The Revolutionary and the Rogue

by Blake Ferre

  Perrin growled, overwhelmed by the impact of those words. Before Chevalier could withdraw or follow up with a flippant excuse that might ruin the moment, he bombarded Chevalier with another kiss, plowing his tongue past those firm lips. Instead of surrendering, Chevalier fought right back. He drove his fingers into Perrin’s hair, tugging at the strands to draw their mouths closer.

  Perrin wanted to submit to the power in that hold. To sink to his knees and offer Chevalier everything. But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He pulled free, Chevalier’s hands lowering to his neck, granting him the reprieve. “I know you’ve been following me, but why?” Perrin asked through shortened breaths.

  Chevalier blinked, his lips still partially opened and pleasantly kiss-plumped.

  “Perhaps you’re the one who has been following me. You’ve thought of me, haven’t you? Dreamed of having me pressed against your backside again. The way we were on that street.” Chevalier’s words hitched in spite of the powerful tone in his voice.

  Perrin’s mind fell exactly to that moment—into Chevalier’s trap.

  “Never,” Perrin protested, but as Chevalier dragged his hand along Perrin’s thigh, a need tightened within him.

  At the moment Chevalier grabbed his hips and tugged him closer, Perrin was done for. He hungered to give in. To not have to fight so hard. To simply steal a moment of pleasure after all these long, lonely months.

  “You want that, don’t you, de Vesey? Tell me.” Chevalier’s demand tugged at Perrin’s better reasoning.

  A whimper escaped from Perrin’s lips. “Yes. Anything.” He melted into Chevalier’s embrace.

  Chevalier stiffened, as if surprised by Perrin’s faltering resolve. He’d likely expected more of a fight. But Perrin was a weak opponent. The temptation too strong to resist.

  A cold breeze swept between them as they stood there in silence. The battle was now over, with neither side the winner. The fog of desire cleared from his mind. “Lies. You’re a liar and a sneak. You’re trying to distract me.”

  “It’s no different than you’re doing to me. Admit it, aristo. I think you like it. You’re just mad that you enjoy being chased. You hunger to be caught. And you hate that, don’t you?” Chevalier’s words rang true. For that was precisely what Perrin had wanted. A shudder raced down his spine.

  “I’ll never let you have me.” Perrin pushed back from Chevalier’s arms, and the emptiness between them hollowed within his chest. “I know your sort. You jump to accuse people of treason simply because of their wealth.”

  Chevalier wiped his hands on his breeches, that familiar stone facade once again cast upon his expression. “Your friend, Duclos, has been arrested for helping suspected traitors escape the country. Wealthy, influential people who aim to strike against the Republic. So no, your wealth and station are not the only reasons I believe you’re the enemy. You’re conspiring with one.” Chevalier spat the accusation. “Damn you for that kiss.”

  “You liked it.” Perrin swept his thumb and forefinger along the corners of his mouth.

  “Oh no. I’ll not let your wiles fool me again.” Chevalier shook his fists.

  “Admit it, you do want me. Just as much as I hunger for you. Against all reason.” Perrin made one last attempt to snatch the power from Chevalier by moving in close. He swept his lips along Chevalier’s jaw. When a whimper came free, Chevalier became little more than a quivering puddle.

  He drew his lips closer to Chevalier’s ear and whispered, “Why can’t I purge you from my mind? Your eyes, brilliant beacons pulling me to you, in spite of who you are. And I abhor that I crave more.”

  Hating his admission, Perrin broke free of their connection and strode several paces away. “You arrested my friend. You snuck into my home, tried to steal my secrets. Perhaps you planted evidence against me. You can’t be trusted.”

  “Planted evidence? I would never wrongfully convict an innocent person.” Chevalier staggered forward, riled by the accusation. “I only saw the drawings.” Instantly, he slapped a palm over his mouth.

  “What?” Perrin grabbed his chest, directly over his heart. How dare Chevalier touch something so sacred? He had no right to peer into Perrin’s personal life. “What drawings, you bastard?”

  “Nothing. I saw nothing.” Chevalier’s voice trembled from the terrible attempt at a lie.

