by Shana Galen
She saw no point in arguing. She was so weary her eyes would hardly stay open. If she insisted on watching while he slept, she would certainly fall asleep and leave her post unattended. Instead, she rose wearily and trudged to the bedchamber. She removed shoes and stockings and had her bodice unpinned before she remembered the marquis was in the next room and she had intended to sleep fully dressed.
It would be more trouble than she cared to take to pin the bodice again, so she stripped it off, removed the heavy skirts, and climbed into bed in petticoat, corset, and chemise. The corset was linen and not boned, but it was not comfortable. And though it was the sort peasant women wore so they could don it without the aid of a servant, Honoria did not want to trouble herself with removing it and then having to tug and squeeze herself into it again. She fell asleep wishing she could curl herself into a ball.
She fell into a dream where men clenched her about the waist and would not let her go. One look over her shoulder showed her it was the men from the mob she had met earlier that day. Honoria fought and fought, but she could not break free. And then the woman with the smear of blood on her cheek appeared—her feet dirty in her sabots, her blouse torn, her hair wild under its red cap. She stood before Honoria.
“Beauty is a gift from Satan,” she hissed. Then she drew her finger across her neck, and Honoria screamed as she was dragged to the guillotine.
“No!” she cried. “No! I do not want to die. Don’t hurt me!”
But she was pushed, face to the sky, onto the plank so that she stared up at the blade glinting silver in the fading light.
And then his face was there—Mr. Bowder. He covered her mouth with his hand, the hand that always smelled like manure—and reached into her bodice to fondle her breasts.
“You like this, don’t you?” he said, breath smelling of onions and ale. “You know you like it. Tell Mrs. Bowder and she’ll send you away for doing this to me. You’ll live on the streets, where any man can have you. They’re not all as nice as me.” He thrust forward, pushing his hard rod against her stomach. “Touch it. Hurry now before she finds us and sees what a temptress you truly are.”
“No.” Tears streamed down her face, blurring his face and the blood staining the blade of the guillotine. “I don’t want to.”
“Mademoiselle.”
They’d lower the blade now, and she’d die here, with Bowder squeezing her breasts in a painful vise and her hand rubbing his rod through his trousers.
“Mademoiselle.”
She shook, rocking back and forth as the blade fell.
“Honoria!”
She sat up, biting back a scream, and then hitting out to be free from his awful hands. “Don’t touch me!”
He stood beside the bed, one hand holding a candle and the other raised in the air. “I will not, mademoiselle. You cried out.”
“It’s you,” she said and sagged back against the pillow. Not Bowder. Not the woman from the mob. The marquis—the handsome, arrogant marquis who could surprise her with his kindness.
“I’m sorry.” Then realizing she’d spoken in English, repeated, “Je suis désolé.”
He waved her apology away. “You had a nightmare?”
She nodded. There was no use denying it. She still shook from the fear, though she did not know if it was Bowder or the guillotine she feared more.
He set the candle on the bedside table, glancing at her for approval. She nodded.
“May I?” He indicated the side of the bed she had not occupied, the side he had slept on earlier. She’d avoided it because she feared it would carry his scent of oranges and sandalwood. She’d feared she’d dream of him. How she wished she’d dreamed of him now.
She nodded, and he sat. Though he was not dressed in the silks and linens of the upper class, though he wore no wig, no rings on his fingers, no starched cravat, he still sat with an elegance and dignity that bespoke his station a hundred times over. If it ever was him under the blade of the guillotine, he would not cry or scream or protest. He would die with grace.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She gave him a quizzical look, finding it hard to concentrate when he looked at her with such warmth and caring.
“Your nightmare. Tell me about it.”
She shuddered. “No. It’s too awful. I want to forget it.” She pushed the covers back, forgetting she wore only her corset and chemise. Her breasts all but spilled out. His gaze dropped, and she could feel the effort it took him to force his eyes back to her face.
She dragged the sheets back to her chest. “I am awake. I will take the watch for a few hours. It’s your turn to sleep. Surely you have allowed me to sleep far too long.”
“It has only been a little more than an hour. You’re shaking. Are you cold?”
She shook her head. How could any woman feel cold with him on the bed beside her?
“Then you need a glass of wine. I’ll fetch it.”
“You needn’t—”
But he had risen and marched out of the room before she could finish the protest.
“An hour,” she scoffed. Through the open door, she could see it had grown dark outside.
He returned, handing her a large glass of wine. “Drink.”
She sipped the wine slowly, the liquid coating her dry throat. With a sigh, she set the glass on the stand beside the candle and lay back against the pillow. “If you would leave me for a few moments, I’ll dress and take my turn at the window.”
He sat on the bed beside her again. “We can both afford to rest for a few minutes. The guard has changed and the Temple is quiet. No doubt the children have gone to sleep.”
It was certainly later than he had claimed, then.
“It’s unlikely we will see anything of interest tonight.” He reached across her. “Drink. You are whiter than these sheets.” He lifted the glass and handed it to her, lowering himself to his elbow so he lay across the bed. “Was it the mob from this afternoon and the head on the pike?”
