by Shana Galen
“Because you were a libertine?”
“Because I cared only for my own pleasure, when I had a responsibility to those less fortunate. If the republic wants to kill me for those sins, I go willingly. But to kill me because I am related to the Bourbon family, which has always had the best interests of France and its people at heart, that I will not accept.”
“You have thought about this a great deal.”
“One has time to think in prison, if nothing else. And I realized that not only could I not accept my death under those charges, I could not accept the death of innocent children. The queen is beyond my help now, but I can still save the children. Once they are safe, I will walk to the scaffold a happy man.”
“I don’t agree with a government—any government—imprisoning children.”
He watched her, seeming to wait for her to continue. “And killing citizens for their royal blood?”
Honoria looked down at her trousers, surprised for a moment that she did not wear a skirt. “As a commoner, I understand the anger the peasants have toward the nobles. There is some of that same anger in England, and it is part of what led to the revolution in America. But slaughter of the innocent along with the guilty cannot be right. The Tribunal holds sham trials and then condemns people on the basis of nothing but rumor. And so I am here working to save those I can, at least until the Pimpernel sends me back.”
Montagne seemed to search her face. “And what if I ask you to stay?”
Honoria’s throat tightened, and she took a deep breath. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I need you.” He reached out and pushed a lock of her hair off her cheek. Honoria felt the same dizziness she had on the roof of the building they’d fled. She warned herself not to be taken in by his good looks and charm.
“You need me to forge passes out of the country for you,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Yes.” But his voice hinted that there was more behind his words. “If we reach the safe house, and the Pimpernel asks you to go, what will you do?”
Honoria looked away. “I don’t know. Try to convince him to aid you in your cause?” She glanced at the marquis again.
“And if he will not?”
Honoria looked down and didn’t answer.
Eleven
Laurent had known she would choose the Pimpernel. She didn’t owe him, the Marquis de Montagne, any loyalty, but the fact that she’d not said so outright gave him some hope that she wouldn’t flee back to England as soon as they reached the safe house.
The events of the day had proved two things to him. One, he needed help if he hoped to get into the Temple prison. The National Guard was out in larger numbers than before, and clearly the citizens of France were eager to prove their loyalty by turning in anyone suspicious. Two, he needed Honoria’s skills to escape France. He knew he could get into the Temple, despite the layers of security and numbers of guards. He knew the structure well, knew all of its hidden passages and tunnels. But considering the new tighter security just inside Paris, the Temple might be the least of his concerns. He needed perfect papers to be able to travel not only through Paris but also in the countryside and across the border.
Beside him, Honoria had moved closer so her shoulder rested against his. He might have wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close to keep her warm if he did not think such a gesture would make her scoot to the other side of the cellar.
And yet, she’d kissed him. He’d been taken almost completely off guard when she’d leaned close and pressed her lips to his. He didn’t know what he’d done or said to deserve such a gesture, but he would have done it again in an instant if she would only kiss him again.
Laurent hadn’t thought about how long it had been since a woman had kissed him or even touched him. Just the feel of Honoria’s body next to his half aroused him. But it was more than just any woman’s body or any woman’s kiss. He’d felt something different when she’d kissed him. Perhaps it was because of the danger they’d just escaped. Perhaps it was exhaustion or pain. Or perhaps he was just half in love with the bravest woman he’d ever met. Whatever it was, he’d never shared a kiss so innocent and yet so erotic.
“When can we leave?” she asked, her voice low.
Clearly her thoughts did not run along the same path as his, although he could appreciate her restlessness. He too wanted to be taking action, not sitting here waiting.
“At dark.”
“But the curfew—”
“Not that late. We wait until the wine shop is flush with patrons and then escape. If we wait too late, the owners might need another cask from the cellar. We don’t want to be discovered.”
She was silent, and he closed his eyes. Lately, whenever he rested, his mind traveled the corridors and rooms of the Temple. He wanted to remember every inch of it as though he’d been there just yesterday, not several years before.
“I wish I could sleep. Every sound I hear makes my heart jump.”
“The Guard has given up by now,” he assured her, though he had no proof of that. “Next time we know better than to try and cross the city in daylight.”
“Do you think you were recognized?”
“The driver probably suspected us since we left very near my rooms on the Boulevard du Temple. If I were smarter, I would have summoned a carriage farther away.”
Her hand came around his arm and squeezed reassuringly. “It’s a mistake. We all make mistakes.”
“I make more than most.”
Her hand on his arm tightened, then released. “Why did you tell me all of that earlier, about your past and all of your...sins?”
“Perhaps I wanted you to know what you risk your life for.”
“Perhaps you want me to think you have changed.”
He leaned forward and looked into her face, which was a mistake, of course, because even in the dim light he was dazzled by her beauty. “Men do change.”
She made a sound of disbelief.
“Now it is my turn to ask a question.” When she didn’t respond, he forged ahead. “Why did you kiss me?”
