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

by Shana Galen

  Tristan could almost hear the words she’d been thinking—if we escape Paris.

  “Then Dewhurst, you go with Chevalier and Leroy to London. I’ll stay behind. Mackenzie could use help with his next mission.”

  “Aye, that I could.”

  “I’m afraid I must object,” Tristan said, causing everyone to look at him. “I’m not going to London.”

  Alexandra grasped his hand. “You can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous. No one has seen Ffoulkes. He is safe, but you are known.”

  “I’m not staying here.” Tristan raised her hand to his heart. “But wherever you go, I go too.”

  Alexandra stared at him, then shook her head. “That’s not—”

  But Dewhurst slammed a fist on the side of the cart. “And this is why I always say don’t sleep with the enemy! We haven’t time for poetry and declarations of love. Alex, you’re with the king, the marquis, and Honoria. Chevalier, you’re with the locksmith and me.”

  “Alexandra?” Tristan locked eyes with her. She would have to choose between him and her precious league.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  Twenty-One

  Alex stared at Tristan, seeing the love in his eyes so plainly she didn’t know how she could have missed it before. He loved her. How could she have doubted it? And she loved him. And this was the worst possible time for that realization, but their time was now or never.

  She looked at Dewhurst, his expression dark and foreboding. “I’m sorry.” Then she looked at Ffoulkes. “I’m so sorry. I’m not traveling with the king. I’m for London with Tristan.”

  Tristan pulled her in his arms even as Ffoulkes and Dewhurst swore.

  “What a bloody mess,” Ffoulkes muttered. “Honoria, let’s take a look at those papers.”

  Everyone around them was speaking and shuffling papers and passports. Alex hardly noticed anything. All she knew was that she was in Tristan’s arms, and she’d never have to leave.

  “I couldn’t let you go,” he said. “I love you.”

  She pulled back, and his face was blurry through her tears. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say those words.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  She laughed. “I love you too, Tristan. I love you.” She pulled his head down and kissed him. As soon as their lips touched, there was nothing in the world but the two of them. She kissed him with all of the emotion and longing she’d felt, all of the love she thought he’d never return.

  “Ahem. I hate to interrupt, but the curfew won’t wait.”

  Alex heard the voice, but it sounded so very far away.

  “No rush. Only a matter of life and death.”

  With a smile, she pulled back and glanced at Ffoulkes, who stood beside them with hands on his hips. “Ah, I see you have returned to reality. And a fine reality it is, thanks to you and Montagne.” He nodded to Tristan.

  “I’m sure you’ve found a way to work it out,” Alex said.

  “Of course, I have.” He shoved a pile of clothing into her hands. “You will ride in the cart that Mackenzie is, even now, scattering with bits of produce. You will masquerade as a farmer and his wife returning from selling your crops in the city.” He pushed clothing at Tristan. “Dewhurst and Leroy are Claude and Emmanuel, your field hands.”

  Dewhurst was changing coats, from the one he’d worn as a wine merchant to that of a poor farm worker. He pointed at Tristan. “Give me one order, and I’ll kill you.”

  Ffoulkes ignored them. “Honoria is in the carriage donning travel clothes suitable for a woman traveling to Austria. When she finishes, do what you can to alter her appearance so she’s less attractive.” He nodded to the clothing in Alexandra’s arms. “This is what she was wearing. Put it on while we finish with the cart.” He pointed to the carriage Honoria had just exited.

  Tristan and Alex climbed inside and immediately began removing clothing. She struggled to pull a blouse over her head and tuck it into the skirt.

  “Here.” Tristan handed her a scrap of fabric. “You’d better put this over your hair. No farmer’s wife would have such fashionable hair.” He tied the kerchief over her head, then leaned down and kissed her gently. “Do you think we’ll make it out of the city?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Then this might be our last kiss.”

  “If we survive, I have one request.”

  “Anything.”

  She grinned. “Really? Then I want you to go to the theater with me in London and watch Shakespeare.”

