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

by Shana Galen

  “Of course, that is what you would say.” The wind blew hard against her back, and she clutched her knees tighter. “Rakes always use sweet words to accomplish their aims.”

  He didn’t speak for a long moment and then he sat, aligning his body with hers. “It was a rake, wasn’t it?”

  She glanced at him, then back down. “I don’t understand.”

  “A rake seduced you and broke your heart.”

  He was not far from the truth. “My heart is not broken, and there was no rake.”

  “Someone has made you guard your heart.”

  She looked up at him, forgetting to be afraid of their height. “I am not so easily seduced. In that way I keep guard.”

  “I would never imply you were easy to seduce. I only meant that you are careful to hide your beauty. Do you wear drab dresses and pull your hair back severely in England or is that part of your disguise in Paris?”

  “I want to be taken seriously,” she said. “My work is important, and I find that men do not hear what I say when all they see is a pretty face.”

  “Your work? What is your work?”

  Honoria did not know if she should confide in him, trust in him. As it was, she did not have the chance. The window below them swung open and a guard looked out. The marquis put a finger to his lips, and neither he nor Honoria moved. All that was visible of the guard was the edge of his hat.

  Then his head disappeared. “I don’t see them. Send a man out there to make sure they aren’t hiding on the roof.”

  “Oh, my God.” It was part prayer and part desperate plea.

  “This way.” The marquis pulled her up, and Honoria’s head spun. She clutched his arm tightly, afraid she would fall. A ridiculous fear considering she was about to jump.

  He held on to her arms. “Look at me, Honoria.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. Everything is moving.”

  His hands on her upper arms tightened. “Take a deep breath and look at me.”

  She took the breath, but couldn’t force her gaze from his chest.

  “Another, my sweet.”

  She did as he commanded. “I am not your sweet.”

  He laughed. “Good. You are feeling better. Now look at me.”

  She lifted her gaze to his steady green eyes. “I will not allow you to fall.”

  “How can you pre—”

  He put a finger over her lips, silencing her. “I simply will not allow it.” His hands slid down her arms and closed on hers. His skin felt warm and his hands covered her small cold ones. Gently, he tugged her forward, walking backward toward the stovepipe he had pointed out earlier. The man truly had no fear.

  When they reached the pipe, he pointed over the edge of the roof. Honoria’s stomach lurched when she looked down, but she took another deep breath.

  “Do you see the ledge?”

  It was a wide ledge, almost a balcony, except it had no railing. “Yes. There is some sort of wire on it.”

  “Yes, a coil of wire. Avoid it. Climb down and scoot around it. You should be able to reach the drain pipe.”

  “Climb...” Her teeth began to chatter, and her whole body shook.

  Montagne took her by the shoulders and turned her so her back was to the drop. “Down on your knees,” he ordered. “Hurry, now my sweet.”

  She got to her knees before him.

  “Climb down backward, like a child learning to navigate the stairs. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Shaking and all but panting, she scooted back until her feet touched air. Then she lowered to her belly and pushed off the side, holding on until she felt the wall of the building with her feet. Her hands, slippery with sweat tinged with blood, slid down until she held on to the edge of the roof. A quick look down showed her the ledge was just an inch or so beneath her feet. It also showed her the street below was much further.

  Finger by finger, Honoria released the roof and slid onto the ledge. She pressed herself against it, hugging the building as tightly as she could. A moment later, Montagne dropped beside her. She sobbed his name, and he put a finger to his lips. Dipping close to her, he whispered in her ear, “They’re climbing out the window. We have to be quiet.”

  His hand rested on her back, and she needed the security of his touch.

  Then his breath was on her ear again. “The drainpipe is just past the wire, on the side of the building. Take hold of it and scoot down. You’ll reach the side yard of the house. No one should see you there.”

  “You go first,” she told him, unwilling to release the wall.

  He paused and she thought he would object, but then he let out a breath. “I’m heavier than you, so it probably is best if I go first. Promise me you will follow directly.”

  She nodded.

  “Honoria. Promise me.”

  “Fine. I promise.”

  He lifted her chin with a finger. “If you don’t come down, you force me to come up after you. I won’t leave you here.”

  She stared into his eyes. “Why not?”

  He locked his gaze on hers, and for a moment her stomach flip-flopped, not due to the height, but because of the way he looked at her. “Because I need you to forge those documents.”

  She almost laughed. She was still a little fool. Had she actually believed he might say that he cared about her?

  “Watch me and do what I do.” He moved around her, maneuvering skillfully around the large bale of wire. Then, pressing his body against the wall of the building, he put one hand, then one foot on the side, presumably hooked around the drainpipe. He made an adjustment and then released the wall. Honoria scooted over and looked down. The marquis looked up at her from the drainpipe, his mouth curved in a grin.

  The man actually seemed to be enjoying himself.

  She wanted to wait until he had reached the bottom as she was uncertain how much weight the pipe could support, but she heard the guards moving around above her and was afraid if she waited too long, she would be discovered.

