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

by Shana Galen

  Alex stared at Tristan. “Stall him!” Then, covering her nose with her sleeve, she ran into the cell.

  Twenty

  Tristan watched Alex disappear into the cell and very much wanted to go in after her. He wanted to pull her out and force her to leave, to run to safety. Leroy gave him a panicked look, and Tristan did the next best thing he could think of. He turned and marched down the stairs, intercepting the captain, who would have reached them in a matter of seconds.

  “Captain, there you are!”

  The captain of the guards looked annoyed to see Tristan heading toward him. He tried to push forward, but Tristan barred his way. “Captain, I have a few questions for you.”

  “I can answer them at the gate, Citoyen Chevalier. I must look in on the prisoner one last time.”

  “Of course, but before you do that.” The stairwell was narrow, and Tristan need only edge a bit one way and then the other to block the captain. “Can you tell me how you intend to keep the boy from escaping his cell. I noticed he has a window.”

  The captain lowered his brows. “The window has bars on it, citoyen. I’m sure you must have noted that.”

  “But how old are the bars? Is the iron still solid? Iron does tend to weaken over time. Have you tested these bars yourself, Captain?”

  “I have not. No one but Citoyen Simon is allowed inside the cell with the little brat.”

  “Ah, yes. Citoyen Simon.” Tristan crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the wall of the Temple. “And where is he? Does he often leave his work? Where does he go?”

  The captain stiffened. “I’m afraid if you want that information, you will have to ask Simon himself. Now, if you will excuse me.” He gestured toward the landing.

  Tristan could think of no more questions, nothing else that would delay the captain. But instead of allowing the man to pass, he turned to lead him up, walking as slowly as possible. Behind him, the captain huffed out an impatient breath.

  Tristan’s heart pounded as they reached the landing. Had Leroy managed to close the padlock and lock the cell? Had Alexandra escaped the cell? He stepped onto the landing, but before he could survey the scene, the captain pushed past him. He went directly to the cell and peered inside. Then he looked at the padlock and looked at Tristan.

  Tristan swallowed and took a step back. He might be able to outrun the captain, but the other soldiers would catch him easily.

  “Look at this,” the captain said, gesturing to the open panel in the cell door.

  Tristan hesitated.

  “Go on. Look.”

  Feet heavy, Tristan plodded to the door and looked through the panel.

  “Sleeping. That’s all the brat does. And you worry about him breaking bars on windows!”

  Tristan scanned the cell. A small lump was under the threadbare blanket. He could just see what appeared to be a dirty tuft of hair poking out.

  “I think it is time you returned home.” The captain gestured to the stairs. “Curfew is in less than an hour. Surely, you do not want to break the law.”

  “No.” Tristan dared not glance at the turret door. He hoped Alexandra and the rest were out of the Temple by now. He would take his time leaving, hoping his presence would be a distraction that might keep the league from discovery.

  ALEX COULDN’T BREATHE deeply. She could barely move, and she imagined the sensation was much worse for Montagne, who was a good deal larger than she.

  “I have it. I have it,” a voice said, sounding far away. “You’ve done enough.”

  Alex hoped it was Dewhurst. She heard a thud and a noise as presumably a wine barrel with one of the four of them was rolled into the wagon. She said a quick prayer that the king was not too frightened. She didn’t know how Montagne had managed to persuade the boy to climb into the barrel, but he’d done so. The boy had looked terrified, but he did not argue. Perhaps his spirit had been crushed, and he no longer knew how to argue.

  Her barrel tipped, and she almost let out a squeak of surprise. She pressed her hand, tucked against her chest, to her lips and remained silent.

  “The empty ones are light as a feather,” Dewhurst said. She knew his voice now that he was so near. She began to move, her head spinning as the barrel rolled up the cart. “Go on and enjoy your wine. I won’t say a word.”

