Taken by the Rake (The Scarlet Chronicles, #3)

by Shana Galen

  He shrugged in the way the French did. “Too true. I lost the last scruples I possessed when they cut off the head of my king, ending almost one thousand years of tradition. I no longer see any point in scruples.”

  She supposed she could not argue with that logic. What good were principles when the world around them had resorted to anarchy?

  “What do you want?” she demanded. “A document? A passport? Take me back to the safe house, and it is yours.”

  “At the moment I want a glass of wine and a bath.” He took her upper arm in a tight grip. “Let us see if the inside of these rooms has fared as well as the outside.”

  Left with no other choice, Honoria followed him, dragging her feet out of spite. The door to the ground floor was locked, but the marquis felt the top of the lintel and palmed the key. A moment later they were inside, and Honoria forgot to resist. They entered a small salon with large windows overlooking the garden. At this time of day, the room was in shadow, but she imagined this would be a lovely spot to sip tea in the morning. The chairs were upholstered in cream and robin’s egg blue, while the paper-hangings were of a bucolic country scene. But for a layer of dust, the room was immaculate enough to reside in a museum. The chairs did not look as though anyone had ever sat on them, the hearth looked as though it had never been lit.

  “This way,” the marquis said, not even pausing in the salon. “Nothing here of interest.”

  Honoria almost argued. If she had a room like this back in England, she would never leave it. She could spend the rest of her days here and be happy. But, of course, that was the benefit of having blunt. Money could buy cushioned chairs and enormous windows and pretty little vases, even if one never intended to sit, stare, or house a single flower in any of it.

  She was pulled along in his wake, into another room with a large table and a chandelier. An interior room, it was dark, and she had a vague sense of heavy furniture before he started up the stairs. Honoria glanced over her shoulder at the heavy front door, relieved that the stone wall circled the property. The marquis had no doubt wanted it to maintain his privacy and keep the neighbors from knowing when he was in or out.

  The marquis pulled her left on the first floor. Honoria glanced up the stairs, but the second floor was dark, probably servants’ quarters. The building was small, so there would not be room for much staff, but the marquis had said he only used these apartments when the theater let out late. He probably never had need of much staff.

  His infrequent use also explained why everything looked all but new. Tragic that such a charming space should be wasted on someone with no appreciation for it.

  “Here we are.” He opened the first door off the landing and pulled her into a gray room. Releasing her arm, he parted the curtains. These faced the little garden whose trees hid the windows from an outsider’s view. Across from these windows was another set of draperies, probably overlooking the street. Wisely, he did not so much as ruffle those.

  But now that light penetrated the room, she saw they were in an enormous bedchamber. It must have run the length of the entire first floor. Besides the mammoth bed in the center, the chamber also boasted a sitting area, several wardrobes, a Louis XIV desk, and an area that had been screened off, and which she assumed was most likely used for bathing. Now that they were no longer running, she shivered, and she hoped his next act would be to light one of the two wide fireplaces. Instead, he went to a cabinet in the wall, opened it, withdrew two glasses, and then—after some consideration—a bottle of wine.

  He uncorked it and set it on a nearby table. “It should breathe for a moment,” he said, indicating the bottle.

  “I do not want wine,” she said.

  “No coffee. No wine. You English truly are barbarians.”

  She crossed her arms. “Why do you deliberately misunderstand me?”

  He lifted one of the glasses and examined it. “Why do women always assume any misunderstanding is the fault of the man? You do not want wine.” He opened the cabinet and replaced one wineglass. “There. No misunderstanding.”

  “I want to leave. Whether you give me wine or not, I am still a prisoner.”

  “Would you rather I chain you to the bed? Would that help you feel more understood?”

  He splashed wine in the bottom of his glass, swirled it, then tasted. “This is very good. Are you certain you do not want any before I lock you in fetters?”

  “I want to return to the safe house.”

