Page 66 of Souvenir Heart

One moment her feet were on the ground, the next they were in the air. A muscular arm, tighter than a band of steel, encircled her waist. The strength of it—and the shock, knocked the breath from her lungs, so that when she opened her mouth to protest, all she could manage was “oof.”

She looked up to see the furious face of Marcus Tisset. Recognition was just dawning on her when a battered pea green coach drew up alongside them. The door opened and a strange rope and wood contraption flew out.

There was a jolt as Marcus put his foot into it, hefting her up so suddenly, she was forced to clutch his neck or risk falling. Then he stumbled inside and Marguerite found herself unceremoniously dumped onto a cushioned seat. The door slammed shut, and she was flung backwards as the coach rolled forward, Marcus on top of her.

“You,” she gasped.

He disentangled himself and dropped into the seat beside her.

She felt the thrum of desire that vibrated through her whenever she found herself next to him, mingled with other, equally strong emotions: shock, relief, and outrage. “Never came.”

“You,” he shot back, in a tone that matched hers, “didn’t wait.”

“I still think you should have invited her in. But you seem determined to stick to your plan to show her your baser self…” Andre de Saint-Just, seated across from her, cocked his head and looked at Marcus, who promptly scowled at him.

“Has he a better one?” she asked.

“He does, actually.” He ran a rueful thumb along his bruised cheek. “Though he apparently prefers to save it for special occasions.” His tone changing from amusement to wonderment he said, “You escaped on your own. Astonishing. You must have been terrified.” He leaned forward, his bright blue gaze sweeping over her. “You are unscathed, Madame?”

A sound that might have been a growl, rumbled in Marcus’s chest.

Marguerite turned to look at him. “Where were you, M’sieur Tisset? Was the payment from my father insufficient?” She pulled his watch from the pocket of her waistcoat. Dangling it from its silver fob, she mused, “Or is punctuality an unnecessary requirement for mercenaries?”

“Oof.” The look Saint-Just turned on Marcus was almost pitying.

Marcus took the pocket watch from her, his artistic fingers closing around the silver case. He exhaled slowly. “My plan,” he said stiffly, “was to keep Captain Laurent entertained until it was dark enough for the guards to be bored, tired, and not to get too close a look at you.”

His gaze moved slowly over her ankles, her stocking-clad calves, her loose-fitting breeches—more revealing than any gown she’d worn—her waistcoat and uniform jacket, and, at last, to her face.

Her face warmed as it lingered there. The thrum in her bloodstream became a throb; she scrubbed self-consciously at the charcoal under her nose and on her jawline.

One corner of his mouth twitched up. “Unfortunately, I miscalculated Captain Laurent’s capacity for drink and idle conversation. And Fouquier-Tinville’s appearance…” He shook his head, regretfully. “There was no calculating that. I was steps away from you when he ordered you out of the cell.”

The mention of the prosecutor’s name was like the lid being lifted on Pandora’s box. She now felt the emotions she hadn’t allowed herself to feel during her escape: The nausea when she recognized Fouquier-Tinville’s voice. The gut-twisting fear that at any moment, someone would see through her disguise. “I couldn’t get the key to work. It fitted into the lock easily enough, but then…” The panicked desperation as it refused to turn. “My hands were shaking…” as they were beginning to shake now.

“And when the captain opened the door for me…and the prosecutor asked me if I recognized him…” A laugh escaped her that was mixed with a sudden urge to dry heave. “As if I could forget.” Is this your sketchbook? “And I had no papers.” Her voice rose. “I didn’t know what I was going to do without them.”

He stretched a hand towards hers, then drew it back, abruptly, as if he’d been about to touch a hot stove. He patted his waistcoat pocket. “I have papers for you. I was bringing them to you.”

“Couldn’t you have given them to me earlier?”

“I’d only just finished them. I needed to make sure the inks were dry. If they were smudged, the game would have been up.”

“Game? Was this a game to you?” In the back of her mind, Marguerite knew she was being irrational—she could never have escaped without the uniform he’d smuggled in, but her emotions were rising, swirling like angry flood waters against a fractured dam. “When I got out, you were nowhere in sight.”

“I was right behind you.”

“I looked for you. You weren’t there.”

“If you’d just waited…”

“Waited?” The words spilled out. “When any moment Fouquier-Tinville might have remembered where he’d seen me before? Or one of the guards might have seen through my disguise? Do you have any idea how frightened I was?” Her hand dropped to her side; she felt the shape of the embroidered purse. Marisol.

“I can only imagine. But I saw you. You never faltered.” His hand moved again, this time his fingers reassuring and warm as they closed around hers.

The thrum that had become a throb became a breathless pounding. She was free. No longer alone. He was here. Another wave of nausea, not born of fear, but of relief, swept over her. She felt suddenly light-headed.

“Tyns,” there was a warning note in Andre’s voice. “Better give her this. She looks pale.”