by Shana Galen
Back to watching Robespierre murder every man, woman, or child who crossed him.
“Wake him up,” Tristan ordered, his voice firm and hard.
Simon curled his lip and looked at the captain of the guard for support. Tristan kept his gaze firmly on Simon.
Finally, the captain cleared his throat. “You heard him, citoyen.”
Simon swung around, and Tristan had to force himself not to shrink back. But Simon didn’t try to hit him. Instead he reached for a long metal rod leaning against the door and lifted it. Tristan had a moment to wonder if the man would strike him with it, but he struck the door instead.
Tristan started as Simon banged on the bars of the window and yelled. “Get up, Citoyen Capet. Stand up now.”
As Tristan watched, the little form on the bed seemed to shrink into itself. The child must be terrified. If Tristan did not like the look of Simon, how must the man appear to a child?
“Get up, Capet!” Simon yelled. “Stand up or you’ll feel the back of my hand. And this time I won’t be careful not to bruise your pretty little face. Up!”
The figure on the bed moved slowly, almost painfully, and Tristan watched in horror as a small skeletal figure climbed unsteadily to its feet. It was dressed in rags, clothes that had once been of good quality but now hung on the child in tatters. He had outgrown the clothing as well. The cuffs of the shirt were halfway to his elbows and the trousers were so high the boy’s ankles were exposed. His blond hair was matted and dull. His blue eyes were unfocused. He wavered on his feet and stood staring blankly ahead.
“My God,” Tristan whispered.
Simon ignored him. “Walk up and down your cell. Show the man you’re in good health.”
The skeleton began to trudge painfully from one side of the small chamber to the other. At every word Simon spoke, the boy cringed back as though in fear.
“What have you done to him?” Tristan asked.
“Nothing the little brat didn’t deserve,” Simon said, his malicious gaze on the boy. “Look at the way he walks. Still thinks he’s king of the world. Let me in there for a quarter hour, and I’ll show him who’s king.”
“I’ve seen enough,” Tristan said and turned away. He couldn’t watch anymore or he would be ill. “Captain, I am ready to depart.”
Tristan wasn’t certain which way was out, but he could not bear to stay another moment. He walked away, and the captain scurried in front of him, leading the way out of the tower. He spoke as he walked, but Tristan could hardly make sense of a single word.
“So you see the boy is quite secure. No one will get to him who doesn’t have permission, and even if they did, they wouldn’t get that door open.”
They finally reached the ground floor, and Tristan all but fell into the courtyard and the fresh air. The stink of the boy’s cell had stayed with him.
“I suspect the Committee will want to replace Citoyen Simon,” the captain said, looking up at the tower. “He hasn’t done what he was hired to do.”
Tristan’s throat was still tight, but he managed to speak. “And what is that?” he rasped.
“Reform the boy. Turn him into a patriot.”
“It’s after curfew,” Tristan said, his stomach churning. He would be sick if he stayed here much longer. “I must be off.”
The captain motioned him to follow, and Tristan did so, quite blindly. He was relieved when he finally reached the drive where the coach still waited. He would have jumped in and been away immediately if the captain hadn’t stepped in front of him. “Citoyen, I trust you will give a satisfactory report to the Committee and Citoyen Robespierre. You have seen all you came to see.”
Tristan tried to move around the captain, but the man shifted to block his path. Finally, Tristan was forced to answer. “Yes. I will report back to Citoyen Robespierre that the prisoner is secure.”
“And in good health,” the captain added.
Tristan stared at the man. Had he seen the same child Tristan had? How could any sane man called that wreck of a human healthy? Tristan did not speak for a long moment. He could protest that the child was anything but in good health, but it would not change anything. He could go to Robespierre and report the boy’s mistreatment. That would not change anything either.
“Yes, I will report the boy seems in good health.”
The captain moved out of Tristan’s way, and he climbed into the carriage. He did not look back as his conveyance sped away, taking him home and far away from the Temple and the horrors he had seen.
Damn Alexandra Martin. Damn the Scarlet Pimpernel. They’d known if he saw this he would not be able to walk away. He must do something. He must help the child.
Tristan only knew one way to help—to rescue the child. But such an action would make him a traitor to all he believed in. Was the life of one child more important than the lives of thousands, the liberty and equality of hundreds of thousands?
Alexandra Martin would have said yes.
Tristan feared he agreed with her.
Ten
She gained access to Chevalier’s rooms easily. The unlatched window meant she had not even had to pick the lock. That was a stroke of luck, as she was no good at picking locks.
She’d spent the first half hour wandering the two rooms, trying to get more of a sense of the man without prying into his personal effects. He did not have many intimate objects about. She wondered where he kept letters and mementos of his family—unless those had been destroyed in the fire?
His bedchamber was the smaller of the two rooms and contained a trunk, which she supposed held his clothing, and a decent sized bed with several mattresses piled on top of each other and two or three blankets of good quality. A small stove sat in one corner, and it probably kept the room warm at night.
