now wield. How will you use it, Chevalier? To hurt or to heal?”

  He didn’t have the answers. He wasn’t even certain he understood the question. “Do you want to talk about what happened to you?” he asked.

  “No.” She began pacing again. “Not with you. Right now I want nothing more than to stop shivering and dry off!” She said the last with an accusatory glare at the leaking roof above her.

  “Come here,” he murmured.

  She glanced at him, her eyes wary. “Why?”

  “Because I think I know a way we can both be warm.”

  “If this is a plan to seduce me—”

  “It’s only an embrace.” He raised his brows at her. “Even royalists need to share the warmth of a body once in a while.”

  “Fine.”

  He opened his arms and she almost stepped into them. She paused and narrowed her eyes. “But do not attempt to kiss me.”

  “Only if you ask very, very sweetly.”

  She laughed and stepped into his arms. He slid his hands under her cape and felt her body trembling from the cold. They stood for a long moment, and then she motioned to the floor and they sat, bodies pressed close.

  After a long silence, she looked at him. “I really do not want to like you.”

  “You won’t, after we return to Paris.” He felt her body stiffen.

  “You will inform Robespierre of the plan to rescue the dauphin—the king—from the Temple?”

  “And if I do?”

  She sighed. “Then I suppose the league will reveal your betrayal of the republic.”

  “Then I go to the guillotine and Citoyen Capet’s guard is doubled. At least my sacrifice saves the republic.”

  “Perhaps we might consider a compromise whereby everyone keeps his or her head.”

  He should have known she would suggest a compromise. “Which is?”

  “Give me time. I haven’t thought of one yet.”

  When she’d finally ceased shivering, her breathing became regular and her body relaxed. She’d slept as little as he the night before, so it was no wonder she’d given in to exhaustion. He tried to close his eyes and fall asleep as well, but he could not quiet his thoughts. Alexandra Martin seemed to think he was allowing his personal pain to cloud his judgment about Louis Charles. But any good patriot knew that allowing the king, even if he was a boy, to leave the country or go free would only result in the royalists rising up and using the child as a standard to fight behind.

  The boy could not go free.

  On the other hand, he was just a boy, and it was not his fault he had been born the son of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI. Tristan had given little or no thought to the boy’s life in the Temple Prison. Was it as bad as Alexandra Martin claimed? And how would she know? No one save the boy’s jailors and Robespierre was allowed into the Temple.

  Was that to protect the child or to hide the abuses the boy suffered?

  Tristan lowered Alexandra Martin so her head might rest on his shoulder as she slept. He could turn his face, just slightly, and see her lovely face, even lovelier now in slumber. Asleep, her mouth was soft and full, not tense and pinched. Her lashes, somewhat darker than her pale blond hair, swept over her cheek, now pink with color as she grew warmer. Her cropped hair fell in a sweep over her forehead. When he brushed it back, her small shell-shaped ears were revealed.

  He liked holding her like this. It had been a long time since he had felt at peace. Since that night when the Duc du Mérignac had forced his way into his house, Tristan had known no serenity. He had thought of little except how to smash the lives of the nobility, the way they had smashed his. His single-minded devotion to the task had led him to serve under Robespierre, but Robespierre’s merciless form of justice had not brought Tristan peace. He wouldn’t be here now if he had not sought to stop Robespierre.

  Perhaps this League of the Scarlet Pimpernel was not so far from the mark. Not that he could ever join them, no matter how much he enjoyed holding Alexandra Martin. He’d never met another woman like her. She was intelligent, witty, brave, and a traitor. Leave it to fickle fate to make the one woman who had actually interested him for more than a few hours his enemy.

  At some point, he too must have fallen asleep. Her soft breathing a
nd the scent of flowers lulled him into drowsing. He must have heard the storm pass, heard the plink of rain on the roof cease, but he could not drag himself from the warmth to rouse her and go back into the cold and wet.

  But he heard the scrape and the sound of muffled voices, and when the woman in his arms stiffened, he also came awake.