  He groaned. “If I do, then you must grant me one request.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll tell you after the play.” He kissed her hand, and they stepped out. Montagne and Honoria were waiting to climb inside, Montagne still holding the king. Alex did what she could to dull Honoria’s beauty with a bit of earth and clay, and she made Montagne stuff handkerchiefs in his cheeks to give his face a plump appearance. When she’d finished, she gave him a quick hug and Honoria a longer one.

  “You will come back to London, won’t you?” Alex asked.

  “I hope so. One day, but Louis Charles is like family to Laurent. And he is my family now.”

  “And you always wanted adventure.”

  “I always did. Be happy, Alex.”

  “You too, Honoria.” They hugged again and then Tristan led her to the cart where Leroy and Dewhurst sat in the back, looking very much like French peasants. Ffoulkes gave Tristan a stack of papers.

  “Take care of her.” Ffoulkes gave Tristan a hard look.

  “I always have,” Tristan said, smiling at Alex. She smiled back, though she knew the danger was far from over.

  “DON’T OFFER ANY MORE information than the guards request,” Dewhurst was saying. “And keep your responses—”

  “Brief. I know,” Tristan answered as the cart finally approached the north gate out of Paris. Dewhurst had been giving him the same advice for the past twenty minutes, as Tristan drove the cart through the crowded streets of Paris. He’d tried not to appear in a hurry, while hurrying toward the gates. They would close in a quarter hour, so they’d made it just in time.

  Or so he thought until he saw the line to exit. Two dozen or more people, many on foot but some in coaches and carts, stretched in front of them. “Do you think we’ll make it?” he asked Alexandra.

  “If nothing goes wrong in front of us.”

  “And if someone has the wrong papers or causes a problem?”

  She gave him a quelling look. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”

  No one wanted to consider their predicament if they did not escape the city tonight. By now those at the Temple might have noticed the king was gone. If not, they would surely know tomorrow, and no one would leave Paris until every inch of the city was searched. Tristan wondered if the little boy was already out of the city and on his way to Austria. However fearful he might be that his papers would be questioned or that he’d be recognized, it was nothing to the fear Montagne and Miss Blake must be feeling with the terrified little boy in their care.

  The line moved forward and Tristan slumped down, as though settling in for a wait. Alexandra had smudged her face with dirt and kept it down. Of all of them, she was the most likely to be recognized, though it was doubtful these guards had spent much time at the theater. He wanted to take her hand and hold it both to reassure himself and her that this nightmare was almost over. He shouldn’t be pleased to flee to England. His first loyalty for so long had been to France. But he didn’t recognize France any longer. He didn’t recognize Robespierre. He had joined the patriots to avenge the deaths of his parents and his sister. But this reign of terror was not what they would have wanted for their beloved homeland. Daily executions and neighbor turning on neighbor was not what his brother at the front fought for.

  It was time to leave Paris, time to allow old wounds to heal and scab over, time to let himself feel again. Alexandra had made all of
that possible for him, and right now only a few people stood between them and their future.

  He nudged the horses forward, and they were close enough that they could see the three guards. Two were quite young. They earnestly checked papers and waved travelers through. They were not experienced enough to be able to detect forgeries, and Miss Blake’s work was so expert that even a more knowledgeable guard, like the one sitting to the side, would probably not have known the papers as fakes. Tristan had looked at them and been fooled at first glance himself. Only the smallest signs gave anything away. The older guard, though, was no one to worry about. He had a woman with him, and they were leaning against the guards’ small building and laughing. He passed a flask to her and she drank, then passed it back. They glanced at the travelers with only a fleeting interest.

  Two more groups and it would be their turn.

  “Oh, no,” Alex murmured.

  Tristan’s skin immediately went cold.

  “What is it?” Dewhurst asked, keeping his gaze focused on the line behind him.

  “I know the woman with the captain. If she recognizes me, we’re done for.”