  “How dare you? Those are private. I…I haven’t even looked at them,” he growled.

  Chevalier’s eyes softened. “Who is he? The man? Is he your…lover?”

  The revolutionary might as well have stripped apart the last remnants of Perrin’s heart. The cold shudder of emptiness returned, devouring him from the inside. “He’s not of your concern.” Perrin’s voice wavered.

  “Did he die?” Chevalier’s voice held a knowing tone. His eyes darkened into a void—the haunted look of someone who’d also known great loss.

  Perrin dragged his fingers over his hair, digging them deeper into the tresses. He hated this man for somehow understanding his pain. He hated him for breaking through to his spirit. “Just leave.” He was done with their games. He wanted no more to do with Chevalier. The man was a danger to him. “I’ll not speak of him.”

  Chevalier reached out for Perrin’s arm, but he jerked away. The memory of losing Julien was all too vivid. “I died the day that officer took him from me!” Perrin pressed his mouth closed in horror over the admission.

  “He was a traitor?” Chevalier’s voice cracked but held no accusation. None of that hatred he so often leaped to when discussing treason.

  “Of course you’d assume that.”

  “My God.” Chevalier placed his hand on the hilt of his saber, finally turning to leave. “You’ve surrounded yourself with dangerous friends.”

  Chapter Eight

  When Perrin arrived at Crimson Rose the following morning, he’d half expected Chevalier to appear. That pesky officer had been turning up everywhere else he’d journeyed thus far. Scheming Knight. And the more he saw of the revolutionary, the more his body awakened to this unfathomable craving. Alluring Knight.

  Perrin rubbed his chin, meeting the roughened scratch of his unshaven jaw. The worst of it was, Chevalier was right about his need to be pursued and caught. It wasn’t something he’d ever sought in the past. He’d always been the pursuer. The one in control. Now his fantasies enlivened at the thought of Chevalier hunting him down and having his way with him.

  Blast. He needed to remove the officer from his thoughts. His infatuation hardly made sense. There was no affection shared between them—not in the manner he’d experienced with Julien. But something about the officer made Perrin yearn to relinquish control and simply savor a few moments of pleasure. Chevalier’s mere touch had cast every thought from his mind, offering a momentary bliss from the misery that had haunted him for far too long.

  “My lord? What do you think?” Philippe picked up an empty decanter from one of the tables but lost his grip. The glass clanked and rolled along the uneven boards.

  Perrin caught the bottle with his boot. “What was that?”

  “Apologies, my lord.” Philippe knelt and retrieved the decanter, then settled it on the nearest table, moving it slightly to the left before leaving it be. “I asked, if the Scarlet Crest’s leader wants our help, why does he only work through discreet messages?”

  “Ah. Precisely what I had wondered. How are we to hold faith in him when he doesn’t trust in us to know his identity?” Perrin seated himself at the table while Philippe once more shifted the bottle another smidgen to the left.

  Quill plucked the bottle and tipped it, frowning at the emptied state. “If Guillaume knows who the leader is, I’m sure he can be trusted. Besides, we already know he’s a member of Crimson Rose.” Quill’s flighty tone held an assurance Perrin wished he could share. “What I’m more concerned about is where we can get more brandy.”

  �
�Always worrying about the most important things.” Perrin stifled a chuckle.

  “La, and your mind wasn’t wandering just moments ago…fixating on that lovely revolutionary of yours?” Quill waggled his brows.

  Beneath the table, Perrin’s leg shook in a frantic jitter, jostling the empty glasses in a clinking chorus as his thoughts drifted to Chevalier.

  The contrasting sides of the officer were two halves that didn’t fit together. A soft interior. His fear of blood. Squeamish Knight. His heroic acts. Saving Perrin, and again those children. Honorable Knight.

  None of that added up to his position with those blasted Republicans. Or his foul disposition. False Knight. The bastard had snuck into Perrin’s house. He’d aided in Duclos’s arrest. Had turned up last night at the salon, no doubt spying on him. Dangerous Knight.