  “Don’t make a sound,” she whispered in his ear. He felt her hand move and then the outline of her dagger was clear in the gray early morning light.

  “Is that dagger for me or our friends outside?” he whispered back.

  “Keep talking, and you will feel the point first.” She rose and stalked toward the stable’s door, moving as silently as a shadow. The wood had rotted and shrunk and there were gaps he could see through. She peered through one now, then swore and dashed back to him.

  He was already on his feet.

  “It’s the men from yesterday—”

  “The same men? I thought we lost them.”

  “We found them again. They are knocking on doors and in a moment the owner of the stable will open his door and point here. We have to go. Now.”

  He picked up the handle of what had once been a shovel and headed for the door.

  “Not that way!” she hissed. “They’ll see you. Back way.”

  He turned around and squinted, but she walked straight to a narrow, barred door on the other side of the stable. It creaked when she tried to lift the bar, as though the metal had not been moved in many years, but with his help they pried it up. She grasped the latch.

  “First rule of staying alive,” she murmured. “Always know all the exits.”

  She pulled the door open, and two men stood on the other side.

  “Second rule”—she said, slamming the door shut again—“is know when to run!”

  Eight

  Alexandra looked from one door to the other. They were surrounded. Damn it! She should have kept watch. Instead, she’d given in to sleep, and now she’d better think quickly or she’d be sleeping for a long, long time.

  “Here’s what we do,” she told Chevalier, who looked rather stunned. Clearly, he was used to making decisions on paper, not in the heat of battle. “I’ll go out and lure the men one way. You run the other way. You have to get to Paris. If you can, find Dewhurst. He can sneak you into the city.”

  Chevalier’s shoulders squared. “I will not run while you stand and fight. Do you think I’m a coward?”

  Alex shook her head impatiently. She did not have time to argue with him. “No, but I have more experience in this sort of thing, and you are too important to risk.”

  Something thudded against the door, and Alex could only assume the men outside were attempting to kick it in.

  “I am too important? I’ve already told you I won’t be part of your scheme to rescue the boy.”

  “Yes, but we’ll change your mind.” She rushed to the door. “Now, are you ready? On the count of three, I’ll open the door. As soon as you have an opening, run.”

  “You are not in your right mind,” he muttered.

  The door shuddered, and Alex had no more time to convince him. “One, two”—she pulled the door open—“three!” She kicked out, and her foot struck the chin of the man closest to the door. He fell back, and she shoved Chevalier. “Go!”

  The second man rushed her, and she sidestepped, jumping behind him and kicking him in the lower back. He fell forward, his head thudding against the stable, his rifle clattering to the ground. By then the first man was on his feet again...and facing off with Chevalier.

  The idiot could not even follow simple directions! Now she’d have to save him.

  He had his fists up, as though he were in a boxing match. Meanwhile, his opponent, blood streaming down his chin, slashed at him with a knife. Chevalier backed up, until he was pinned against the stable.

  Alex pivoted and kicked the knife out of the man’s hand before he could move in close to Chevalier. She was about to throw a punch, but Chevalier’s eyes widened. “Look out!”

  She turned in time to jump out of the way before a third man could grab her about the waist. He lunged at her and she dodged back. From the corner of her eye, she saw Chevalier throw a punch at his opponent. She ducked, feeling the air from her opponent’s punch tickle her neck. That had been close. One punch from him and she would be out. The best way to deal with him would be to make him chase her, then hit him with something hard when he came around a corner.

  Alex backed toward the stable, praying she could find a board or a rock when she rounded the corner. As she’d hoped, her opponent went after her, but once around the corner she didn’t have time to look for a weapon. The other two patriotic peasants were headed right for her. Alex turned and zigzagged in time to avoid being caught by the first man trailing her. She tripped, rolled to the ground, and reached into her boot for her dagger. When she came up, she threw it. Her aim was not as good as she’d hoped, but she hit the closest of the three men in the shoulder.

