Page 100 of Souvenir Heart

“Oh, thank God, you are here.”

The relief in his voice made her heart do a twisting flip.

“When I went off to war in ‘76, I thought I was in love. She lived in the village. Promised she’d wait for me. Marry me when I returned. ‘Across the oceans and back,’ we swore.” His laugh was like shards of glass. “The thought of her, of the life we’d share, kept me going through all of it; the battles, the boredom, the burial pit…” he paused.

Marguerite knew he must be reliving it; she’d heard the way his breathing rasped as they made their way through the tunnels. Seen the sweat glistening on his forehead, the pallor of his face. She thought of the scars across his arm, his chest, his back. As if his flesh was a palimpsest of suffering.

“And afterwards. When I came back, she welcomed me with open arms. And legs.”

Green fingers of jealousy stole around her heart and squeezed.

“But it wasn’t me she wanted. She wanted a child. She used my body, my seed, to trick another man, a man with a title, into marrying her.”

She’d thought his resistance was from some misguided notion of chivalry. Had he thought she was using him?

She had wanted him with aching, all-consuming need—her body shivered with the memory of his, slick with sweat, pounding into hers, every fiber of her being screaming, yes, more, more, dear God, don’t stop.

Had she used him? His body? His sex? And yet. It had felt like so much more. His heat fusing with hers, like two different elements fusing into something new and wonderous. It had felt like love. “You have a child,” she said, another realization dawning.

“One I’ve never seen. As soon as she was certain she was with child, she told me I could never see her again. Or the babe. She told me if I tried, she’d tell everyone the war had driven me mad. That I was a jilted suitor who couldn’t accept she’d chosen another man. And that she’d have her husband horsewhip me.”

The lacework of scars she’d felt on his back, the pattern she’d traced with her fingertips when they’d made love. And after, as they lay tangled in its exhausted glow. “No.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, her body recoiling in horror from the phantom lash.

“Perhaps I was mad,” he continued grimly. “Because I did try to see her, and he did horsewhip me. Three times. That’s why when your father begged us to send someone back for you, I volunteered. The thought that he’d left his child behind? I couldn’t understand how…”

Because she was his daughter, Marguerite knew how her father could. Picking up her lantern, she stepped out from behind the limestone column.

Marcus looked as if he was seeing something wonderous. His whole body surged forward, then jerked back, shuddering as he fought to keep his promise. The lantern in his hand swung wildly, casting streaks of light over his body that made it seem as if he were being consumed by flame.

His eyes roamed over her. Standing in the flickering light of her lantern, surrounded by the impenetrable, soundless black of the quarry. He surveyed her unbound hair, half-laced gown, her unshod feet. “Unharmed.” The words came out in a sigh of relief.

Eyes returning to her face, he squared his shoulders, but there was a tremor in his voice as he said, “You know the funny thing? Three years after my son was born, I inherited a title. From some distant cousin I barely knew existed. I may behave like a proper bastard, but I’m a bloody viscount.”

“A viscount?”

“Radcliffe. Marcus Aurelius David George Tyndale, Viscount Radcliffe, at your service.”

“Marcus Aurelius?” This conversation was becoming like the tunnels themselves, full of unexpected turns, some terrifyingly tight, others bizarre, like those places where some wanderer had stopped to carve a whimsical design.

“My father was a great admirer of the Stoics.”

“And you?”

“I’m beginning to think stoicism is vastly over-rated. For years, I shoved down the pain, the memories. My emotions were things I could sort and lock away; as if my heart was an apothecary’s chest.” He gave an odd laugh. “It worked. For a time. Until I met you.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Damnit, Marguerite, I’m not a lifeless piece of furniture.”

Neither was she. Her fingers curled, remembering the sensation of that hair, sliding between her fingers, brushing against her skin as he’d lain over her. “Or a mercenary?”

“No. I’m an intelligencer. I serve at the pleasure of his Majesty, King George III.”

“A spy.”

“If you prefer.”

“And a forger.”

“It’s a useful skill. My ‘art,’ if you will.” He gave another pained laugh. “I wasn’t trying to turn you into one, by the way. I was just trying to make sure you didn’t give up your talent.”

She thought of the tablecloth cocoon he’d created for her. How safe, how protected she’d felt. The way he’d laid out his art supplies. Not telling her to draw, simply giving her the tools and the space.