  “I give you credit for consistency in your demands, but I regret that I cannot allow you to leave just yet.”

  “You mean you will not allow me to leave.”

  Another shrug. “That too. Consider it this way. I am saving your life. If you left now, you would never make it back to the Rue du Jour before the curfew. And if you are out after that, even your beauty will not save you.”

  “I told you—”

  “Yes, I know. You hide it as best you can, but I am looking at you now. Your hair is down, your cheeks are rosy from exertion, and you tore your fichu when you tried to kill me with the padlock. Let us just say that you are fortunate I am a gentleman.”

  Honoria had felt her hair come loose from its pins, but she hadn’t realized she’d torn the fichu that covered her chest and ensured modesty. She put a hand over her heart.

  “You needn’t cover yourself for my sake. I won’t ravish you.” He grinned. “Unless you ask sweetly.”

  “I’d rather die first. If you so much as touch me—”

  He waved a hand lazily. “You will do all manner of unmentionable things to my person. I understand.” His brow arched, and Honoria had to admit, he looked rather handsome—in a roguish sort of manner—when he did that. “Are you afraid you might actually enjoy my touch?”

  “I am afraid your touch, like your face, might make me physically ill.”

  “That bad?” He sipped his wine again. “Then I had better not delay my bath. Can you be trusted or must I make good on my threat?” His gaze slid to the bed, and she realized he meant securing her to it. Good God, did he actually have chains in his room? She would not put it past him.

  “You needn’t chain me. I will not try to run away.” She hoped her expression looked convincing.

  The side of his mouth quirked. “You, mademoiselle, are not meant for the theater. Which means I have no choice if I do not want to step foot in the bath and then be forced to chase you. The Boulevard du Temple has seen many sights, but I prefer my naked ass not be one of them.”

  He crossed the room and opened a wardrobe. From her vantage point, Honoria could see it contained several items of clothing. Surely he did not have rope in his bedchamber wardrobe? She would not wait to find out.

  Whirling on her heel, she ran for the door and unlatched it. A moment later she was at the top of the stairs. She paused to lift her skirts, and an arm came around her waist, dragging her back.

  SHE WAS QUICK, BUT he’d spent years chasing Marie-Thérèse. Laurent was quicker. He dragged her, kicking and screaming, back into the bedchamber, and gathered up the chain with the two cuffs from the floor where he’d dropped it when she’d run. The Englishwoman had almost as much strength as she did beauty, and he might not have won the day if she hadn’t ceased biting and scratching when she saw the bindings.

  “Oh, my God! Help!”

  “You might pray to the Goddess of Reason, but doubtless she gave up on me long ago.”

  He’d lifted her around the waist and carried her back to his chamber. Her back was pressed up against his chest, and for a moment the scent of her—so clean and feminine—made him want to turn her around and kiss her rather than lock her up. But sanity prevailed and he closed one of the cuffs around her wrist, locking it into place. Too late he wondered if she could pick the lock. He wouldn’t be able to leave her alone long enough to have the chance.

  “Why, in God’s name, do you have fetters?” she screeched, shaking her head wildly when he pulled her toward the bedpost.

  “An oper
a singer I knew was in a production of Mozart’s Die Entführung aus dem Serail. When the play opens, the ladies are taken by pirates and sold to the pasha, and the three slaves were portrayed in fetters. Stop fighting me. You cannot win.” He made a last heroic effort and dragged her close enough to the post that he was able to secure the other cuff around it. “There.” He dusted his hands. “As I was saying, this opera singer brought these with her when she left the theater one night. She was rather naughty, that one, and—”

  Somehow she managed to cover her ears with her hands. “I do not want to hear this.”

  “Fair enough. I need another glass of wine. Are you certain you do not wish to join me?”

  “I want nothing from you!” she spat out.

  He poured himself another glass, eyeing her from across the room. There were worse things than having a beautiful woman cuffed to one’s bed. And she was even more beautiful now, in her dishabille, than she had been when she’d first opened the door and he’d been all but dumbstruck.