As he’d predicted, as soon as he spoke the words, she moved away from him. The space where she’d pressed against him felt incredibly cold and empty.
“I meant it as a friendly kiss.”
“It was certainly friendly.” It was too dark to be certain, but he thought her cheeks colored.
“I was merely relieved that we had escaped. I meant to kiss you on the cheek, but I missed.”
He gave her a long look, but she did not meet his gaze.
“And since you missed you decided to kiss me passionately?”
“I didn’t kiss you passionately!” Now she jumped up and moved away from him. He had definitely struck close to the mark. “I kissed your lips, and that was all. It was a friendly peck.”
“A peck? I have kissed friends with a peck. I didn’t open my mouth or grasp their clothing and pull them closer.”
“Are you trying to embarrass me?” she asked, facing him with her hands fisted at her sides.
“No. I merely want you to acknowledge what I have.”
She stepped back slightly, wary. “And what is that?”
“That we are more than merely allies in this mission to save the prince and princess.”
“You said you considered me a friend.”
“I do. I’d like to consider you more.”
“That won’t happen.” Her hands flew to her hips and her chin lifted.
He didn’t move, merely raised a brow. “Why not? You kissed me. Passionately.”
“Stop saying that. It didn’t mean anything.”
“It felt as though it meant something.”
“Like what? I’m not in love with you!”
“Shh.” He put a hand to his lips, and she glanced up at the ceiling.
“Well, I’m not,” she said more quietly.
“Perhaps a bit in lust?”
She gave him a narrow stare. As she was facing the light fro
m the window, he could see how her eyes cooled. “You really do have a high opinion of yourself.”
“You mean to say you don’t find me the least attractive?”
“That has nothing to do with anything.”
“Then answer the question.”
“No.”
“Why not? Afraid the answer will be yes?” Now he rose, slowly, like a large cat might move when stalking prey.
“What I find you is most impertinent.”
“I can be impertinent. I won’t argue.” He stepped toward her. “But I’m attractively impertinent.” He moved closer, and she was forced to press her back against a cask of wine. “Tell me the truth, Honoria. You kissed me because you wanted to know what it would be like.”
“No. I kissed you because I was happy at that moment.”
He inclined his head. “You continued to kiss me because you liked it. Because you lusted after me.”
“I do not lust.”
He put one hand beside her shoulder on the cask and leaned his forehead so it almost touched hers. The sweet smell of her, the feel of her hair brushing his cheek, the pout of those full lips made him slightly dizzy with lust. “You liked the kiss.”
“It was acceptable.”
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
“No!” She sounded terrified by the idea.
“Then don’t challenge me. Admit you liked it.”
She sighed and blew out a breath. “Fine. I liked it. It was...nice.”
“Nice.” He flinched. “You wound me.”
“It was nice,” she said matter-of-factly.
“It was, but it was more than that. It was...like the striking of a match.”
Her chin rose and she stared at him. “Those are very pretty words.”
“They are what I felt.”
“And how many other women have you said them to?”
He frowned. Now he was the one taken off guard. “None,” he said honestly.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I understand why, and so I will make you a promise.”
“Another?”
“Yes. In addition to always catching you if you fall, I will never lie to you.”
“Anyone can say that.”
“Yes, but when I give my word, as I do now, I mean it. And since we are being so truthful, sweet Honoria, I have one other confession to make.”
Her eyes narrowed again, as well they should. “What is it?”
“I want to kiss you again.”
“No,” she said immediately.
“I will refrain only if you promise to tell me the truth.”
She stared at him, taking a moment to consider his words. “Fine. I will be truthful with you as well.”
“Good. Then answer me this. Do you want me to kiss you?”
“I do not have to answer that.” She turned her head away.
“No, you do not. One more question.”
“Enough!”
“Last question.” He used a finger to bring her face back to his. “Will you stop me if I kiss you?”
“I do not have to answer that either.”
“Then we shall just have to see what happens.”
With one finger resting lightly on her chin he bent and brushed his lips gently over hers. Her lips were impossibly soft, and he longed to take them and possess them. That was the surest way to end the kiss quickly, and though he had admirable patience and determination, he had never had to tread carefully so as not to scare a woman away. Women might make catching them a challenge for him, but they always wanted to be caught.
Until now.
Honoria Blake did not want to be caught or kissed. He believed her when she’d said she had not meant to kiss him. It would have been better—for him, at least—if she hadn’t. Because he meant what he’d said about striking the match. He’d been simmering with desire for her since he’d first seen her. Now he was boiling over with craving.
And if there was one thing Laurent knew about himself it was that he was a man who got what he wanted.
He wanted Honoria.
