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

by Shana Galen

  Of course, he had promised Ffoulkes he would refrain from those sorts of lessons, and to think of seducing her now was surely the behavior of a rogue. But thinking was not behaving. One could not fault him for his thoughts...

  He stared idly out the window, watching as the door of the building opened below and Honoria stepped out, carrying her basket, head down. She started toward the Tower. She must pass it on the way to the market.

  Laurent looked ahead to trace her path and then his heart caught in his chest. A mob had formed a few streets away and was converging on the Tower. They had paraded the Princess de Lamballe’s head in front of the queen’s window here at the Tower. Would they do something similar again? What satisfaction could they gain from frightening children and the king’s young sister?

  He rose slowly, his gaze falling once again on Honoria. She would undoubtedly meet with the mob, and then anything could happen. He knew he could not risk going out, but nor could he risk losing Honoria. Without another thought, he grabbed his coat, hat, and his cockade, and rushed after her.

  He caught up to her just as she passed the Tower.

  “Citoyenne!” he called, his voice breathy from his exertions. She did not turn. She had probably learned it was best to ignore men on the street who called to her. But he must reach her. He must stop her before she encountered the mob.

  “Mademoiselle! Honoria!”

  She turned, and her violet eyes widened. “What are you doing—”

  He waved a hand. “No time.” Indeed, he could hear the sounds of the mob fast approaching. “We have to return.” She moved closer to him. “Now.”

  “Why?”

  But it was too late.

  Laurent grabbed her and pushed her against the wall of the building. The mob, now grown to a hundred or more men and women, barreled toward them. The men wore sabots that clattered on the street, the customary pantaloons that had given them the name sansculottes, short-skirted coats called carmagnoles, and the red cap of liberty. The women wore the cap too. Many of them also wore sabots, but a good deal were barefoot and, shockingly, bare-chested.

  Many were armed, running with rifles, clubs, rusty swords, and pikes. But one man drew all of Laurent’s attention. He carried a pike with the head of a young man upon it. The man had obviously been freshly murdered. The face was still quite clean, the lips lax, and the eyes drooping. The man’s hair, brown and pulled into a queue, hung down the back of the pike like a horse’s tail.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Honoria gasped. He’d been blocking her from view, but there was no hiding the face of the decapitated man.

  And just as Laurent spotted the skewered head, the mob spotted him. “Look!” a woman yelled. “There’s another.”

  Laurent had the ridiculous urge to look over his shoulder, as though the mob must be pointing at someone other than he.

  “And he has a woman with him. Look at that face!”

  “And that dress!”

  “An aristo, to be sure.”

  Laurent could hear the death bell toll. Could see his own head, alongside Honoria’s, paraded on pikes.

  “Wait!” Laurent held up a hand, the gesture like holding off an attacking dog with a feather. He pointed to his cockade. “We are patriots, citoyens! We are with you.”

  The mob slowed slightly, taking in the cockade, and also his clothing. It was the garb he had been given from the League and the shabbiest he had ever worn, but it was still far better than what the majority of the mob wore.

  The man carrying the pike with the head, a leader of sorts if a mob like this could possess a leader, held up a hand, stalling the mob. For how long, Laurent could not guess.

  “You are one of us?” He looked and sounded skeptical. His gaze traveled to Honoria. “What about her?”

  “I am a seamstress, citoyen,” she said. “Here, I have my papers.” She fumbled in her pockets, and Laurent wondered if she’d remembered to bring the false documents.

  “What are papers to us?” one of the women cried. She was missing two teeth, and a smear of blood marred one cheek. Laurent had been about to offer his own false papers, but Honoria’s attempt made him realize most of the mob was probably illiterate. What were words and paper to them?

  “I swear to you, citoyenne,” Laurent said, “My wife and I are patriots.”

  The leader stepped forward, and Laurent watched as a drop of blood splattered on the stones near his foot. “Prove it.”

  “Gladly,” Laurent answered. But this new twist did not relieve him.