  She stopped rolling, and Dewhurst set her upright again. The problem was he set her upside down. He was supposed to have paid attention to the direction the barrel was facing when he turned it on its side. Apparently, he’d been so busy trying to make the guard leave, he’d forgotten to look. Alex tried to lift her hands to brace herself so her head didn’t ram against the bottom of the barrel. All of her weight crushed down, making breathing even more difficult. But she dared not make any noise until they were away.

  She heard another barrel rolling up the ramp to the back of the cart, but Dewhurst didn’t speak. Hopefully that meant the guard had left him. Had Tristan made it out? Was he safe? Would she even see him again before he took the carriage that would travel to London?

  Her head started to pound, and she wrenched her shoulder against the side of the barrel, hoping to better brace herself. Finally, she heard the last barrel roll onto the cart, shaking the wooden slats her barrel sat on as Dewhurst set it down.

  It seemed an eternity before the carriage began to move and then Alex wished it hadn’t. Her barrel jiggled and shook, bouncing her head against the bottom. Several times she almost lost her tenuous hold, which would have brought all her weight down on her neck and head, but she managed to hold on.

  The cart jounced over the cobblestone streets and finally jolted over the rougher terrain she knew to be the park. Once she was certain they were away from the streets, she began to kick and scream. “Dewhurst! Let me out!”

  The cart continued, the noise of the wheels and the horses too loud for Dewhurst to hear her.

  Alex’s head thudded against the barrel again. She had to do something. She could barely breathe, and one big bounce might cause her to break her neck. She used the next jolt to lean her weight into the tilt of the barrel. It didn’t tip, but it swayed. At the next opportunity, she pushed as much of her weight against the barrel as she could. This time it leaned, balanced on the rim, and finally tipped over.

  The impact pushed all the breath out of her body, and her head hit the side of the barrel hard. For a moment, Alex thought perhaps the cart slowed, but then all she heard was a loud ringing in her ears.

  “WHERE THE DEVIL ARE they?” Tristan said to himself. He’d left the Temple, every step away from it expecting to be called back as the boy was discovered to be missing. Instead, he walked until the guards could no longer see him and all he could make out of the structure were the towers.

  Then Tristan broke into a run. He headed down a side street and back toward the Temple, arrowing for the back, the section bordered by a wooded area.

  He was to meet Dewhurst here and the six of them, four of them in wine barrels, would rendezvous with the carriages and go their separate ways. No one had told him where the rendezvous was. Only Dewhurst knew, and this was to make certain no one could give it away if they were captured.

  Tristan entered the chilly darkness of the woods, peering through the gloom for any sign of the cart. He saw nothing. Perhaps Dewhurst wanted to be certain they were well hidden, so he walked further into the woods. Still nothing.

  He found wheel ruts where Dewhurst and the cart must have been waiting while Alex and the others entered the Temple. But the cart was nowhere to be found now.

  A trickle of unease rippled through him. What if Dewhurst had gone straight to the rendezvous? What if that had been the plan all along? Tristan Chevalier was known as Robespierre’s secretary. Wouldn’t it be easier for the league to escape without him? Surely they knew by now that Tristan would be under suspicion of having aided the enemy. But what did that matter to them if they had Capet far away?

  Tristan clenched his fists. He couldn’t allow himself to think thi
s way. Alex would never have agreed to that plan. She wouldn’t have left him.

  Or would she? She’d looked at him with such sadness back at the Temple. Was that her way of saying adieu?

  He’d been a fool to trust her. He’d been a blind, lovesick fool to allow her to slip her way into his heart when all along she cared nothing for him. Had she been laughing at him as she took her pleasure over him? Had he been a challenge for her to conquer before she left France to take the little brat to Austria?

  He should have never let his guard down. Of course, she would use him if he allowed it. All she cared about was her precious league. Tristan felt the trees closing in on him. He’d risked everything and now he would be left behind to suffer the consequences. He would be caught and put to death. He would be fortunate to die by guillotine. Tristan’s one chance was that when Robespierre discovered the boy was gone, he would not want the people to know the boy had been freed on his watch, so to speak. He would keep the rescue a secret if possible, allowing the people to believe Citoyen Capet was still imprisoned in the Temple. That meant the mobs would have no reason to attack Tristan.