  With a howl of pain, he went down. One of his friends stopped to see to him, and then she only had one to fend off. Panting now with exertion, she ran back around the stable and almost tripped on the forms of Chevalier and his man rolling on the ground. First Chevalier was on top, then the other man. But before she could bash the provincial over the head, Chevalier was on top again.

  She stumbled past them just as the third man after her rounded the stable. Alex scanned the ground, spotted a rock—not quite as large as she would have hoped—grabbed it, aimed, and hurled it at the man chasing her. He put up a hand, but the rock hit his forearm, and he bent double, clutching his arm in his other hand.

  “Tristan!” she called, not wanting to use his surname lest they be identified. “Come on!”

  He was on top again, and he looked at her, then down at his opponent. He issued one last blow, then jumped up and heeded her waving hand. Just in time too, because the other two men came around the stable wall, one man clutching his shoulder. Alex was glad she’d wounded him, but annoyed she’d lost her knife. She still had her pistol, but it didn’t do much good if she had no time to stop and prime it for firing.

  Fortunately, the men after them had lost the man with the rifle in the stable. They wouldn’t be shot in the back if they ran, which meant running was the best option at the moment. Men always seemed to think they should stand and fight, when most of the time, running was a much more effective method of escape. She lifted her skirts so she could pump her legs harder, and Chevalier was right beside her. He was hardly out of breath, so he might have been able to pass her, but he kept pace with her.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now we find somewhere to hide,” she managed.

  He looked over his shoulder. “They’re right behind us.”

  “Then we’d better not stop!” She increased her pace, and he did too. The next time he looked back, he blew out a breath that sounded relieved.

  “We lost one of them.”

  “Probably the one I wounded with the knife.”

  His head swiveled toward her, then back to the road before them. The ground was muddy and slick after the rains, and she stumbled, almost fell, but caught herself just in time. He paused for her, but she waved him on. “Keep going! I’m coming.” She caught up to him, but she knew they couldn’t continue at this pace, especially not in the dark when she couldn’t see the hazards in their path. A group of trees was ahead. Alex looked over her shoulder. Two of the five men still pursued them. “Can you climb a tree?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ll need to beg it if you can’t climb. We’re going up one of those.” She pointed and started in the direction of the trees.

  “I don’t recall ever climbing a tree,” he said, but he followed her.

  “It’s like a ladder. Just without rungs.” She knew she sounded more confident than she felt. She didn’t know the last time she’d climbed a tree. It had been years, and she’d had time to tie up her skirts so they’d
be out of the way. No time for that now. “Faster!” she yelled, increasing her speed to compensate for the extra time it would take them to climb.

  She chose a tree whose branches were low, but not too low. The trunk was split into a V about three feet up. She had no idea what sort of tree it was, but the bark was more smooth than rough. She hadn’t counted on that when she started climbing, and her slippers skidded down a few times before she got purchase and made it to the first branch.

  In the meantime, Chevalier was right behind her. He was a good climber, which was fortunate because the men were at the base and reaching up for him just as his foot lifted out of reach. Alex climbed to the next branch, then leaned against the trunk and pulled out her pistol. It wobbled in her hand and she lost her grip, but she shifted, catching it with her knees and grasping it before it could fall to the ground. Chevalier was on the branch below her. “What now?” he asked. “We’re trapped. One can fetch help, while the others keep us here.”

  “Give me a moment,” she said, reaching inside her cape and taking hold of the little bag where she kept her powder and balls. She wished she had practiced more in the dark, but Dewhurst had made her do it enough times that she had a good feel for the actions. Smoothly, she tapped powder into the barrel, inserted a ball, and snapped the frizzen into place.

  The provincials were at the bottom of the tree, heads together when she cocked the hammer. That got their attention.

  “Citoyens!” she called. “I have a pistol, and I’m a fair shot. Either go home now or the next time your family sees you, it will be at your funeral.”

  The two men retreated, but just out of pistol range.