  “Perrin, are you listening?” Quill set his soft gloved fingers over Perrin’s bouncing thigh. “Tell us what’s weighing so heavily on your mind.”

  “Must be that officer he whisked into the former comtesse’s courtyard last night.” Guillaume entered through the small door behind the bar.

  Quill chuckled and clapped his hands. “That’s what I’d guessed.”

  “Enough!” Perrin blew a wavy tuft of hair out of his eyes. It was bad enough his own mind kept churning up thoughts of Chevalier; he didn’t need his friends provoking him further.

  “What’s your angle with Chevalier? De Lévesque reported the two of you shared quite a conversation…in private.” Guillaume deepened his voice on that last part.

  Splendid. The former comtesse had spied on their…indiscretions. Though he shouldn’t have been surprised. Perrin knocked his fist on the table. “It was nothing. And she was no better. I saw her flirtations with him.”

  “Flirtations? De Lévesque is a member of our league, and she was tasked to gain information from Chevalier, so you needn’t be jealous.”

  “I never said I was…jealous.” Perrin tried to protest, but he could hardly deny it.

  Guillaume raised a finger to keep him silent. “She’s on our side of the fight. She has a right to be concerned. All of our necks rely upon each member’s actions, especially when it comes to heated moments shared with officers of the Committee.” Guillaume arched a brow. He raised a damn good point.

  “I find myself at a disadvantage. Our mysterious leader seems to know a great deal about me, while I have little knowledge of him,” Perrin grumbled.

  “You’ll meet him when and if the time is right. Given the circumstances, with Duclos’s arrest, we must be careful.”

  “Will he help us? Free Duclos?” Perrin’s heart thudded, his irritation cast aside.

  “Indeed. He’s sent this for you.” Guillaume withdrew a folded parchment sealed by crimson wax. “One of de Lévesque’s seamstress friends dropped it off.”

  Philippe and Quill huddled behind Perrin, angling their heads so that their chins nearly rested on his shoulders. Perrin’s gaze narrowed at the emblem of intertwined roses. Not so very different from the silver signet Perrin wore on his forefinger.

  Guillaume slumped onto the chair beside Perrin, exhaustion curving his shoulders forward. “Now, back to our other subject. Don’t allow this officer of yours to fool you. If you want this mission to be a success, your primary concern must be Duclos.”

  Perrin nodded and unfolded the parchment. A second sealed note fell onto his lap.

  Dearest friend,

  Be careful whom you trust. Your new friend might not stomach the sight of blood, but he holds the guillotine’s blade every bit as much as the executioner. If you are committed to our cause, ensure our officer friend finds the enclosed missive.

  The Scarlet Crest

  “He wants Chevalier to find this.” Perrin clamped his jaw as he inspected the sealed missive on his lap. “But I don’t know what it says.”

  “Why not take a peek?” Quill reached over Perrin’s chest, grabbing for the missive and grazing his squirmy fingers far too close to Perrin’s intimate parts.

  “Do you mind?”

  Quill paused, then offered Perrin a naughty grin. “Mmmm. I don’t mind at all. But our dear Chevalier might.”

  “This is no time for joking.” Guillaume leaned forward, the table slanting toward him. “Are you so attached to this Chevalier?”

  “Of course not.” Perrin recounted the scene he’d witnessed that day on the street. How Chevalier had freed that family and couldn’t stomach the sight of blood. But there was also the spying, the lying, and his cold insistence of Perrin’s guilt.

  Philippe crossed to the other side of the table and shared a glance with Quill. “I find it worrisome that Chevalier’s following you.”

  “I dare say our dear Perrin wants him to,” Quill mused. And curse it all, he was right.

  Perrin’s insides gurgled. He shouldn’t care what the missive contained. It would likely keep the officer sniffing down the wrong track. Which was precisely what Perrin should want.

  “My lord, you rush into things without thinking.” Philippe’s chastisement rang with truth. “Don’t forget: men like Chevalier followed the orders that brought Julien to his death.”

  His heart stuttered, and an ache bloomed in his chest. Perrin had no reason to care for an officer of the Republic—not after Julien. “So, how does this help us free Duclos?”

