Page 105 of Souvenir Heart

He pressed his lips to her forehead, “I know you’ve said you will not marry me, but will you at least let me stay by your side?”

“By my side,” she said. Then, raising her hips against him, added huskily, “and inside.”

“I’m not just talking about lovemaking.” He adjusted his position; his cock was agonizingly close to where she wanted it to be. “I’m talking about love itself.”

“You’re not fighting fair.”

“I’m fighting to win.”

“I’m not ready to marry. To surrender my freedom to any man. Not even you. But yes, Marcus Aurelius ridiculous-string-of-names-I’ve-already-forgotten Tyndale. Stay by my side.” She wet her lips and dared, “Never leave me.”

“David George,” he murmured. “Definitely not part of the plan.” His mouth captured hers with a fierce promise that took her breath away. When he pulled away, his severe lips curved in a sensuous smile. “Now that we’ve established that we have all the time in the world…” He ran a finger down her throat to her breasts, “I think I shall very much enjoy taking it.”

Marguerite moaned as his fingers led the way and his mouth followed. Hot swirling sneak attacks and skirmishes on parts of her body she hadn’t even known were vulnerable: her ear lobes, the soft skin of her elbow, the curve of her foot, the inside of her knee. It was too much, not enough; her defenses, if she’d had any left, were completely shattered.

He traced a finger down her belly to her navel. He placed a quick kiss there, swirled his tongue, glanced up at her, and then, with a determinedly wicked curve of his lips, began placing soft kisses down to her damp curls.

“I’ve seen your fantasies about me,” he said, in a voice like liquid sin. He slid a finger up to the pulsing tip of her clitoris. He circled it with a pressure that demonstrated he not only knew how to find the sensitive nub, but exactly what to do with it. “I think I should very much like to show you mine about you…”

“Your art?” She meant it as a quip, but it came out as a whimper.

“Indeed,” he said, replacing his finger with his tongue. He moved slowly, sensuously. Tasting and exploring. His touch, now teasingly soft, now achingly firm.

The wonder of each new sensation made her want to weep with pleasure and scream with want. She tangled her fingers in his hair, gasping, “Marcus.” uttering incoherent sounds, and fractured sentences

He lifted his head, his breath hot against her thigh. “Should I stop?”

“I’ll put out every lantern in this quarry if you do.”

He stilled for a moment, then chuckled, the sound oscillating through her body with the promise of sensations to come. And he didn’t stop. Not until her body shuddered with the intensity of her orgasm, sparks of red exploding into fireworks behind her tightly closed eyes.

He cradled her against him, her head upon his shoulder.

She followed the line of his shoulder with her hand to his bicep, then down the slash of scar across his forearm, to his belly, and the hard length of his erection. She held it, stroked it, felt the hot pulse of it—his own eager wetness. Impossibly, it seemed, he grew even harder. “I want you inside me.”

“How fortunate.” His breath was hot against her ear. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

She laughed, as he entered her, hot, hard, and urgent. And the cries of their lovemaking rose up into the darkness, echoing against the limestone walls of the abandoned quarry, and around the passionate tangle of their bodies.

Sixty-Two

Marguerite, dressed in her stolen national guard uniform, sat astride a very different mount, a bay mare, her body still vibrating from three days of lovemaking, blinking in sunlight that seemed impossibly bright after the inky darkness of the tunnels. Her eyes kept fixing on colors as if seeing them for the first time: the golden limestone facade of a house on the narrow street, the red scarf in the hair of a maid they rode past, a basket full of glaringly orange carrots slung over her arm. Sound, too, had taken on a new dimension. The clopping of their horses’ hooves, the jangle of their bits, the clatter of wagon wheels, carriage wheels, carts and half a dozen conversations were like an untuned, but wildly enthusiastic orchestra.

She glanced at Marcus, or his back and the rump of his horse, since he was riding several lengths ahead, and wondered if he was feeling the same.

“Are you certain this is going to work?” she murmured.

Andre riding beside her, also dressed in a stolen national guard’s uniform, shrugged. “When you’re following one of his plans…” He cocked his chin in the direction of Marcus’s brown clad back. “Odds are always better.”

Some of the fear knotting her stomach eased. Good odds. Her gaze wove through the crowd ahead, fixing on the broad shoulders filling out the sober clerk’s coat. Those shoulders rose suddenly, leaning forward as his horse broke into a trot.

They were off.

The crowd began to part, voices rising in protest at this breach in traffic etiquette. She dug her heels into the mare’s sides. She and Andre began to ride faster.

“Hey, you!” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man in shirt sleeves raise a meaty fist, then freeze as he registered the blue and white uniforms.

I’m a guard. She pressed her knees tighter against the mare’s flanks. Out of my way. Assuming the arrogance she’d seen in the guards who’d arrested her, she ignored the flailing limbs and curses of the people forced to move out of her way.