by Shana Galen
“Who are you?” the chef asked. “Why are you dressed as a man?” Obviously, her effort to distract him had not worked.
Honoria opened her mouth to reply, but she could not think of an answer. She would have lied, but she couldn’t even manage to fabricate one. As she stood, opening and closing her mouth like a caught fish, the cook narrowed his eyes.
This was the end then. It wouldn’t be a fall from a roof or a beating from the National Guard. No trip to the guillotine for her. Instead, she would be betrayed by a cook at a café that couldn’t even prepare coffee without burning it.
“There you are,” a voice said from behind her. She knew before she turned it was the marquis. She should have been out of the kitchen and away by now, but the marquis had obviously realized she’d been detained. “You will have to forgive my sister,” he said with an adoring smile. “She must have become confused. This way, my dear.”
“Not so fast!” The cook stepped in front of him. “Her behavior is suspicious. I am taking her to the Conciergerie and the Guard.”
“Oh, but that is exactly where we are off to,” Montagne said easily, seeming unperturbed by the cook’s threat. Honoria admired his ability to remain calm and unruffled.
“Yes, that is right,” she added, hoping she did not sound as false as she feared.
“And why would you go to the Conciergerie?” the cook asked.
“Because...” Honoria wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Clearly she should leave the lies and deceit to the marquis, who seemed to prevaricate so naturally.
“We have a meeting with the General Assembly,” the marquis said smoothly. “My sister is arguing for the rights of women. That is why she is dressed as a man.”
“Exactly. Do you not agree women should have the same rights as men in this new France, citizen?” Honoria demanded of the cook.
The cook looked less than enthusiastic about that prospect. “I will accompany you to the Conciergerie,” the cook said slowly. “I want to hear this plea for women’s rights.” His lip curled in disgust as he said it. “And I would see Robespierre. He is a valued patron of the café. He may eat and drink as much as he likes, and I never charge him so much as an assignat.”
“That’s because he’s so cheap he won’t pay,” Montagne muttered, but not quietly enough.
“What was that?” The cook stepped forward.
Honoria had to do something before the cook attacked. “Citoyen! The coffee!” she cried, pointing toward the stove. All three men looked, and she grabbed a pan from the table and swung it at the cook. It struck his head, hard, but not hard enough to fell him. He stumbled and came up swinging. Honoria jumped back, and Montagne, blinking away his shocked expression, intercepted the burly cook and the two of them went sprawling on the floor.
She hesitated, uncertain as to whether she should run for the exit or come to Montagne’s aid. Laurent looked up at her, the cook’s hands around his neck. “Run!” he croaked.
Honoria ran, but the cook’s assistant grabbed her arm and yanked her back. “Traitor! Stay right here.”
He was little more than a boy, but he was strong. Fortunately, she’d learned a thing or two about dealing with men. She tugged at her arm, and while he attempted to hold her tightly, she kicked him between the legs.
He sank wordlessly to the ground. She should have run then, but she couldn’t leave the marquis. She grabbed a large wooden spoon from the table and swung it at the cook, who had managed to roll Montagne over and pin him to the floor. The cook looked back at her, and the distraction was enough to give the marquis the advantage. He freed a hand and landed a blow hard to the man’s right temple.
The cook fell in a heap.
Montagne pushed the man off and staggered to his feet. “I’m beginning to think you court trouble,” he said, bending over and trying to catch his breath.
“I might say the same about you.”
“Come on.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her out the door. The cool fall air was a welcome respite from the hot kitchens, but the marquis gave her no time to enjoy it. He tugged her through the courtyard and into the yard of the wine merchant. The owners of the shop had wisely locked their doors, and Montagne had to remove his coat, wad it over his hand, and break the glass of a window. He reached inside, unlatched the door, and opened it silently. This time he went first, Honoria following him into the darkness.
Voices came from the front of the shop, followed by the tinkling of glasses. A few men were drinking this early, but for the most part, the wine shop was empty. This back section seemed to serve as a storage area, where the owners had stacked wine casks and bottles. A column divided the area from the rest of the shop, and beyond the column Honoria spotted a man leaning on the bar, wearing a Phrygian cap.
Montagne took her hand, and she looked at him. He pointed to a door to her right and then pointed down.
She nodded. It must have been the cellar, and it would make a good hiding place, especially considering they now had to avoid not only the Guard but the café cook and personal friend of Robespierre.
Quietly, Honoria tried the latch for the cellar. The door creaked open, and Montagne craned his neck to see if the patrons had heard. A moment later he gave her a nod to continue. Inch by inch, she opened the door wide enough so that she might slip in. The steps were dark, and they had no lamp, so she released his hand and placed her palms on the walls beside the steps to guide her.
The marquis entered after her and silently closed the door, cutting off the rest of the light. In darkness, they descended into the cool, dry cellar.
“Step carefully,” Montagne cautioned her. “If you knock over a bottle, the owner may come to investigate.”
