by Shana Galen
“I have a rule,” she panted. She’d almost forgotten. His touch and the sight of him made her forget everything, it seemed.
“Tell me.” He slid over her again, the tip of his cock resting for just a moment at the entrance of her sex. Her hands on the coverlet clenched and loosened. Oh, yes. She was beginning to like him more and more. She wanted him inside her.
“Don’t come inside me.” She knew that method didn’t always work to prevent pregnancy, but she had no other options.
“You have my word.” His length glossed over her again, and she pushed back, hoping his cock would brush the small, sensitive nub that seemed to throb with a demand for satisfaction. “Any other rules?” His teeth sounded clenched.
“I can’t think of any.”
He slid back down, coming to rest at her entrance again. She pushed back, taking just an inch of him inside.
“Can I make them up as we go along?”
“Oui.” He pushed inside her so slowly that her hands opened and closed on the bedclothes like a kneading kitten’s. She rocked back, trying to take more of him, but he grasped her hips and held her still. She tried to buck him off, but he was strong and he had no intention of relinquishing control. She clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper that way, but his control didn’t waver.
“Please,” she said, mortified that she sounded as though she were begging. “Please.” She could feel the climax building, but she couldn’t reach it. She needed hard and fast. Frustrated, she reached to touch her aching clitoris, but he caught her hand.
“Slow down. You English are so impatient.”
“Tristan. Deeper.”
To her surprise, he obliged, filling her and making her sigh out a moan. Yes. He pulled back, then thrust deep again. This. Yes. She was lost in the pleasure of it again, her body vibrating with need and tension. He rocked into her, slid out slowly, then entered her just as slowly. Every nerve was on fire, coiled with need. She panted and mewed, writhing on the bed under the hand that kept her right where he wanted her. Perspiration gathered on her back as she came so close to climax but didn’t reach it.
Just when she thought she would scream from frustration, he changed tempo. She held on as her pleasure reached new heights, but just when she was ready to climax, he would change the rhythm or depth, leaving her unsatisfied.
“Tristan!” she cried in frustration.
“I like when you use my name. Say it again.” His hand brushed her sex, where the tight bud of nerves ached for release.
“Tristan. Tristan. Yes.”
He stroked her, and everything shattered. She felt like a bubble filled so full of air she finally exploded. Inside her, he swelled and thrust deep, and she turned her face into the bed to muffle her screams of satisfaction. The orgasm seemed to go on and on, and she rocked into it, taking as much as she gave.
Finally, when she could hardly bear more, he withdrew and she felt his seed spill onto her back. Her entire body felt warm and heavy, and she did not think she could have moved if a mob was at the door. “There are linens on the washstand,” she mumbled. She heard him pad across the floor, pour water from the pitcher into the basin, then return. A cool, wet cloth slid across her back. When he retreated to return the cloth to the basin, Alex rolled over and stretched contentedly.
She looked up and Tristan smiled down at her. “When you look like that, I want you all over again.”
“I’m amenable,” she said, opening her arms.
He shook his head, regretfully. “It’s late. I need to find a way home.”
Alex lowered her arms. She had always been the one to shy away from too much intimacy. Now she was offering more and being rejected. She searched for that tiny shard of dislike and couldn’t find it.
She sat up, her body still sated and sluggish. “I’ll dress and show you the way.”
“I’d rather you stayed here, where you are safe,” he said, pulling on his breeches. How would she ever hate him again when he said things like that?
But she was no wilting flower. “And I’d rather you make it back without being questioned. That won’t help our cause. Besides, I need the pass you used to gain entry into the Temple. Honoria will study it to make copies.” Unconcerned with her nakedness, she washed at the washstand and ran damp fingers through her short hair. Finally, she found the clothes she’d discarded earlier and laid them on the bed.
“I don’t have the pass,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Any important document of that nature must be returned to Robespierre.” His gaze dipped to her breasts. “To prevent forgeries. Do you need help dressing?”
“Am I distracting you?”
“Excessively.”
“Good.” She made no move to dress. “Did you return the pass yet?”
“No. It is in my office. I’m to return it to Robespierre personally, and he was not available today.”
“Then we can still get it.” She lifted the shirt and let it fall over her head.
“I don’t think you understand. My office is in the Tuileries.”
“Then we will go to the Tuileries and retrieve the pass before I take you home. Honoria can make the copy tonight, and I’ll return the original to you in the morning.” She pulled the trousers on and buttoned them. Now she needed boots, a coat, and a hat, and not only would she look like a boy, she’d be able to move freely. It was liberating not to have to wear her corset. She was small-breasted and did not need to bind herself under the shirt, so she was free in more ways than one.
“Do you understand what you are saying?” Tristan asked, frowning at her. “The likelihood we will be caught is—”
She held up a hand. “Probabilities are for gamblers, and I never gamble.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the game is always fixed.”
Fourteen
“That’s exactly my point,” he said. “The odds are against you.”
