Page 50 of Souvenir Heart

He shouldn’t have kissed her. But he’d had to do something to stop her from challenging his story. And it was a far better choice than clamping a hand over her mouth and ordering her to listen, damn it.

“Fuck me, I’ve got to piss.” He heard a man’s voice nearing the alley.

Marcus hefted the leather bag from his left hand to his right.

“Just a little farther,” a woman’s coaxing voice. There was the sucking sound of footsteps in the mud as they passed the alley.

He exhaled with relief, then nearly gagged on the inhale.

A man would have immediately grasped an offer of escape from that hellhole of a prison. A man wouldn’t keep asking why. For that matter, neither would any sane woman.

Marguerite was possibly insane. She was also brilliant, beautiful and maddening.

And he couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of her lips against his. Soft and warm. The feel of her body against his. Softer, warmer. He shook his head. Feelings. He pictured the apothecary’s cabinet in his chest, searching for a drawer in which to stuff the emotions and sensations she was stirring up in him.

The sooner he got her out of that damn prison and delivered her to her father, the better. He’d been on the road for weeks. He’d take some time off. Spend a few weeks alone in his studio. It had always done the trick before.

Before he’d met her.

Andre’s voice lifted in a loud, but slightly off-key version of the revolutionary song, “Ça ira” was a welcome distraction: “Oh! It’ll be okay, be okay, be okay, Hang the aristocrats from on high! Oh! It’ll be okay, be okay…”

Action. It was what he needed. What he’d been waiting for; he crept forward, until he was standing at the mouth of the alley.

On the third “be okay,” Andre shoved the young soldier into the alley.

Marcus leapt forward, sand-filled bag in his hand.

“Wha…” Allard’s booted feet tangled as he stumbled sideways.

Before he could regain his balance, Marcus swung the blackjack, connecting with the side of the soldier’s head.

“Ooof,” was the only sound the young guardsman managed before he crumpled.

Marcus dropped the bag and caught Allard under the arms before he hit the ground. He dragged him back into the shadows of the alley.

“Get his hat,” Andre hissed.

“I will. Later.” The lad wasn’t heavy, but the ground in the alley was slick, and he had to fight to keep his balance. “A hand, if you will? We don’t have time to do this over again.”

“We don’t have time?” Andre caught Allard under the knees. “I just lost an hour of my life my listening to this wet-behind-the-ears soldier bang on about the hardships of service. The boy’s never even been in a skirmish, let alone full combat.”

They carried Allard further back to a spot where Marcus had spread a square of canvas. They set him on his feet, taking care not to let his uniformed body touch the filth splattered walls.

Marcus slid two fingers under Allard’s stock, feeling for the pulse in his neck. When he was satisfied that the man was still alive, he hefted the man’s weight against Andre’s chest and began stripping off his uniform jacket. When he finished, he tossed it over his shoulders and set to work on his waistcoat.

“Do you think they’ll fit?” Andre asked

“You pay far more attention to a lady’s form than I,” said Marcus. Or at least, that had been the case before her.

“But you’ve had more time to size up her measurements …”

He thought of how the waves of her hair had brushed his cheek. How he’d bent his arms just so to curve around her waist. Of how that waist had fitted between his hands. He stifled a groan. “Should do,” he said tersely.

There was a sound of footsteps nearing the alley—a single person walking rapidly, but intentionally keeping his footfalls light.

Marcus hissed a warning. Both men froze as the footsteps neared the entrance of the alley.

Andre might have a way with words, but even he’d be hard pressed to explain why they were holding an unconscious, half-dressed national guardsman between them.