Page 81 of Souvenir Heart

“Diverse,” he said, one corner of his severe mouth curving up. He spread out wax, seals, engraving tools, and a small pile of documents on the table in front of her.

“Are you really mercenaries?”

“Does it matter?” He studied her face with those fire-lit, cognac eyes.

She pressed her lips together. She shouldn’t have asked. Why should it matter who or what he really was? Once they reached England, she’d probably never see him again.

The weight on her chest returned, sharper, heavier.

“Study these,” he said, tapping the pile of documents with his index finger. His eyes met hers. “Take as much time as you need.”

She suspected it might take far longer than a few hours.

“Familiarize yourself with the composition, the color, the odd details. Try to forget you’re the brilliant artist Marguerite de Rouvroy.” He tapped a pass with a seal featuring a bare-breasted woman holding a pike. “Look at all the glorious imperfections, the shaky lines, the clumsy proportions.”

Shaky lines? Bad proportions?

“Confidence and imperfection, those are hallmarks of the finest forgeries.”

Imperfection she might manage, but… “Confidence?”

“If you’re going to forge a signature, make it big, like the thought of being caught never entered your mind. “Believe in yourself.” He looked at her as if casting down a gauntlet. “Be audacious.”

She studied the curious dichotomy of his artist/warrior hands, her gaze traveling up his arms, the muscles visible through his cotton shirt, to his broad shoulders and heart-stoppingly handsome face. He was like his art box, she thought. Full of hidden surprises.

She wasn’t ashamed of wanting him, of having kissed him. But he’d made it clear that he didn’t want her. Hadn’t he?

Marguerite picked up a pass and examined it. The printing and the design of the seal were rudimentary. Nothing like what she’d been trying to achieve in her studio. She felt the intensity of his gaze on her and looked up. “Do you really intend for me to become a forger?”

“It never hurts to explore new skills while you’re figuring out what comes next.”

Her heart, which had begun to beat faster, skipped a beat.

He picked up a jacket slung over a chair and shrugged into it.

“You’re leaving…” The words tumbled out, but she pressed her lips together before she could complete the sentence, me alone.

“Only for a short time. There are things I must see to, in order to ensure our escape goes smoothly.”

She fought the urge to beg him to stay. Lifted her chin, reminding herself she’d been through far worse things in recent days than a few hours on her own in a stranger’s house.

She steeled herself, waiting for him to turn and walk out the door. Instead, he stood, surveying the contents of the kitchen, dark brows furrowed. In another moment, he began gathering up the things he’d laid out for her on the table and placing them beneath it.

“What are you doing?”

Striding over to a large set of shelves, he pulled out a thickly folded tablecloth, shook it open, and flung it out over the table. He circled the table, tugging it here and there so that its edges hung nearly to the floor on the side facing the kitchen windows.

Stepping back, he studied his handiwork. Then he lifted a corner of the cloth as if it was a tent flap and gestured for her to enter.

“You want me to get under the table?”

Nodding, he held out his hand, “Your studio awaits, Maître de Rouvroy.”

She studied the lines of his severely handsome face closely but could detect no mockery in his expression. Grasping his hand, she bent down and entered the linen-draped haven he’d created for her. The filtered sunlight through the tablecloth settled around her like a fine lace shawl.

“Not to worry,” he said, kneeling beside her, his fingers tight around hers. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’ll add the price of my interior design services to your father’s bill.”

Fifty