  Of course, she hated him. That made their present circumstances rather less exciting. He’d never taken advantage of a woman, and as much as he’d missed women these last months, he had no intention of forcing himself on the Englishwoman.

  He might, however, persuade her to hate him less. With that in mind, he poured her a glass of wine and walked near her.

  “I do not want it,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Duly noted. I will just place it within reach in case you become thirsty.”

  “And where are you going?”

  “I told you. I need a bath.” And he strode out of the bedchamber.

  Laurent, like most things in this newly liberated Paris, had not thought his plans through. Before, when he’d wanted a bath, servants had fetched the water, heated it, then carried it to the tub in his bedchamber. Now he had no servants, no fire to heat the water, and no desire to carry heavy buckets up the stairs. So while he would have liked a bath, he’d washed the stench of the prison from his body the night before, and now he settled for scrubbing his face, chest, legs, and arms with ice-cold water from the well in the courtyard.

  It was far from the luxury he’d been used to, but after La Force, Laurent had a new definition of luxury. He looked up at the sky, now a pewter gray. Soon stars would appear, and he would be free to look up at them all night if he so chose. No one would call his name and shove him into a tumbrel in the morning. No bloodthirsty mob would attempt to catch him and stick his head on a pike. No one would make him eat that disgusting broth the guards in La Force called stew.

  Tonight, freedom meant he would actually go hungry, but he would do it as a free man. God, but he’d hated prison. The rank odor of the full latrine pails, the foul smell of unwashed bodies in the heat of summer, the impossibility of sleeping in a cell with seventeen other men. He’d paid for a bed and a scratchy blanket, but after the four beds in the cell had been sold for fifty-six assignats a week, the guards gave the floor to those unable to pay.

  But now he was free. It might not last. It almost certainly would not last, but by God, he would appreciate it. He looked around his little garden and breathed in the fragrant air. It smelled of dirt and grass, and faintly like baked bread and coffee. He had probably imagined the last two, his mind remembering when he’d taken his breakfast out here when the weather was mild.

  He hadn’t ever appreciated that luxury. He hadn’t appreciated anything at all. He’d realized it as soon as he stepped into the salon just inside the building. There was a room he’d had comfortably furnished and yet he had never so much as sat in one of the chairs or stood at one of the windows. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d eaten at the dining table in the room adjoining the salon.

  He had other houses with other tables. He didn’t need that one. He hadn’t needed three-fourths of what he’d had, and yet it had never been enough. If coats and art and jeweled shoe buckles could have made a man happy, he would have never ceased smiling.

  But he hadn’t been happy, and he’d spent countless nights in La Force, lying awake, listening to the snores of the men around him and wishing he could have another chance. One more chance to stand at his windows, sit in his chairs, and look—really look—at his art.

  One more chance for his life to have meaning and purpose. He’d known immediately what that purpose was. He had to save the royal family. It was too late for the king and now too late for the queen, but he could save the children, the heirs of the Bourbon dynasty. Unlike so many others, they’d done nothing to deserve their imprisonment, save being born to a king and a queen.

  And Laurent was in a unique position to save them too. He’d been inside the Temple many, many times. He knew it well, had played there as a child. It was as familiar to him as his nursery.

  That was why the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had rescued him from La Force. This Pimpernel was a clever man not only to find Laurent in the Paris prisons, which were near to bursting at the moment, but to realize Laurent would have spent time in the Temple.

  God knew it was nothing he had ever boasted about, but anyone who knew his family history might have deduced the fact. And Laurent would have helped the Pimpernel too, if they had been willing to rescue more than just the dauphin. Louis Charles was just a little boy. Of all the crimes of the Convention—and there were many—imprisoning that child was the worst. But Laurent would never agree to free Louis Charles and leave his sister. He would free her or die trying. A surge of restlessness rose within him. It was a feeling he’d had ever since he’d walked out of La Force. He wanted to go to the Temple now. He wanted to take the dauphin and the princess out this minute. He hated that in this new world order he could not simply give orders and do as he wished. He must scheme and plan and wait.