Honoria moved slowly around the large casks of wine and shelves of more expensive vintages. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she could make out gray shapes. A moment later, the marquis moved away from her, and suddenly weak light appeared from a small window high at the top of the cellar as the marquis moved the heavy cloth away from the glass.
His cheek looked red and his clothes were rumpled. He still carried his coat and she could see that his linen shirt was bloodstained. “Back there.” He pointed behind the casks. “No one will see us if they come down the stairs.”
She made her way back, moving quietly, then sank down with her back to a cask and leaned her head against the wood. She was hungry and thirsty and felt as though she hadn’t slept for a week, when the reality was that they’d only left the marquis’s rooms two or three hours before. Montagne sank down next to her.
“I hate to have to wait, but we have no choice. We will try for the safe house after dark,” he said. “It’s too dangerous to move now, in the daylight.”
“What’s the point? How will we ever make it in and out of the Temple if we cannot even manage to cross Paris?”
He sat forward and peered at her long and hard. She could not see the color of his eyes in the dim light, but she knew they were that beautiful shade of green, hardened to emerald with gravity.
“We will make it because we must. I’d rather die trying than do nothing.”
Honoria didn’t answer. She would rather live.
“If you’ve changed your mind about helping me...” he began.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not smart enough, not brave enough. You told me to keep walking if someone questioned me in the café. But as soon as someone spoke to me I stopped. And then I couldn’t think of a single excuse. I’m useless.”
His intense gaze never left her as his hand came up to cup her cheek. “You are smarter and braver than you realize. Most men would not have slid down that drainpipe. You did. Most men would have run and left me to fend off the cook. You hit him with the spoon. I’d be lucky to have you by my side in the Temple.”
She stared at him in utter disbelief for a long, long time. When he didn’t smile, didn’t laugh, didn’t take any of it back, a warmth flowed through her from her heart to
her toes. She’d received a thousand compliments, probably more, but no praise of her lips or her eyes or her hair had ever meant even one hundredth of what Laurent’s words did now.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She leaned forward without really thinking, meaning to kiss him on the cheek. He was so close, and she so flush with happiness, it seemed the right thing to do. But somehow, instead of kissing his cheek, her lips landed on his mouth. She didn’t know if she had moved or he moved or if they were drawn together like magnets. She only knew that as soon as her lips touched his, she was lost.
In that kiss, something passed from him to her. It was hot and sweet and the barest taste of that pleasure was not nearly enough. She wanted more. She brushed her lips over his, and when his hand tightened on her cheek and threaded into her hair, she kissed him harder.
He angled his mouth, parted his lips, and she felt as though she were falling. She grasped his shirt to keep steady, pressed her hand against his chest, and felt his heart hammering as hard and fast as hers.
She’d kissed men before, had them thrust their tongues, unwanted, into her mouth. But Montagne merely followed her lead. He’d deepened the kiss, but took it no further, barely moving his lips under hers, kissing her back as she kissed him. His other hand came up and cupped her cheek, his thumb caressing the skin with a reverence she had never known. Meanwhile the hand in her hair clenched and unclenched, stroking the hair and winding it so he held her prisoner. And then his hand would unclench, and she would be free again.
Except she did not want to be free. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted her mouth on his forever. She needed it.
Her hand slid up his shirt, touched the cravat that hung loosely around his neck, and skated over his shoulders.
He hissed in a breath and pulled back.
She’d hurt him. “I’m sorry!”
“Not as sorry as I am for the disruption. Please.” He reached for her again, but the moment was broken. Physically she felt pulled toward him, but she had to resist. If they continued this way, the inevitable result would be a quick tumble on the dirty cellar floor. That was not at all what she wanted. She had to remember that one compliment did not make the man any less of a rake or a liar. Every man could tell sweet falsehoods.
“Is it your shoulder?” she asked, pulling back and out of his reach. “You landed quite hard when you jumped from the carriage.”
“They’re both sore, but I’ll live. I could use help putting my coat back on. It’s cold down here.”
“Of course. But first you must allow me to inspect your injury. I saw blood on your shirt.”
He looked down, as though surprised. “I can’t see anything in here. Too dark. I am perfectly well.”
But despite his protests, it was not so dark that she couldn’t see a crimson stain of blood on a white shirt. “Still, I will see for myself.”
With a sigh, he unwound the cravat and unfastened the buttons of his shirt. But when he tried to pull it over his head, he grunted with pain. Honoria rose on her knees and assisted him. As she’d suspected, he had been cut. The back of the shirt was torn and stuck to his flesh with dried blood.
“I imagine it is beginning to bruise already,” she said when she moved to look at his face. “Let me see the back.”
He turned, and she examined a cut on his upper back. “It’s just a scrape. We should clean it when we reach the safe house.”
“Fine. Are you quite finished? It’s as cold as Russia in here.”
She helped him don the shirt again and then the coat, which was also torn from the fall. He sat with his back against a cask, arms crossed and hands tucked under for warmth. Honoria did the same, but she was soon shivering with cold. Now that they had stopped running and were sitting on the damp floor of the cellar, she felt the chill.