  He leaned against a tree and closed his eyes. He’d always known it would end this way. As soon as he’d handed those papers over to Citoyen Allié he’d signed his own death warrant. There’d been no going back after that.

  But the more Tristan considered his path, the less he regretted it. Would he have done things differently? If he’d known it would end this way, would he have kept Robespierre’s treachery to himself? Would he have traded the chance to touch, to kiss, to love Alexandra Martin, just to be safe in his position with the republic?

  Tristan realized he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have done anything differently. Even if, as it appeared now, Alexandra had betrayed him, he wouldn’t have given up even a moment of the time they’d spent together. She was worth the price he would pay now.

  The low rattle of wheels moving toward him caught his attention and Tristan braced. Surely if the guard were looking for him they would come on horseback. Who would be driving a conveyance through the park now? Most people would be hurrying home before the curfew.

  And then Dewhurst, his bonnet rouge pulled low over his brow, appeared, driving two horses harnessed to a cart with several wine barrels in the back. He barely slowed the horses before he threw Tristan the reins and jumped down. “What is it?” Tristan called, holding up a hand to settle the horses.

  “I didn’t dare stop until now, but one of the barrels fell over. I’m afraid it might be the king.”

  Tristan tied the reins to a tree and rushed to help Dewhurst right the barrel and pry the lid open.

  “Bloody hell,” Dewhurst muttered.

  Tristan’s heart was in his throat. It wasn’t the king but Alexandra. Her blond hair was matted to her face and blood ran down her cheek. “Help me get her out.”

  Dewhurst grasped her under the arms and pulled her up, and Tristan freed her legs. Then Dewhurst passed her to Tristan. “I had better open the other barrels quickly.”

  Tristan carried Alexandra’s lifeless body off the cart and laid her in the grass. Her eyelids fluttered, giving him hope, but she didn’t move or even moan, though he unintentionally jostled her. Behind him Dewhurst pried open barrels. Montagne emerged first, looking flushed but well. Together Dewhurst and Montagne freed Leroy and the boy. The boy was curled into a ball, clearly terrified but unharmed. Montagne spoke to him softly while Dewhurst rushed to Tristan’s side.

  “We can’t stay here. The others are waiting, and we’re already late. If we’re much later, the gates will be closed for the night. I want the king out of Paris.”

  “I’m not certain it’s safe to move her.”

  “It’s not safe to stay here,” Montagne said. “We must go.”

  Leroy had been arranging the wine barrels again and now lifted heavy blankets. Leroy and Dewhurst were to drive the cart to the rendezvous while Tristan, Montagne, Alexandra, and the boy hid under the blankets in the back of the cart.

  “We’ll put Alex and the king between us,” Montagne told Tristan. “They’ll be cushioned that way.”

  Tristan hated to move Alexandra again. She looked so pale and lifeless, but he carried her to the back of the cart and laid her between the sets of empty barrels. He lay down beside her and Montagne coaxed the boy to lie on her other side. When Montagne was in place, Leroy threw the blanket over them.

  The boy whimpered, and Montagne whispered words of encouragement. “We’re almost there, Your Majesty. You know I will keep you safe. Soon you will be reunited with your sister.”

  Tristan wondered how that was possible when the daughter of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette was still imprisoned in the Temple, but now was not the time.

  “Dewhurst said you would be able to breathe in those barrels,” Tristan said as the cart began to move. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Montagne said. “It was hot and cramped, but I could breathe. If her barrel fell over, that must be how she hit her head. But I don’t know how her barrel would have fallen. Dewhurst drove the horses slowly. So slowly I could barely contain my impatience to be away.”

  It was too dangerous to continue to speak, so Tristan lowered his head and pulled Alexandra against him, trying again to keep her head from hitting the boards beneath them. Tristan closed his eyes and for one of the first times since the attack by the Duc du Mérignac, he whispered a sincere prayer. His prayers hadn’t been answered when the duc had killed his parents and taken his innocence, and Tristan had no reason to believe they would be answered now. Still, he prayed.