  Laurent made his way to the wrought-iron table and sat in one of the chairs, his damp shirt clinging to his skin and making him shiver in the evening air. He regretted that Mademoiselle Blake was involved in this, especially since she almost certainly had no say in who the Pimpernel would or would not rescue. But Laurent didn’t have time to argue with the League, and she had the skills he needed. If she died...Well, what was one more sin on his conscience?

  And yet his chest tightened at the thought. Apparently, his time in prison had endowed him with a conscience. He pushed the discomfort away and rose, leaving the dark courtyard to the stars.

  Inside, he made his way down to the kitchens and found coal, dried fruit, several artichokes, and containers of preserved vegetables that must have come from his estate in Lyon. He put them all in a basket and carried it back to his bedchamber, stopping on the way to take a brazier from a storage closet.

  “Did you miss me?” he asked when he pushed the door open.

  She glared at him and turned back to the bedpost. She was still cuffed to it, but he did notice she’d drank the wine he left.

  “Good news,” he said. “I found wood and food. It’s not Versailles, but we shall be comfortable enough tonight.”

  “I was comfortable at the safe house.”

  “How you do like to return to that theme.”

  He laid the coal in a brazier, then found a tinderbox and lit a candle. Now, how was he to light the coal? He held the candle to the coal, but the cold lump only extinguished the small flame.

  With effort, Laurent lit the candle again. Perhaps if he laid the candle under the coal?

  “Heaven help me,” she muttered behind him. “Unlock me and I will light it.”

  He looked back at her. “You know how?”

  “Everyone knows how. I might feel sorry for you, the helpless nobleman, if I didn’t want to kill you.”

  “Just remember that I brought you”—he lifted the vegetables and peered at them—“these. Surely, my efforts must be worth something.”

  She rattled the cuff. “Release me before we freeze.”

  “Right.” He set the artichokes back in the basket and looked about the room for the key to the fetters. Wher
e had he laid it? He patted his pockets then returned to search the wardrobe. He’d put it where she couldn’t reach it, hadn’t he? When he couldn’t find the key immediately, he went back to the candle he’d left on the mantel and held the flame aloft.

  “Do not tell me you cannot find the key to these.”

  “It must be here somewhere.” But even he could hear the doubt in his voice.

  He moved shirts and cravats, but no key. “Perhaps if I look in the morning, I will find it. I can’t see anything.”

  The wineglass crashed just to the left of his head, smashing into the wardrobe door. “You might have hit me!”

  “I was trying to hit you.” She yanked her wrist, using her weight to attempt to break the bedpost. Laurent stared at her, momentarily struck dumb. Never had anyone—man or woman—spoken to him like this or dared throw objects at him. He was equally angered and intrigued. Finally, he noticed the way she pulled on the bed.

  “I’ll have you know that bed was crafted in Italy. You are scratching the wood.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll destroy it and use it for kindling.”

  Laurent raised a brow at her show of temper. Strangely enough, he rather liked it. The women at Versailles were masters of masking their feelings and emotions. No smile was genuine, no fit of pique authentic. But this woman was truly enraged, and in that moment, Laurent had the strangest desire to kiss her.

  Not that he would move within arm’s reach. He did want to live another day.

  “If you would calm yourself, mademoiselle, I might have another solution.”

  She ceased attempting to break the bedpost off with her bare hands and turned her dark violet eyes on him. “You might notice the top of the post is tapered.”

  She looked up and then back at him. Laurent rather liked having those extraordinarily beautiful eyes focused on him.

  “I noticed that much before, but even if I could climb on the bed, I would not be tall enough to lift the fetter from the post.”