She nodded and sipped the wine. Let him believe that was all it was. She could not bear the shame of what she had allowed Bowder to do to her.
“They will never touch you,” he said.
She gave an inelegant snort. “You cannot promise that.”
“I can.”
When she rolled her eyes, he puffed his chest indignantly. “I told you I will never lie to you.”
“And if you believe you can actually keep yourself safe, much less me, then you are completely daft.”
“How you flatter me, mademoiselle.”
“Leave me to dress in peace.”
“When you have finished the wine.” He tilted it toward her lips. “Drink.”
She obeyed.
“Shall I tell you a story from my illustrious youth? I could ride faster, shoot straighter, and memorize all of my lessons far more quickly than any of my brothers or sisters.”
“Of course, you could. I am certain you were the perfect child.”
“My maman always said so. You know, I learned to love women from her.”
Honoria sipped again. “What do you mean?”
He sat, turned, and leaned back against the bed’s headboard so they sat side by side. She knew this was far too intimate for propriety, but now that her head swam with the effects of the wine, she was not so concerned about propriety.
“The marquise was beautiful, witty, accomplished, and loving. When she looked at me, she made me feel like the most important person in the world.”
“So that’s where you learned it.”
He glanced at her. “Do I make you feel like that when I look at you?”
Honoria sipped her wine again. The marquis did not need more flattery from her.
He shrugged. “She was always laughing, and even when she scolded us, she did it with gentleness. I thought her the most perfect being alive, and I remember thinking my father the luckiest man alive. Their marriage was arranged, of course, but they grew to love each other. When she looked at hi
m, her whole face glowed and her body leaned toward him. She was a flower and he the sun.”
“That’s beautiful,” Honoria murmured.
“It was. I wanted a wife just like her.” He grinned. “One day. Maman sent me to Versailles because she worried I would seduce every girl in the province.”
Honoria gasped. “I do hope you were not that bad.”
“Of course not. As I said, my mother was witty. She knew I would love Versailles.”
“And did you?”
“Of course.” His face darkened, turned sad.
“What happened to your family? Your siblings and your mother?”
“We left for Scotland as soon as the violence began. We have property there and had decided to live as exiles. I came back when I heard the fate that had befallen the royal family. But we were speaking of Versailles, I think. Beautiful, grand, fascinating Versailles. I cannot believe it is gone—not the place, of course, but the court. The people. The king.”
The anguish in his tone when he said the last word surprised her. “You loved him?”
“Everyone loved him. He was a good man, a genuinely good man. He tried to do what was right. He tried to be fair and just. He was no tyrant as Murat and Robespierre have made him out to be. He was a man like any other, and he loved France. He loved his people. He would have done anything for them, and in the end he died for them.”
“They killed him, you mean.”
The marquis—she supposed she should think of him as Laurent, considering they were practically lying in bed together. Somehow they had both wiggled down so that they were all but prone, she under the sheets and he on top.
“He chose death. There were so many times he might have ordered the army or his own soldiers, the Swiss Guard, to fire on the people of France. He could have ended this revolution with violence and bloodshed and untold horrors. He chose peace whenever he could.”
Honoria stared at the candlelight flickering on the ceiling. “In England they say he was weak and indecisive.”
“I saw that side of him too, but I prefer to remember his love for his people. He was like a father who wants the best for his children.”
Only these children had not repaid him with kindness.
“Now I suppose you will tell me the queen looks at France like a mother.”
“No.” He lifted his arms and settled his hands behind his head. “She is the braver and the stronger of the two. She would have made a formidable king. Had Marie Antoinette been the sovereign, this revolution would have been but a footnote in French history.”
“Too bad France does not allow women to rule.”
He turned his head to look at her. “I have always said as much.”
She could not tell if he was serious or not. When she lifted the wineglass to her lips, she discovered the wine was gone.
“More?” he asked.
“No.”
“Shall we both close our eyes for a moment? When you are ready, I will leave you to dress.”
“Very well.” She sank down deeper into the bedclothes, her eyes heavy. Closing them, she fell into a dreamless sleep infused with warmth and the scents of oranges and sandalwood.
Seventeen
Laurent woke with a woman in his arms. He’d woken thus many times before. It was a pleasant, familiar feeling. His cock had taken note of the softness of her skin and the scent of lavender in her hair. Laurent burrowed his nose into that silky hair, his hand skimming down to caress what he assumed was the curve of her hip.
She was dressed, but he could correct that oversight quickly enough. He was dressed too, which was odd because he did not usually sleep in his clothing.
He opened his eyes to stare at the black hair strewn over the pillow beside him. He knew that hair. The candle had burnt out, but the door of the chamber was open and the morning light filtered in from the front room. He lifted his head to look down at the exquisite perfection that was Honoria Blake.