“You should take my coat,” Montagne said.
“I couldn’t. Besides, you just put it on again.”
“I must give it to you. Chivalry has been pounded into me since birth.”
Awkwardly, he stripped it off and wrapped it around her shoulders. The warmth from his body seeped into her as did the scent of oranges and sandalwood she had come to associate with him.
“Certainly, you do not owe me, a mere commoner, any courtesies.” She’d meant it as a way to lighten the mood, but he did not smile.
“I owe it to you because you are a friend, commoner or not.”
Honoria could make no reply to that. A man had never called her friend before. Did he say it to gain her cooperation or did he mean it? They sat in silence, listening to the light footfalls above.
“Then it does not matter to you that I am a commoner.”
“Would it surprise you if I said no?”
“Yes.”
He chuckled. “At one time you would have been correct. It would have mattered to me a great deal whether you’d been born noble or common. I can trace my lineage back to Charlemagne. Pride for my ancestors was pounded into me as well. And I am sure it will not surprise you to learn that I was very proud.”
“I might have seen some of that pride in your behavior when you first came to the Rue du Jour.”
“It is a hard thing to be rid of and I am not wholly sure I should rid myself of it completely, even if we are living in this new country where everyone is equal.”
“It is a sentiment many nobles hold dear.”
He gave her a small smile. “We have our reasons. But it might surprise you that Madame Royale is the person responsible for any little humility I possess.”
“A girl? But you said yourself she can be haughty and self-important.”
He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. He seemed to be seeing a different time and place—perhaps the gardens of Versailles or pleasant days at Marie Antoinette’s private retreat, the Petit Trianon. “She can be. From birth she has been catered to and spoiled by servants and courtiers, but her parents also taught her to be kind and to think of others. She always gave some of her money to charity, and she was happy to do it. This was, of course, the queen’s example and Madame Élisabeth’s as well.”
“Marie Antoinette gave money to the poor?”
“The king did as well. In fact, even as the king cut his own budget when the revolution began, he refused to stop giving to the poor and the needy. The revolutionary government doesn’t talk much about that, do they?”
“No.”
“Nor do they discuss how the church always funded the hospitals and a hundred other charities. Who is caring for the sick now?”
“We were just chased by the National Guard. You do not have to convince me of the evils of this new regime.”
“Perhaps I am trying to convince myself that the ancien régime was not so evil.” He continued to stare at the ceiling. “There’s something about watching a child give freely and happily that puts we stingy adults to shame. Marie-Thérèse would play with royal and common children alike. One of her most constant playmates was the daughter of a chambermaid, Ernestine de Lambriquet. The princess always took part of any money she was given and gave it to the poor. When her mother said the children could not have gifts because there were children who went without bread, the princess did not cry or argue. She begged her mother to send the toys she might have had to the little children who did not have bread.”
This was a very different picture of the little princess than the papers portrayed. The press described Marie-Thérèse as a miniature of her mother, the hated L’Autrichienne, or Austrian bitch.
“Madame Royale reminded me of my sister Amélie.”
Honoria leaned forward. She had been curious about Amélie since he’d first mentioned her. “Who was she?”
“My older sister. She had a pure heart, like the princess. But she died young.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was not by violence. She was playing and cut her foot on a nail. She became ill with lockjaw. She could not breathe, and she died.”
Honoria had heard of such deaths, and she knew t
hey could be horrible. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t save her. The doctors we called couldn’t save her. I was only a child, but I’d never felt so helpless. I haven’t ever allowed myself to be that helpless again.”
It made sense now, why he was so determined to rescue the princess. In a way he was saving the sister he had lost, and with all the turmoil of revolution swirling around them, saving the princess was one way to take control of the chaos.
“Rescuing the royal children is very noble of you.”
“It might have been noble—had I not first abandoned them and fled to Savoy with the Comte d’Artois.”
“But you came back.” He was too hard on himself, or did she only want to think he was a better man than he was because she’d enjoyed kissing him and because she wanted to kiss him again?
“Yes, and I was imprisoned almost as soon as I was recognized.”
“What were the charges?”
“Treason.” He shrugged. “I can’t deny it. Charles Phillipe and I were planning an assault on France and amassing an army. It certainly was treason against the new government, whoever it was at that time. But the other charges stemmed from the fact I am of the royal blood. That I have issue with.”
“Because you cannot help who your parents were?”
He turned to her and leaned close. “Because I am proud of that blood. Proud of my sovereigns. They were good rulers. They loved the people. Do you know what Louis XVI prayed before he died? He prayed for the forgiveness of the French people. I would not have been half so magnanimous.”
“Nor I.”
“If they wanted to imprison me because I wasted thousands of livres on fêtes or because I had forty pairs of jeweled buckles for my shoes—”
“Forty!”
He waved a hand. “Because I wasted money on women and wine and too many debauched nights to count”—Honoria scooted away from him slightly—“those charges I would have accepted. Those charges I do accept. I do not deserve to live.” His voice was raw with anguish, and she felt her heart twist.