  “Kiss the aristo!” a woman cried.

  “Yes, kiss the aristo!” others echoed.

  Laurent felt Honoria’s fingers dig into his arm, but he resisted the urge to turn and embrace her. Instead, he stepped away from her and made a huge show of puckering his lips.

  This had the effect he’d hoped. The mob laughed and offered him the head. This might have been him. It might still be him, and he silently asked the man for forgiveness. He smacked the corpse’s cheek loudly with his lips and then cried for the other cheek and did the same. The stench of death clung to the man’s sunken cheeks, but Laurent had smelled worse.

  The mob cheered him, but the woman with the blood on her cheek still frowned. “Let the citoyenne kiss our friend,” she cried. “She looks as though she feels sorry for the aristo.”

  Laurent turned to Honoria. Her face was pale, her hands visibly shaking, where they clawed against the wall at her back. He moved to go to her, but someone in the crowd held him back. Bile rose in his throat as her eyes met his. She wouldn’t be able to do it. He wouldn’t be able to save her this time.

  And then suddenly, she shoved away from the wall, raised her head, and stared the mob’s leader in the eye. “I will kiss your aristo,” she said. He could hear her voice shaking, but he didn’t think those who didn’t know her would notice. “I will kiss him, and send him straight to hell.”

  The mob did not cheer, as Laurent had hoped they would. Instead, they were eerily silent when the leader lowered the head on the pike. Honoria moved to kiss the man’s cheek as Laurent had done, but the woman with the bloody cheek hissed, “On the lips!”

  Honoria seemed to sway, and Laurent clenched his fists. There was nothing he could do. Any action he took to aid her would be seen as counterrevolutionary. In the mob’s eyes, she was either a revolutionary or a royalist. If she could not kiss the head, she was doomed and he with her.

  Honoria’s gaze swept the mob until she stared directly at the woman with the blood-smeared cheek. There was a tense silence as the two women confronted one another, and then Honoria took a dainty step forward, stood on tiptoe, and kissed the head’s lips.

  It was not a quick, perfunctory kiss. It was the kiss of a lover, saying goodbye. It was the kiss of a mother for a sleeping child. It was a mark of respect.

  She stepped back, and no one in the mob moved. Laurent steeled himself for the onslaught. But the hands gripping him slowly released him, and as he stood still, the mob moved around him. They started again for the Temple, still holding the pike with their grisly trophy, but not nearly so proudly now. They wound around Honoria and he watched them go. Only the woman with the blood marring her cheek paused. She met Honoria face-to-face, then reached out and snatched the cockade from her dress.

  “If you’re a revolutionary, I’ll eat this.”

  Honoria said nothing, watching as the woman pinned the cockade to her own breast.

  “Watch out, citoyenne,” she warned. “Next time we meet, you may not be so fortunate.” And she hurried after her friends.

  When the mob had passed, Laurent reached for her. She stepped back. “I must go to the market.” With shaking hands, she smoothed her skirts. And then she walked away from him. He stood, rooted in place, for almost a full minute before going after her.

  “Honoria!” He trotted until he was beside her. “Are you quite alright?”

  She glanced at him quickly, her eyes full of fire—not fear, thank God. Anger. “No, I am
not. I just kissed a dead man.”

  He handed her his handkerchief, and she scrubbed her lips and thrust it back at him.

  “I’m sorry.” He had to walk quickly to keep up with her punishing pace.

  “Why? You didn’t kill him. I only hope their bloodlust has cooled enough that they leave the residents of the Tower in peace.”

  “As do I. You should not go to the market alone. Come back with me and lie down.”

  “I don’t need to lie down. I need to do something, but since I cannot flay all of those savages alive, I will go buy bread and wine.”

  He almost smiled. She was stronger than he’d thought.

  “I’ll accompany you. We can buy twice as much wine if I’m there to carry it.”

  “You have put yourself and us in enough danger today. I will be back as soon as I can.”