Mon Dieu, but he had never seen anything as perfect as she. Her thick lashes lay against her pale cheek, looking almost as if they’d been painted on. He traced a finger over the swallow’s wing eyebrows, watching as her lovely violet eyes opened. Now, large and dark from sleep, they looked almost purple.
Laurent bent reverently and kissed her cheek. When she did not protest, he kissed the other. A small smile tugged at her lips, pretty pink lips he knew would taste like sugared sweets.
He’d wanted to kiss them last night, when they’d been stained red from the wine he’d given her. He’d wanted to do so much more than that when the sheets had fallen away to reveal those lovely breasts. Her corset pushed them high, so high he could almost see the dusky brown of her areolas. He could not stop himself from glancing down now. The sheet had been shoved to her waist, and those glorious breasts rose above shift and corset. One had all but fallen free of its confines, confirming his suspicions about the dark rose of her nipples. What he wouldn’t give to take that lush berry in his mouth and suck until it hardened and swelled.
He forced his eyes back up and found her watching him, a knowing look in her eyes. She was not a virgin. She knew something of men and of his thoughts. Laurent did not like to think how she might have gained that knowledge. Somehow he doubted it had been at the hands of an enamored lover. She’d been left on her own too young, and she was too pretty not to attract the attention of men who would want to take advantage of her.
“I must have fallen asleep,” she whispered. Though she must have known what he’d been thinking, what he’d been imagining, she did not struggle to free herself from his arms. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I rather like waking up next to you.”
“But the Temple—”
“Will stand whether we watch it or not.” He held up a finger. “That does not mean I intend to lie abed all day, but I think we both needed sleep.”
She nodded, her wide eyes on his. “And that is all we are doing here. Sleeping.”
Was she asking him or telling him? He could not be certain.
“If you are asking did anything untoward occur last night, the answer is no.”
“That is not what I am asking. I know you would never...” She trailed off, and he longed for her to say the words. He’d earned her trust—in this one aspect, at least. That meant the world to him.
“Ah,” he said with a smile. “You ask because you are in my arms.”
“I wondered what you thought to do next.”
He allowed his gaze to wander to her lips. “You have not moved out of my arms.”
“It is a small bed, monsieur.”
“Not so small.” When she still did not shove him off or wriggle away, he pressed a finger to her lips. “May I?”
“Kiss me?”
“Oui. S’il vous plaît.”
She stared at him for a long moment. The blood thundered in his ears, and he forced his hands to remain still on her warm body.
“How many women have you kissed?” she asked.
He stared at her, taken off guard. “I don’t...A gentleman does not kiss and tell.” Thank God he’d remembered himself before admitting that he had no idea.
“Very well. Tell me about the first woman you kissed. Do you remember her?”
The first woman? Mon Dieu, how was he supposed to remember something like that? He could not think so far back—“Yes!” And then it came to him, the summer day in his father’s gardens. His brothers and sisters had been there and his cousins.
“It was my cousin, Jeanne.”
“Your cousin?”
“Yes. I was seeking her—well, not only her, but all of them—and I found her hiding behind a topiary. But instead of coming out to help me seek the others—my brothers and sisters as well as hers—she grabbed me and kissed me.” He gave Honoria a horrified look. “On the lips.”
As he’d wanted, Honoria smiled.
“I immediately screamed like a girl and wiped my mouth. I thought it was the most disgusting thing ever. A girl kiss
ing me.”
She giggled. “How old were you?”
“Seven or eight.”
“And Jeanne?”
“Oh, about the same age, I should think.”
Her mouth, that lovely pink mouth, turned down. “I said the first woman. Eight is a child, not a woman.”
Laurent leaned down and rubbed his nose against hers. “Honoria, you are the only woman I want to think about kissing right now.”
He felt her sigh more than heard it, and her arms came around his neck. Her chin lifted, and then his lips were on hers. How he had missed the simple pleasure of a kiss. The press of lips and the tease of more to come. This morning he expected nothing more. There was the innocent joy of touching her intimately, the feel of her velvet lips under his and the heat of her body so near to him. If this was his last kiss on earth, he would die a happy man. He would remember the sweetness of her mouth, the way her lashes fluttered closed, and the warm exhalation of air as she sighed into him.
And then her hand fisted in his hair, tugging hard as she pressed him down to meet her mouth more fully. Her innocent mouth turned hungry and hot, and when her tongue dipped into his mouth to tease him, he clenched his hands to keep from filling his palms with her flesh.
The kiss swirled out of control as he gave and she took, and she gave and he took. His heart raced, and he imagined he could feel her heart beating in her breast where their bodies meshed. His desire thundered in his ears, and though he had always prided himself on being the most patient of lovers, he could scarce control his own needs. The urge to possess her, to feel her naked flesh against his, to know her body and soul threatened to overwhelm him. Laurent didn’t know how to fight against the desperation. What had she done to him? Was it her or a product of months of celibacy due to imprisonment?
He had never wanted a woman, never wanted anything, like he wanted her in that moment.
His control wavered, and he pulled back. “Wait,” he said, his breath coming in gasps. “You’ve undone me, mon ange.”