Keeping his kiss gentle and light so as not to scare her away, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his warmth. He could feel her waist beneath the coat and shirt, a strange sensation when he was so used to only feeling the corset material under women’s dresses. Strange too that when he pulled her close he did not feel the swell of her breasts against his chest. He remembered she had bound them, and then wished he had not recalled that because it brought to mind her heart-shaped derrière in the trousers she had donned.
How was he to keep his hands from roaming over that plump, round flesh?
Instead of moving his hands from her waist, he moved his mouth, brushing his lips over her cheek and jaw until he could trail light kisses over the slender column of her neck. The scent of lavender was stronger here and the skin even softer. “Your skin is like a flower petal,” he whispered. “I’ve never felt anything so soft.”
She didn’t seem to have heard, and then she stiffened. “More pretty words,” she said, her tone stony. When she tried to pull away, he held her against him.
“I told you I would not lie. The comparison is apt. But”—he bent to kiss that satiny skin again—“if I am scrupulously honest, I admit I have felt skin this soft before.”
Now she all but reared back. “Are you trying to anger me?” she demanded, her violet eyes flashing. He could hardly contain his laughter—or his lust—at the sight of her so angry. Mon Dieu had he ever seen a woman so glorious in her anger? He liked teasing her, liked seeing her eyes flash with passion.
“How dare you compare me to one of your—your—?”
“To my nephew?”
She started as though someone had jumped out unexpectedly from behind one of the casks.
“When he was a baby, his skin was like yours. His cheek was soft as silk.”
Her body seemed to deflate, like a globe aérostatique when the hot air was cut off.
“Who did you think I meant?” he asked, all innocence.
She strained against his hold. “You should release me.”
“Should I?” he asked, dipping to kiss the skin near her ear. He closed his eyes to drink in the scent here. He wanted to lap her up, she was that succulent. “I don’t think I should.”
“I don’t want this,” she said, her voice hitching slightly as he nibbled on her earlobe.
“Honoria,” he said, his voice so low it rumbled. “I thought we were to be honest with each other.” He pulled her close until her thighs pressed against his. “You do want this.”
“I like it, yes,” she said. “But I don’t like you. I don’t want you.”
And that was a bucket of cold water guaranteed to cool his ardor. He released her a bit too hastily, and she stumbled. It was not his intent, and when he reached out to steady her, she flinched away from him.
“What the devil?” he demanded.
She grabbed on to a cask and righted herself. “I’m sorry, but I thought I made it clear earlier. Yesterday, even. I don’t want you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I won’t make love to you on the hard cellar floor, if that’s what you mean. I am not such a brute that I cannot wait for a bed.”
She gave a half laugh. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“I have never forced a woman.”
“Then is it so difficult to believe I do not desire your attentions?”
He thought a moment. “Yes!”
She burst into laughter, then covered her mouth with her hand. “You cannot be serious. Has no woman ever rejected you before?”
“Certainly not.”
She stared at him with those large, bewitching eyes. “Never?”
He straightened his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious. “I am wealthy, titled, and...” He indicated his face. “Handsome. Why would any woman reject me?”
“Because you’re impossibly arrogant?”
He wagged a f
inger at her. “No, mademoiselle. Arrogance is false pride, oui? It is not false to say I am—well, was—wealthy or a marquis. And I can look in a mirror. I know I am handsome as surely as you know you are beautiful. This is not false pride.”
Clearly his words were all but wasted on her for she looked at him as though he were a silly child who had muddled his lesson. Anger rose in him—not because she had rejected him. He was not so petty, at least he would not admit to such pettiness. He was angry because...because...devil if he knew why he was angry. Leave the logic to men like Rousseau.
“They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” she said.
He rolled his eyes. Trite sayings? That was what she gave him. Dear God, how long until dusk when they could leave this cellar? He wanted nothing to do with her.
“Perhaps I do not find you attractive, despite what the looking glass tells you.”
“Then you English really are dolts. That is the word you use, is it not?”
He blew out a breath and leaned a shoulder against one of the stacks of wine casks, the gesture a clear dismissal.
“I’ve hurt your pride,” she said.
He waved a hand as though swatting a fly away.
“Perhaps you would like your coat back.” She drew it from her shoulders and held it out to him.
He gave her a stony look. “Do you now mean to imply I am not a gentleman?”
Her brows drew together. Why the devil did she have to look pretty even when she did that?
“No.”
He flicked a finger at his coat. “As though I would deprive a lady of my coat when it is cold and damp here.”
She draped the coat back over her shoulders. “How very magnanimous of you.”
“I know.” Even he could hear the petulance in his voice. Pathetic. Better he not speak than behave like a spoiled child, which he had been. Perhaps he still was. He hoped Honoria Blake did not think she would receive his thanks for showing him he could still figuratively stamp his foot when he did not get what he wanted.
He crossed his arms and stared at the wall, prepared to wait in silence until the sky darkened. Honoria sank onto the floor, wrapping her hands around her knees. The only sound in the cellar was the rumble of voices in the shop above.