  The wagon clattered over cobblestones on the way to the rendezvous, the little boy began to cry, and still Tristan prayed. Finally, Alexandra moved against him. For a moment he was certain he had only imagined it or it had been nothing more than the movement of the cart, then she lifted her hand and touched her head.

  Tristan felt like a man who’s been held under water and finally emerges on the surface again. He could breathe, and his heart, which had felt as though it might burst, now swelled with another feeling—hope.

  “Where...”

  He could not make out the rest of her words, but he leaned close to her ear. “We’re on the way to the rendezvous. You’re away. You’re safe. I have you.”

  Her hand closed on his where he gripped her waist. She squeezed hard. “You are safe. I worried—”

  “Shh. We’ll talk later.” But as soon as the words left his lips, he realized that wasn’t true. She would go her way and he his. This might be the last time they spoke.

  He couldn’t let her go. Even if it meant going to Austria with her and the...king, he couldn’t leave her.

  Finally, the cart slowed and turned. The late afternoon light filtering through the blanket dimmed and darkened. Under the blankets, no one stirred or even dared breathe too loudly.

  The cart stopped and the silence seemed to clang as loudly as the horses’ hooves had a moment before.

  “You’re a bonny sight. I dinnae think you were coming,” said a voice in English.

  Alexandra pulled the blanket off her head.

  “Wait!” Tristan urged.

  “It’s Mackenzie,” she said. “I’d recognize his voice anywhere.”

  Just then a man with brown hair and broad shoulders peered over them. “Och. What happened to you, lass? You look half deid.”

  Alexandra touched her head again. “That oaf”—she pointed to Dewhurst, who had turned to look back at them—“set my barrel upside down. I could hardly breathe. I had to topple it just to take a breath and then when it fell over I hit my head.”

  Dewhurst raised his brows. “Oh, now it makes sense.”

  Tristan jumped to his feet. “It makes sense? You almost killed her!”

  “But I didn’t.”

  Mackenzie looked amused at the two men, but Ffoulkes strode over from beside the closed carriage that also occupied the enclosed courtyard in front of what looked like some sort of warehou
se.

  “We don’t have time for arguments,” Ffoulkes said. “If they close the gates early, we’ll never make it. Honoria there has all of the papers. Get yours and sort yourselves out.” He gave a deep bow to the boy. “Your Majesty. I will be honored to escort you to Austria. You have family there who, I believe, are eager to see you safe.” He gestured to Alexandra, who’d accepted a handkerchief from Mackenzie and was dabbing the blood on her forehead. “Miss Martin and I will accompany you.”

  The boy looked from Montagne to Ffoulkes. “What about Uncle Laurent?” It was the first time Tristan had heard him speak, and he was taken off guard by the high pitch of the child’s voice. Such a small voice in such an emaciated body. How could Robespierre have been so afraid of a child as to treat him so monstrously?

  “I’m afraid he will go another way tonight, but you have family in Austria who—”

  “No!” The boy wrapped his arms around Montagne’s neck. “I won’t go without him.”

  Tristan understood how the boy felt. He wanted to wrap his own arms around Alexandra and beg her to come with him.

  “Your Majesty,” Montagne was saying. “You will be safe with Sir Andrew.”

  Ffoulkes went to the end of the cart and removed the rope strewn there to secure the contents. “Come down and let’s meet properly.”

  But when they’d all climbed down, the boy would not release Montagne from his hold. “Give us a moment, will you?” Montagne said and carried the boy to the carriage where Miss Blake stood. The two conferred quietly.

  “He’ll not want to leave the king,” Ffoulkes said, voice low. “I should have anticipated the boy’s attachment.”

  “But Honoria wants to return to London,” Alexandra said.

  “I think she wants to be with the marquis more.” Ffoulkes gave them a fleeting look. “She’ll agree, and then I cannot travel with you. Two men might look suspicious, but two women will not. Alex, you can say you’re the boy’s nanny.”

  She nodded. “I think the three of us will do very well once we escape Paris.”