  “Who is it?” Tristan asked.

  “Élodie from the People’s Theater. We’ve known each other for years. I don’t think she has any loyalty to the revolutionaries, but if she sees me she might accidentally—”

  Dewhurst was pretending to stretch and leaned slightly out of the cart to get a look at the actress. “What do you mean she has no loyalty to the revolution? She’s obviously taken with the captain.”

  “With the theaters closed she needs a protector. We all have to eat”—Alexandra watched as Élodie drank from the flask again—“and drink.”

  “Keep your head down and she won’t notice you,” Leroy suggested.

  “No.” Dewhurst’s tone was firm. “We can’t risk it.” He stood and jumped out of the cart.

  “What are you doing?” Alex asked.

  “Getting you out of here,” he muttered. “Go without me.”

  “No!” Alexandra hissed. “You cannot stay. It’s too dangerous. You were seen at the Temple.”

  “Let me worry about that.” And then without another word, he strode toward the captain and the actress. “Excuse me!” he said loudly. “Aren’t you that famous actress from the People’s Theater? Élodie Michel?”

  Élodie put a hand to her cheek, which had turned a pretty shade of pink. Dewhurst slid in front of her to block her view of the passing carts. The group in front of them moved forward, handing their papers to the younger guards who had all looked over their shoulders with interest at Élodie and the captain.

  “We can’t let him do this,” Alex muttered.

  “What do you propose?” Tristan asked, his hopes of a life with her in England fading as quickly as the sun in the late afternoon sky.

  “I don’t know, but we can’t leave him behind.”

  Tristan glanced over at Dewhurst, who was gesturing animatedly. He couldn’t see Élodie as Dewhurst had blocked her completely. The captain’s gaze was also on Dewhurst, his brows drawn together in annoyance.

  “We must leave him behind,” Leroy said, surprising them both. “He’s made his choice and if we fail now, his sacrifice is for nothing.”

  Alexandra looked at Tristan. Tristan nodded. The locksmith was correct. No one would have chosen Dewhurst’s path, but he was on it now, and they could only make it more difficult if they strayed from their own.

  The group ahead of them moved forward, and the guards looked past them. “The gate closes in five minutes!” one called. “Have your papers ready. If you are not through before the gate closes, come back first thing in the morning.”

  A few people groaned at the suggestion they might have to stay the night in Paris. One of the guards, a blond with blue eyes, motioned them forward. “Papers,” he said. Tristan offered his and Leroy’s while Alexandra handed hers to the guard on the other side, an auburn-haired boy with ruddy cheeks. He glanced at her papers, then walked around the cart inspecting it.

  The blond inspected his papers, then looked at Tristan, Alexandra, and Leroy. “Going to Normandy?”

  “Oui, citoyen.”

  “Does everything look as it should?” he asked the auburn-haired guard.

  Alex kept her gaze down, and Tristan could almost feel the panic rising off her. If Élodie looked past Dewhurst and saw her, all of their lives would be in danger.

  “Nothing to see here.” He handed Alexandra’s papers to the blond. Tristan almost reached out to take them, but he gripped the reins tighter, trying to act as though he was completely unconcerned.

  The blond looked at Alexandra’s papers and then handed the entire stack back to Tristan. “You’d better hurry if you want to make it before nightfall.”

  “Oui, citoyen.”

  Tristan called to the horses and the cart started forward. His back burned as he felt the gaze of the guards on it. He clenched his fists to resist the urge to look back at Dewhurst. Alexandra gave a small moan, the only indication she had begun to weep. Tristan reached over and took her hand. “He will be fine. He’s resourceful.”

  She nodded, wiping her eyes. “He’ll be fine.”

  He wondered if she’d heard the lie in his voice as clearly as he’d heard the one in hers.