  “Our leader has informed me Duclos is currently being held in La Force Prison.” Guillaume sighed.

  “So close.” No more than a few blocks from Perrin’s home.

  “In addition, de Lévesque has sent word to an old acquaintance of yours. Our actor friend Clyde Ashford will be in touch with you soon. He’ll procure the necessary props and wigs from his theater. In addition, the false identifications from our Committee contacts should be ready soon. Ashford will be in contact with you regarding those as well.”

  Quill hummed. “We know Ashford can be trusted. But how do we get into the prison?”

  “One of the guards, Lemaire, is in league with us. The comtesse will arrange to have one of her seamstress friends pretend a seduction and tie the man up. That way, if we’re caught, he’s not suspected of aiding us willingly.” Guillaume fastened a dislodged button.

  Quill stood and waved his hand in the air. “Please let me be the one. I can’t resist donning a gown and stays, especially when given the chance to tie a man up.”

  “If it makes this hellish mission more bearable for you, I say do it.” Perrin knew from experience just how much Quill admired a good petticoat.

  “Bearable? I dare say I’ll find it quite pleasurable.” Quill waggled his brows.

  Guillaume trailed a finger down the length of his waistcoat. “Very well. Perrin and Philippe will dress as guards and sneak inside. Once you’ve grabbed Duclos, we’ll hide him at Crimson Rose until the time is right to transport him through the gates.”

  “Once we get him out of the city, he could meet our English friends and their ship,” Philippe offered.

  Guillaume braced his hands on the edge of the table. “It’s settled, then?”

  “To Stand and Shield,” Perrin and his friends vowed in unison.

  A nagging worry still brewed in Perrin’s stomach. He wasn’t sure if it had to do with deceiving Chevalier or the fact that he’d just committed himself to breaking into a prison.

  …

  Henri stared blankly at the denouncements piled on his desk. He’d been a fool to fall into de Vesey’s trap once more. What was it about the irritating aristo that made Henri lose all sense and logic? He needed to end their little tête-à-têtes. It was too dangerous for him to be near that rogue in private.

  The scratch of Luc’s pen on the parchment, scribbling whatever report he was working on, made Henri’s skin crawl, each cross and dot a tiny stab into his flesh.

  “Here. Take a look at this seditious filth.”
Luc tossed a bound script onto Henri’s lap.

  Henri paged through the script, noting the handwritten scribbles of stage directions and dialogue prompts. “I’m not sure what I’m looking at, citizen. I know it’s a script, but what’s the significance?”

  “It was found in Duclos’s home the night of the search.” Luc snickered.

  Henri handed the wrinkled script to his cohort and mindlessly rubbed the back of his head. “What’s so significant about that?”

  “It means Duclos frequented the theater.” Luc snatched the script from him, rolling his eyes as he turned to his own desk. “Not just any theater. The one belonging to that English actor, Ashford. I’ve been keeping an eye on his productions. Borderline seditious, if you ask me.”

  Henri sucked on his teeth. “I’ve read several complaints about the theater.” He rummaged through the stack, finding the three he’d recently looked over. “But the actor appears to have won over several Committee members’ wives. They vouch to the patriotism of his plays. The people adore him. He must be a cunning linguist.”

  Henri considered Duclos’s potential connection to Ashford. As an artist, it made sense that Duclos frequented the theater. But the script didn’t seem that significant on its own.

  “Witness accounts raise concerns over how often Duclos visited, frequently attending the same production several nights in a row.” Luc placed his foot on his chair, leaning one elbow on his raised knee.

  “Multiple performances?” Henri crinkled his nose. No one enjoyed those monstrosities of modern Republican theater. Not that much. The stories were restricted, mostly patriotic tales and satire. Soon they’d be orating on buttons and cockades, like those drab citizens at the former comtesse’s salon.

  Henri rubbed his forehead, careful not to smudge ink on his face.

  “There’s a performance tomorrow night.” Luc waggled his brows. “Fancy catching Ashford’s newest production?”