  Just as Montagne had, she hugged the wall. It took enormous effort to release it with one hand, and she fumbled until she locked it on the drainpipe. Her wobbling leg was next, rattling against the pipe. Now the last step. She must release the wall with her other hand and grasp the pipe. She tried to let go, but her hand refused to move. Beneath the hand and foot clutching the pipe, the slim tube vibrated with Montagne’s movements.

  Honoria closed her eyes again. She could not do this. She should just climb on the ledge and hope the Guard did not see her.

  Her eyes snapped open. And then she’d be responsible for the marquis’s death as well because he was just daft enough to come after her.

  “Bloody hell,” she whispered and let go of the wall.

  FOR A MOMENT SHE DANGLED. As he watched, the wind seemed to blow her this way and that before she finally grasped the pipe with the other hand. He hadn’t thought she would do it. He’d thought the Guard would capture her for certain. But she was braver than he’d given her credit for. Hell, he was braver than he’d given himself credit for. But it was easy to brave death when your only other option was...death.

  He glanced down. A few more feet and he’d be on the ground. The side yard was surrounded by a tall brick wall that extended around the rear of the property and intersected with the house in the back. They could scale the wall and sneak away while the guards continued to search for them inside.

  He slid down a little farther and then lurched. The motion was so violent, he looked up to see if Honoria had jumped back off, but she was staring down at him, eyes all but purple in her too-white face.

  And then he saw the cause of her concern. The pipe had come loose from its mooring. Small brackets secured by nails held the pipe to the wall of the house, but the brackets weren’t built to sustain the weight of two people. Above her, the pipe was slowly bending down.

  She shimmied down quickly now, but it wasn’t fast enough. Another bracket broke, and the pipe bent farther away from the wall of the building. Lau
rent wasn’t as close to the ground as he would have liked, but he had to remove some weight from the pipe. He jumped, landing on his good shoulder with a grunt. Now both hurt like hell.

  “Honoria!” he called softly. “Hurry. I’ll catch you.”

  She didn’t have to climb the whole way. She just had to climb low enough for him to catch her, although with two injured shoulders he wasn’t sure he would be able to hold her if she dropped from any height.

  She tried to lower herself faster, but she was no experienced climber. Her movements were clumsy and slow, and the longer she took, the more the pipe bent toward the ground. If it snapped, she’d fall three floors and at best break a bone on impact.

  “Hurry!” he called quietly. The pipe creaked loudly and pulled away from the wall altogether, the brackets popping like lit gunpowder. Suddenly her feet came loose and she held onto the pipe with only her hands. She dangled high above him, far too high for him to reach.

  “Merde!” Laurent raced to the wall and climbed the pipe, putting his weight on it.

  Above him, Honoria hissed, “What are you doing?”

  But a moment later another bracket came loose and the pipe dipped. Laurent held his breath. The closer to the ground the pipe bent, the lower Honoria would be to the ground. Unless the pipe simply snapped, and then the fall would probably kill her. Laurent grabbed the pipe and pulled again, facilitating the bending. The amount of pressure was hard to judge, but he heard another creak from the metal and stepped back.

  Honoria still swung above him, but the pipe had lowered her closer to the ground. “A little more,” he murmured, glancing up at the roof to make certain they hadn’t been seen. In one of the windows, a white cat sat on the sill and watched them placidly, but none of the Guard had yet spotted them.

  Slowly, the pipe bent again, and Laurent tried to move under Honoria. For a brief moment he thought it might lower her gently into his arms, and then it snapped, and he stumbled to catch her.

  The impact of her body hitting his was more than he had expected, and they both tumbled to the ground. The pipe came down, threatening to land on top of them, but Laurent grabbed her and rolled away. With a loud crash, the pipe landed mere inches from them. Laurent looked up and into the startled face of Honoria.

  Her color was high and her breathing fast. “You said you would not allow me to fall.”

  He couldn’t stop a grin. “If I may, an amendment—I will always catch you should you fall.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t trust you.”

  Before she could say more, he pulled her to her feet. It was a mistake as the motion reminded him of the pain in his shoulder. He hissed in a breath.

  “Are you injured?” she asked.

  “A trifle. We need to climb over the wall and find somewhere to hide. We can’t go farther until your disguise is repaired.”

  She pushed her hair off her shoulders.

  “And how will we climb over that wall? You are hurt, and I’m a Roman antiquities expert, not a mountain climber.”

  “Really? Roman antiquities?” He cocked his head in interest. She was proving to be more of an onion than he’d thought. Every new layer was more fascinating than the last. “What period?”

  “Might we discuss this later?”

  “Of course.” She was correct. They did not have time to stand about chatting. If one of the Guard should look out a window or down from the roof, they would be spotted. “Do you see that tree? I’ll boost you up and you crawl out over the branch until you can jump onto the top of the wall. Then you’ll go over.”

  “And you?” she asked.

  “Fortunately, I am an expert tree climber.”

  The task proved more difficult with two injured shoulders, but though he didn’t climb gracefully, he made it over. They landed on a busy street and ducked their heads, avoiding the curious eyes of passersby. Laurent had to remove Honoria from public view. She was too conspicuous in her male clothing and her all too feminine face and hair. Ahead he spotted a café and beside it a wine shop. He took Honoria’s elbow and leaned close. “We go into the coffee shop and walk out the back. Then we enter the wine shop and look for a place to hide.”