  Twenty-Two

  “'Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,’” Tristan quoted as he strolled out of the theater with Alexandra on his arm. It felt strange to walk freely through the streets of London so late in the evening. In Paris, the curfew would have been in effect and anyone out and about without a pass would have been arrested. But here men in beaver hats with ebony walking sticks strolled by, smiling at the pretty girls they passed. Ladies climbed into coaches that clogged the already congested streets. Somewhere the bells of a cathedral rang, and a hawker advertised pasties in a voice rough from use.

  He’d forgotten what freedom felt like.

  “So you liked the play, then?” Alexandra said, smiling up at him. She was dressed in scarlet, a color she wore very well. When they’d arrived in London, lodgings and clothing had been waiting for them, as well as a position as a French tutor for himself. Tristan hadn’t asked questions. He knew when the Scarlet Pimpernel had a hand in something by now.

  And just this morning a letter had arrived from Austria thanking Miss Martin for the safe delivery of the sheet music. It had caused much joy for the recipients and would be treated with the utmost care. Alexandra had burned the letter after she’d showed him. They embraced as they watched it burn, knowing the king, Montagne, and Miss Blake had succeeded on their journey.

  They’d had no news of Dewhurst or of Ffoulkes. She’d made inquiries, what few she could, but no answers had been forthcoming. At Tristan’s urging, she’d also made an attempt to locate her parents. She had more luck with that search and had written to them at their last known destination, hoping they’d receive the letter when they traveled back that way. Tristan had agreed to attend Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar tonight in part because he wanted to take her mind off the friends she’d left behind in Paris. Also, because he didn’t hate Shakespeare as much as he’d led her to believe.

  But there was no reason to drop the ruse now. “The play was tolerable.”

  She scowled at him. “You sound more and more British by the day.”

  “I attended the play you wanted to see, and this is the thanks I receive?”

  “I’m sorry, but you have to admit it’s the perfect production for the time. A tyrant is murdered, which leads to civil war and ultimately to more tyrants. That must sound familiar.”

  “Vaguely.”

  They’d reached the edge of a park—Tristan couldn’t have said which one—and he decided this was as good a place as any. He gestured to an empty bench. “Sit with me a moment?”

  She looked up at him, mischief in her green eyes. “I think we would be more comfortable at home,” she said.

  Oh, they would have been very comfortable in
their small flat above the bakery, but once she started kissing him and undressing him, he’d never manage to say what he wanted.

  “I might even let you be on top this time,” she whispered.

  Tristan took a shaky breath. They had all night to indulge her fantasies—and she had so very many fantasies.

  “Humor me,” he said, indicating the bench again. She thrust her lower lip out, but sat. He shifted from one foot to the other. “Do you remember when we were leaving Paris I said I had a favor I wanted to ask of you after the play?”

  “Yes. I just assumed you wanted to use the scarf to tie me up again.” She flashed him that dimpled smile.

  “No.”

  “No? I rather liked what you did when the scarf—”

  He held up a hand. He’d liked it too. “This isn’t about what the two of us will do in bed tonight.”

  “What’s it about, then?”

  “I suppose...” Now that the moment was here he couldn’t think of the words. “It’s about the two of us in bed for the rest of our lives.”

  Her foot had been tapping impatiently, but now it ceased and her face went completely blank. This was a skill she’d learned as an actress, a method she employed when she didn’t want to show emotion.

  Tristan lowered himself to one knee and took her gloved hand. “I don’t have a ring,” he said. “I don’t have anything.”

  Tears sparkled in her eyes as her mask began to break.

  “All I can offer at the moment is myself and my love. I can’t promise you security.” God knew French tutors were poor, due to the fact they were abundant at the moment, what with all the French émigrés in London. “But I can promise I will always love you.”

  Her free hand went to her lips. “Tristan, you don’t have to—”

  “Let me finish. Alexandra Martin, will you marry me?”

  She inhaled sharply, and for a moment he feared she would say no. But then she threw her arms around him, almost knocking him over. “Yes! Yes!” She kissed him, even though several people were walking by. “I’ll marry you. I love you, Tristan Chevalier.”