She was extremely vexing when she refused to listen to reason, which seemed to be most of the time. Even worse, he’d been led by his cock instead of his brain the last hour or so and hadn’t really paid enough attention. Did she really think she could traverse the roofs of Paris to see him back to his apartments? Did she really believe she could access the Tuileries? The Committee of Public Safety rarely slept. Someone would surely be there or nearby and catch them.
“No, the odds are in my favor.” She pulled a coat over her white shirt. He didn’t think she looked remotely like a man in those clothes, but then he knew what she looked like under them. He supposed others might be misled if they did not look closely. “The government doesn’t expect anyone to try and access the offices of the committee. The entire populace is trying to stay far away. They won’t be prepared for such an eventuality, which makes our task all the easier.”
“You think it will be easy?”
She put a cap over her short, blond hair and started for the door, motioning for him to follow. “We only need to access your own office, correct? You know where the pass is and where your office is. Yes, I call that easy.”
“I call it suicide,” he muttered, following her out of the room. The door opposite opened, and Montagne looked out.
“I’m taking him home now,” Alexandra told him. Montagne’s gaze shifted, then returned to her.
“Do you need my help? With anything?”
“I’m perfectly well.”
His brow arched. “Is that why you were screaming?”
She rolled her eyes. “I can’t let Honoria have all the fun. Tell her to be ready when I return. She’ll need to make a copy of Chevalier’s pass tonight. He must return it in the morning.”
“I’ll tell her. Are you certain you want to go alone?”
“I’ll be with her,” Tristan said, somewhat annoyed that he was being ignored.
“I’ll be fine,” Alex said. “And if I did want help, I wouldn’t ask you to come. If I’m caught with you, I’ll only be in more trouble.”
“Ffoulkes or Dewhurst then? I can ask—”
“I’ll make sure she’s safe,” Tristan interrupted.
Montagne scowled. “You can’t even get yourself home safely.”
Tristan pushed past Alexandra. “I can take care of myself far better than you, aristo.”
“Oh, isn’t this entertaining?” Alexandra said, pushing Tristan back. “As much as I would like to see a bare-knuckle fight between the ancien régime and the revolutionaries, we don’t have time.” She took Tristan’s hand and dragged him back up to the attic. Ffoulkes looked to be asleep on one of the cots, but Dewhurst lay awake and gave them a waggle of brows as they passed. No one said anything when she opened the attic window and crawled out onto the sloped roof.
He crawled out after her. The moon was about half full and the sky was clear, and she extended her hand to encompass the dark city. “The Tuileries is that way and your apartments are close by. We stick to the roofs as much as possible. If the guard is out they won’t be looking up.”
“How can we even be sure we can use the roofs to reach my apartments?”
“I know.” She started in the direction of the Tuileries, and he followed, sliding carefully down the sloped roof until he reached the edge.
“Are you saying you have done this before?”
“How do you think I came home last night?” She lifted a plank lying on the roof and spread it over the narrow gap between the league house and its neighbor. Hands out, she took four steps across, then waited for him to do the same.
Tristan didn’t fear heights, at least he hadn’t thought he did, but walking across that plank and feeling the empty space below him made him sweat. He took a gulp of air on the other side while Alexandra pulled the plank across, leaving it on the adjacent roof, presumably for her return trip.
“I have a feeling last night wasn’t the first time you’d made the trek to my apartments.” He followed her around the side of the roof, as it was too steep to go over.
“We’d watched you for some time before we contacted you. I watched your apartments.”
He’d suspected this, and it made him angry. Except, in her place, he would have done the same.
She stepped across to the next roof, and Tristan followed, glad to have it over quickly.
“And what did you hope to discover?”
She shrugged. This roof was flatter, and they crossed over it. “Your habits, your friends, your lovers.”
At his annoyed silence, she looked over her shoulder. “How did you think I knew about Claudine du Champ?”
He glared at her.
“I must confess, I thought it strange that a man with your looks would only have the one lover.”
“My looks?” He rubbed the scar on his jaw.
“I think you know you’re handsome.” She touched his scar with the lightest of brushes. “And this makes you look slightly dangerous. I suppose I thought you were a bad lover.”
Tristan all but choked on the breath he’d taken. “Pardon me?”
“Why else would Madame du Champ visit so infrequently?”
He couldn’t resist asking. “And what do you think now?”
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. Too easily, the annoyance of a few moments ago dissipated. “Now I think if I ever see Claudine du Champ again, I will have to kill her. I want you all to myself.”
She was beautiful under the light of the moon with the jagged chimneys and roofs of Paris behind her. Up here, he could almost forget about the committee and the guillotine and the fact that she was in league with the Scarlet Pimpernel. Up here, it was just the two of them, and when he held her in his arms, nothing else mattered. He returned the kiss and immediately wished he hadn’t been so eager to leave her bedchamber. Truth be told, he’d been shaken by their lovemaking. When she’d opened her arms to him, it had been more than the tempting curves of her body that drew him. He wanted more time with her. He craved it.
And he’d been afraid that if he gave in, he would never want to leave her.