  He hoped the simple trick would fool anyone following them. The only flaw in the plan was that the wine shop was unlikely to be crowded this early in the day, which meant they would be unable to conceal themselves in a crowd.

  As they neared the café, the strong scent of coffee made him breathe deeply. He would have paid dearly for a coffee with mocha, and if he ordered that, he might as well yell at the top of his voice that he was a noble escaped from La Force. They entered the café, where several men shouted at each other across the room. It seemed a political debate was in progress. If it kept the patrons’ attention away from him, then he was in favor of whatever ridiculous measure the men argued.

  He took a table at the back of the café, near the door to the kitchen. The table was round and wooden, but clean and stable. He leaned his elbows on it and peered about the establishment. The windows at the front were large, but the awning hanging above them blocked out most of the midmorning light, leaving the café dark and shadowy. A lamp or two burned, but for the most part the interior was unlit. The owners either could not afford or could not obtain oil to keep the room lit. A fire did burn in a hearth near where the two revolutionaries argued, and the back of the café was warm as well, being that it was near to the kitchens.

  On one wall hung pictures of Robespierre, St. Just, and several other leaders he did not recognize. It was difficult to keep them straight as they changed from day to day, the new leader generally lopping off the head of the man he deposed.

  He supposed at one point the king’s picture had hung in that place of honor. Now a shopkeeper was forced to change his loyalties from day to day.

  “We go out that way,” he said, keeping his voice low and pointing to the kitchen door. “You go first, and I will follow.”

  She nodded. “What if someone questions me?”

  “Just keep walking.”

  The expression on her face was dubious, but she didn’t argue. “Should I go now?”

  “In a moment. We should sit here and appear to be engrossed in conversation. I would order coffee, but our absence would be noticed when the server returned with the beverage.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t care for coffee anyway. It smells quite lovely and tastes absolutely awful.”

  He gave her a withering look. “You English and your tea.”

  Now she puffed up indignantly. The sight of her in men’s clothing acting the petulant female would have been comical if they didn’t have a dozen National Guardsmen to worry about. “Tea is a very calming beverage,” she said. “There is nothing like a warm cup of tea at the end of a particularly trying day.”

  “Yes, I can imagine those Roman antiquities try your patience.”

  She sniffed. “At times they do, but there are times one prefers to be soothed rather than to swallow some bitter brew.”

  “Perhaps your government has been too soothed of late,” he said. “Your Parliament seems content to watch from afar while blood runs in the streets of Paris. George III might have helped his cousin. I know the Princess de Lamballe traveled to England and begged for help. Now the king lies in an unmarked grave and his wife will be next on the scaffold.”

  “The King of England has his own battles to fight,” she said, but her voice lacked the fervor of conviction. Perhaps she was in Paris for more than a diversion. Perhaps she really did hope to help those in need. She had agreed to assist in his rescue of the princess and the dauphin. Her willingness to help him, despite the poor odds of success, meant she was undoubtedly braver than any of the idiot lords sitting in Whitehall at the moment.

  Behind them the political discussion rose to a fevered pitch, and one of the men climbed on a table, shouting to be heard. “Now is your chance,” he said and nodded at the kitchen door.

  Her face a mask of granite, she rose fro
m the small round table and walked toward the kitchen door. It was slightly ajar, and before pushing it open, she looked back at him.

  He read the concern in her lovely eyes, the need for reassurance, and something else.

  Trust.

  He’d seen that same look in Marie-Thérèse’s face too many times, and especially on the day he’d promised he would always come for her. He would save her.

  He’d saved himself, leaving with the Comte d’Artois, and assisting his friend in creating an army funded by émigrés. He might have stayed and been safe, but he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t exist without seeing that look on Madame Royale’s face. It reminded him too much of Amélie’s scared expression when she knew she would die. He’d returned to France, at his own peril, to save the princess.

  And now, looking at Honoria Blake’s expression, Laurent knew he would do anything to keep her safe too.

  Ten

  Honoria stepped into the warm kitchen, the smell of burnt coffee blistering her nose. The café offered food as well—an assortment of breads and cheeses lay on a center table, waiting for the cook to finish their preparation. But food prices were high, and few had money to spend on luxuries like pastries. Coffee was still plentiful, and she could smell it brewing in the large pots near the stove.

  The chef was berating a young boy—possibly the one who had burnt the coffee—and Honoria kept her head down and hoped that the staff was distracted enough not to notice her. She had almost reached the kitchen door, one that opened into a small courtyard, when the cook cried, “Who are you?”

  Honoria froze, which was exactly the opposite of what Montagne had told her to do. She was supposed to keep walking. She tried to start for the door again, but now the chef’s assistant caught her arm. One look at her face, though, and he immediately released her.

  “It’s a lady!” he said in shock.

  “I’m very sorry,” Honoria replied, in what she hoped was perfect French. Her heart thudded against her ribs and she could hardly think much less speak. “I was looking for the retiring room.” Surely a café must have a retiring room. “Can you tell me where it is?”