  He removed his cockade and handed it to her. She pinned it on, then he watched her go. Before she turned a corner, she looked back at him. “Thank you, sir. I did not say that, did I? I don’t know if I could have”—she made a gesture, a flutter of her fingers—“if you had not given me strength and courage.”

  And then she was gone, and Laurent stood quite still, incapable of moving because in all of his life he had never, ever given anyone courage or strength.

  Sixteen

  Honoria shopped quickly, choosing bread, cheese, fruit, and vegetables from the meager selection. She also bought wine, adding to the weight of her basket. But she suffered the pain in her shoulders stoically as she walked back to their lodgings. She had food and drink. She was alive. She had no reason to complain.

  If the marquis had not come to her aid earlier, would she still be free? Still be alive? She did not know what she would have done if confronted by that mob without him standing at her side and facing them bravely. He must have seen them from the window and rushed to try and catch her before she encountered the patriots. He didn’t have to save her. He needed her to forge documents for him, but with the League on his side, she was by no means irreplaceable. All of them could forge papers with varying degrees of skill.

  Why had he saved her? Again? Surely this sort of self-sacrifice was not usual for a man who freely admitted his life before the revolution had been debauched and selfish. Was it possible he had come to care for her, as he so obviously cared for the young princess?

  These were dangerous thoughts—thoughts that might push her from infatuation with him to something more. How could she help her infatuation? He was handsome, charming, and she had always admired people who stood up for what was right and risked their lives to save others. She was slightly infatuated with all of the men of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, not to mention the Pimpernel himself. Laurent had that same determination and resolve that appealed to her. Laurent seemed to possess. He risked his life with every hour he remained in Paris.

  And he’d kissed her.

  Honoria stopped at the entrance to the building where Montagne and she shared the rooms and tried to compose herself. Her arms ached and her cheeks felt hot. The heat was not from exertion, but the memory of that kiss. She’d been kissed before, and she had even liked the kisses, but no one had ever made her feel the way she’d felt when Laurent kissed her.

  Honoria had felt as though she could go on kissing him forever. When his lips touched hers, everything else faded away. Her legs went weak, her belly fluttered, her breasts felt heavy and ached. She wanted him to do more than kiss her, though she knew she should not want such things.

  But she was no chaste virgin. She knew what it was to take a lover, and though she was by no means experienced in lovemaking, she had no doubt the Marquis de Montagne would be a lover she would never forget. Therein lay the problem. He was a gamble. If she allowed herself to grow closer to him, she hazarded her heart, possibly her life. That was a large wager for a woman who never gambled.

  She climbed the stairs to their chambers, not trying to put the thoughts of lovemaking out of her mind. If she had, she might have begun to think of the mob and the dead aristo again, and if she did that, she feared she might never manage the climb.

  Finally, she reached their rooms and knocked quietly. “I’ve returned,” she said quietly.

  A moment later, the marquis opened the door and despite the red cut on his temple and the bruise on his cheek, he was so perfectly handsome, she could only gape at him. Her gaze fell to his lips, those soft lips that could tease her with gentleness and torment her with passion, and then down to the exposed column of his throat. What would his skin taste like? Would it taste of sandalwood and oranges like his scent?

  The marquis narrowed his eyes at her, then tugged her inside, shutting the door behind her. “What is wrong? What happened?” he demanded.

  She shook her head, still staring at the line of his jaw where the dark stubble intersected with the bronze skin.

  “Are you well? Did the mob accost you again?”

  “I...no. I’m well, only...” What would she say? I cannot stop thinking about kissing you? Your courage makes me feel things I am afraid to feel?

  “You must be exhausted.” He lifted the basket from her arm, and she did sag from relief. To her shock and delight, he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly for a moment. She barely had time to breathe in his scent and lean against him before he set her away from him. “Sit, and I will pour you a glass of wine. I think we both need one.”

  She nodded, removing her bonnet and sinking into one of the chairs.