It was not lit at present, so Alex preferred to remain in the main chamber, where a fire burned low in the hearth. This room contained a table, several chairs, and a desk. The desk had drawn her attention repeatedly. She would have loved to dig through its numerous compartments and find out what she could about the republic and its plans.
But she could do that another time. Ffoulkes seemed to think Chevalier had changed loyalties. She would soon know for herself. She heard the clip-clop of hooves long before the carriage stopped in front of the building. With the curfew in effect, the sounds from outside were almost nonexistent, and the noise of a horse at this hour meant either the guard or a government official.
Alex retreated to his bedchamber, not wanting to be seen if he was not alone. The room had a small window she could probably squeeze through if necessary, but she hoped Chevalier had returned home alone.
She heard boots on the stairs, then the sound of the key in the lock. The door creaked open and closed again. Alex risked a quick peek into the main chamber. Chevalier pulled out a chair at the table and sat heavily. He was alone, and he looked—utterly defeated.
“You didn’t like what you saw at the Temple, did you?” Alex stepped into the light.
Chevalier shot up, knocking the chair over. “You!” His hand went to his chest as though to still the pounding there.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
He stared at her. “How did you get in here? The door was locked.”
She waved a hand, entered the room, and righted the chair. He backed away from her, keeping her at a distance as one might a leper.
“That lock is useless,” she said, pushing the chair under the table. “A child could pick it. However, I didn’t need to touch it. Instead, I used the open window.”
“The...” He looked from the window to her. “We’re on the first floor!”
“Which is why I appreciate you leaving the window open. Now, tell me about the Temple. How is the king?”
“Don’t call him that.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please tell me you are not about to spout that revolutionary rhetoric again. All men are created equal and so on. Explain to me how locking a child up in a prison is treat
ing him equally.”
“You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.”
“Are you expecting a guest?”
“No, but—”
“Then stop trying to be rid of me. Tell me about the Temple. Did you get in? Did you see Louis Charles?”
Chevalier removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, managing to loose one section from the queue. He looked quite disheveled in his wrinkled coat, his drooping neckcloth, and his untidy hair.
She thought disarray suited him.
“I’m not even going to ask how you know I was at the Temple.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I wouldn’t have told you anyway. But I know you applied for a pass to see Louis Charles. Did you see him?”
“I don’t want to discuss it with you. It’s official business.” He paced away from her.
“Is that your way of saying you betrayed us?”
He rounded on her. “Betrayed you? I’m not one of you! How could I betray you?”
She closed the distance between them. “You are one of us whether you want to be or not. Did you tell the prison officials about our plans to rescue the king?” She had to stare up at him, but she gave him her most intimidating stare.
“Why do you never ask about the little girl? Marie-Thérèse?”
She only blinked. That was information she could not risk giving him, even if she’d wanted to.
Finally, as the silence lengthened, he shook his head and blew out a breath. “You really are the most obstinate woman.”
“Thank you. Now answer my question.”
“I did not reveal your plan. I should have.”
“Then I’d have to reveal your duplicity, and you’d be killed.”
“Not before you and your league were rounded up and killed.”
“You know”—she reached up and straightened his neckcloth—“there’s a way we could both live.”
He caught her hand. “If you are suggesting the way to long life is rescuing the boy, then you are mad. No one will ever free that child.”
“Why is that?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know? Wouldn’t it be perfect for you if I told you every detail? Let me explain something, Alexandra.” He leaned close. “Even if you knew every detail, you would never free that child. It’s a doomed proposition.”
Everything in her itched to push him to reveal more details of the prison and the guards, but she’d rather his cooperation than merely his knowledge. “Then I suppose I am doomed, but at least I will have given my life for something I believe in. Something honorable.”
“And the revolution is not honorable.” His voice held no rancor, only resignation.
“It started out that way,” she said quietly. “But it’s become something else. Something dark and ugly.” She freed her hand from his grip and caressed his cheek. “That’s why you came to us, even if you didn’t know it was the league. The truth is you know the revolution has become more about power and greed than liberty and equality.” She tapped his nose pedantically.
“I should argue. I should give you philosophical reasons and remind you that all political change requires sacrifice and that the ends often do justify the means.” He caught her hand and turned it to kiss her palm. Warning bells rang in Alex’s mind. She should move away from him. Now.
“But I can’t seem to think of any rational points. I can’t seem to think at all.” He pulled her to him, and she didn’t resist. Her body pressed against his, and he slid a hand to cup the back of her neck. Her breath came short and her skin tingled where he touched her. Was this a trick or was he feeling the same fever overtaking her?
She couldn’t resist kissing him, brushing her lips over his. Heat flooded her limbs, making them feel heavy and cumbersome. His hand skated down her back, supporting her, and she realized she was glad. He kissed her gently and slowly, the touches short and leaving her wanting more. Her arms went around his shoulders, trying to increase the contact, but he held back.