But he couldn’t afford to close himself off to what was happening in Paris. Robespierre must be stopped. The documents he’d unwittingly provided the Scarlet Pimpernel were one step toward that goal. Freeing the little boy was another. The former dauphin was a living symbol of all that had gone horribly wrong with the revolution. Tristan could not make it all right, but he could save one little boy.
The action would probably ensure his death; Alexandra’s too. And that was another reason he couldn’t allow himself to care for her. If he did, how could he allow her to sacrifice herself as they would all do in just a few short days?
She pulled back from the kiss and studied his face. “You’re thinking too much.”
“It’s a bad habit.” He rested his chin on the top of her head and looked out over the city he loved. The towers of Notre-Dame were visible near the river and just beyond that the Hôtel de Ville.
“Care to tell me what you’re thinking about?”
“How we will all die trying to save this boy. Although, you and I might die tonight.”
She stepped away from him. “You won’t die. I won’t let that happen.” She took his hand and led him to the next crossing. As he watched her leap across the space between the buildings, he almost believed her.
AN HOUR LATER THEY reached the gardens of the Tuileries, after having made their way almost exclusively via the roofs. Tristan would not have believed it possible, but it was clear Alexandra had done it many times. She had ropes, planks, and even ladders in position. Now, looking at the darkened edifice of the Tuileries, he felt less confident. In such a large palace, where so many committees met and where it seemed the guards were always about, Tristan didn’t see how they could enter without being seen and stopped.
“Where is your office?” she asked, peering at the palace from behind the trunk of a tree.
The former palace was mostly dark. The republic could not afford the extravagance of lighting such a large building, but a few lamps burned here and there. Tristan pointed to the Salle des Machines. “There is where the committee meets. My office is adjacent to Robespierre’s.” He squinted. “Right about there.”
“Ground floor?”
“Yes.”
“That makes it easy then. We simply open the window, slip inside, then once we have the pass, we slip back out again.”
“And what if someone is walking by? The guard has patrols and members of the committee may be about.”
“We keep to the shadows.”
“If that does not work?”
She started for the next tree, stepping into its shadow with Tristan following closely. “You worry too much. I told you. Nothing will happen to you. When we’re closer, point out the window. I’ll climb in while you keep watch from the garden. We’re fortunate your office isn’t in the front. We’d have no gardens then.”
“Robespierre wanted a view of the gardens.”
“Of course, he did. Wretched little man,” she muttered. “Come on.”
Faster than he would have liked they crept closer to the palace until the once manicured gardens left little shelter. “It’s that window, correct?” She verified the one he’d pointed out for the last time.
“I should go with you.”
“Stay here,” she said. “You’re more valuable to the league than I am. If anything should happen to me, do not try and interfere. Go straight home and stay there. If I don’t return tonight, the league will know something has happened.”
“I don’t like this.” He didn’t like watching her go into danger or having to stay back as though he were some sort of coward.
She nodded. “I know the feeling, but sometimes the most important task is to be the one who stays behind so the fight can continue another day.” She waved a hand. “Not that you should worry. I’ll return in a few moments. Where is the pass?”
“The top center drawer of my desk.”
She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t even try
to hide it, did you?” She gave him a quick kiss and turned to go, but he caught her arm and pulled her back for a longer kiss. When he finally released her, she looked slightly dazed. “Save another of those for when I return.”
And then she was gone, sprinting across the path, keeping low and moving quietly. Tristan tore his gaze from her to scan the area around them. So far he’d seen no one and heard only the faint whistle of one of the guard. It had sounded far away.
Still, he did not like hiding while she risked her life. Tristan held his breath, only exhaling when she was no longer out in the open. Finally, she made it to the palace and stepped into the shadow of the building. The windows were low to the ground, and she seemed to be attempting to push his open. Would that he had left it unlatched for her.
She’d asked a dozen questions about the window latches in his office, and he tried to remember. The Tuileries was a rather old palace, having been built by Catherine de’ Medici in the 1560s. It had once been the home of the Bourbon kings, but that was before Versailles. The Tuileries had been used once again when Louis XVI and his family had been forced by the people to live there before the imprisonment in the Tower, but the building was in some disrepair. Tristan hadn’t really had any idea of the state of the latch in his office, but he’d suggested trying nearby windows if she couldn’t force his.
As he watched, she began to do this. His wouldn’t open, so she moved to the next, which was one of the windows in Robespierre’s chambers. It too would not budge. Tristan began to feel anxious. How long could she stay out in the open without being spotted?
She moved to the next window, a thin, small shadow against the dark backdrop of the old building. Suddenly, she lifted her arms and turned to wave at him.
She’d found a way in.
A moment later, she disappeared inside and closed the window. Now the palace stood silent and still. Nothing moved inside or out. He could imagine her leaving Robespierre’s chambers and moving to his own. He sincerely hoped she did not decide to search Robespierre’s things. They didn’t have time for it. Tristan sat back, knowing it would be a few moments before she emerged from his window. But then he sat forward again.