  True to his word, he fetched glasses and uncorked one of the two bottles of wine she’d bought. He poured her a glass, but when she reached for it, her hands shook so badly she could not hold it steady.

  “Honoria.” He knelt beside her, concern in his eyes. “You are safe now.”

  She shook her head, shocked to feel tears burn her eyes. “No, I am not. None of us are safe. That might have been me.” She looked at him, tears blurring his face. “It might have been you.”

  He stroked her cheek. “It likely will be me one of these days, and you will not mourn me. I have earned the attentions of Madame Guillotine.”

  “No.” She clutched his hand and held it tightly. “You have not. You are good, and I cannot bear to think of you with your head speared through—” Her voice broke on a sob.

  “Shh.” He squeezed her hand and brought the wineglass to her lips. “Drink. You are thirsty and hungry and overwrought. You will feel better after you eat.”

  She managed to sip some of the wine, even swallowed it past the lump in her throat. But when she tried to rise, he gently pushed her shoulders down. “I will bring it to you. Rest.”

  She frowned. “But surely you do not know how to prepare a meal.”

  He smiled. “Even I am not so spoiled that I cannot feed myself. I learned to dress myself. I can learn this as well. Besides, it’s bread and cheese. How difficult can that be?”

  Honoria closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the chair while he set the food out, selected the cheese and bread, and began to cut and slice with the one dull knife they’d found in a cabinet with the plates and glasses.

  She willed her hands to stop shaking and her teeth to cease chattering, but she could not seem to forget the feel of the dead man’s skin against her lips or the sickly sweet smell of death that clung to him.

  When the marquis brought her a plate, she was not certain she could stomach any of the meal. But he pulled her to her feet and brought her to sit across from him at the window. “Watch with me,” he said.

  She stared out the window, her untouched food before her. As they sat and watched, he pointed out aspects of life in Paris—a mother and child walking hand in hand, a man with a pack of firewood slung over his shoulder, a group of boys kicking a ball in one of the streets, and a woman coming out to yell at them after it bounced off her door.

  Soon Honoria had ceased shaking and managed to nibble the bread. There was nothing like bread baked in Paris, and she ate more and more until she’d finished it. T
he marquis had been right that she’d feel steadier with food in her belly. She even laughed at the antics of a street performer who pretended to pull flowers out of the ears of the women in the crowd gathered around him and sang and danced while everyone clapped along.

  “Paris is still alive,” the marquis said quietly. “We will not allow these revolutionaries to kill it. It will rise again. The Bourbons will rise again. They killed our king and may kill our queen, but the monarchy is not dead. Paris is not dead. Soon the people will rise up and give Robespierre a taste of his own medicine.”

  Honoria watched him, the way his eyes hardened into emeralds and his fist closed on the table. It was dangerous to speak like this. If he was overheard, he could be imprisoned. And yet his conviction moved her.

  “You think Robespierre will go to the guillotine?”

  “Yes. He will die in the manner in which he killed so many of his political enemies.”

  “I do not like to wish for anyone’s death, but I hope his is sooner rather than later.” She yawned. When she looked back out the window, she realized dusk had fallen.

  “You should sleep for a few hours,” he said.

  “But it’s my turn to keep watch. You should have slept. Instead you prepared food and kept me company.”

  “I don’t mind.” He gazed at the Tower. “I feel close to her here. Her mother and father have been taken from her, but here I can watch over her.”

  Honoria stared at him. Had her own parents loved her so much? She believed they had, but she had not felt that sort of love in years. Her mother had died so long ago that Honoria barely remembered her. Her father had been affectionate and caring, but then he too had been taken from her. There had been no love after his passing, only guilt and shame.

  But the marquis seemed to have an unwavering love for the princess. He would die for her and she was not even his own flesh and blood. What would it be like to be loved like that? To be loved by him?

  “Sleep,” he told her again, reaching over the table to squeeze her hand in an intimate gesture she had not expected. “I will wake you when I grow tired, and you will have your turn.”