“Answer me one question,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said, her breath mingling with his.
“Did you come here tonight to seduce me?”
His words were icy water poured over her head, drenching her body and numbing it. She stepped back, out of his arms, her gaze on his face. His color was high and his dark eyes even darker from arousal. He hadn’t been pretending. He wanted her, but perhaps even more he wanted to know if she was pretending.
“I don’t seduce men to our cause. Unlike in your so-called republic, the women in the league are valued for their knowledge and skills. We are truly equal.”
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to imply...”
“That I was a whore? The truth is, in fact, quite different. I kissed you because I wanted to, even though I had been warned intimacy with you was a bad idea. If I was truly being loyal to my cause, I would keep my distance.”
“You understand why I had to know.”
She understood more than he thought. “I understand that you worried I was using your own tactics on you.”
“Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t always acting? That kissing you made me forget my true purpose at times.”
“I’d say that sounds a lot like flattery.”
“Then let me prove otherwise.” He pushed away from the table, but now she was the one who took a step back.
“I think we had better discuss Louis Charles.”
He shook his head. “Discuss all you like, but I’m not ready to share what I saw tonight or to make any decisions.”
“You want time, but time is yet another commodity we lack.”
“Forgive me if I want twenty-four hours in which to consider my options and my future—assuming I have a future,” he muttered.
“Then I will return tomorrow.”
“I can send word to your residence. A simple yes or no will let you know where I stand.”
And if he sent a reply of no, he had to realize that would not be the end of it. “Then I’ll return home to await your reply.” She moved toward the door, but he caught her arm lightly.
“I haven’t had a chance to prove my affection is true.”
She looked up at him. “What’s true is that you hate me almost as much as I hate you.”
“Not at all. I hate you far more than you detest me.”
She couldn’t stop a smile. “Then what you’re proposing will only complicate matters.”
“There’s nothing complicated about my desire for you. I want you. The only question is whether or not you want me.” His liquid eyes met hers with a startling frankness. She could see his desire for her plainly, and she felt an answering call in her own body. Strange to want a man whose beliefs and actions were so antithetical to her own. A man she might very well have to kill.
He waited, and she wondered if her face showed even a fraction of the emotions she felt. But he was no actor, and the way he looked at her made her heart race. “Damn you,” she cursed and stepped back into his arms, reaching up to kiss him.
This kiss was nothing like the one from earlier, where they’d teased and tantalized. He did not hold back, instead taking her mouth with a fever not unlike that of the peasants attacking the Bastille. Her legs buckled as heat infused her body, making her suddenly too hot under the heavy cloak.
She reached for the clasp. “I need...”
But his hands were there, swift and efficient, and the cloak fell to the floor. His gaze roved over her and then widened in shock. She almost laughed. She’d forgotten she wore a costume underneath.
TRISTAN THOUGHT HE was imagining the boy standing before him. His mind couldn’t quite work out how Alexandra Martin had turned into this young lad. And then he looked at her face again, and realized his muddled brain had everything wrong. She was still very much female and yet she wore male clothing.
She glanced down at her clothing self-consciously. “I forgot I’d put this on.”
“A costume?” he asked, eyeing the doublet and old-
fashioned breeches.
“It’s easier to climb in this than in a dress, and if I’m caught after curfew it usually goes easier with the guard if I’m dressed as a boy.”
He might have known it had a nefarious purpose.
“I should have warned you.”
She should have, though he didn’t think it would have been less of a shock. Or made the sight of her in that clothing less erotic. The male clothing was not made for the female form, and her breasts pushed at what should have been the flat front of the doublet, while her hips made the breeches tighter than they should have been. Quite suddenly, he wanted to see what was under that masculine clothing, touch those soft curves so incongruous with the stark lines of the fabric.
“I like it,” he admitted. He touched the velvet collar of the doublet, sliding his fingers against her soft skin.
She raised her thin brows. “You like something about me?”
“Quite against my will, I assure you.”
“Most men find this dress on a woman unseemly and unfeminine.”
“Then perhaps I like unseemly and unfeminine.” He worked the top button of her doublet free and was rewarded by a glimpse of fine porcelain skin. He bent and pressed his mouth over it, feeling her pulse hammering against his lips. He ran his tongue along the exposed skin and she inhaled sharply. The clothing smelled like a cedar chest and the cosmetics actors used, but he could still detect her faint scent of spring underneath. His hand moved from her waist to the curve of her breast, and she gave a soft moan.
He was so hard now his head pounded. He needed this, needed her, after the horrors he’d seen tonight. He wanted to forget the prison, forget the revolution, forget everything but the way her skin felt against his lips.
He unhooked another button. The damn garment had far too many. And that gave him time to control his ardor. Lifting his head, he looked into her large, green eyes. “May I continue? I want to see what you have on underneath.”
