Page 91 of Souvenir Heart

Andre left them in a section of the abandoned quarry, furnished with blankets, lanterns, and a hamper of food. The lanterns were arranged in a circle around them, creating a golden bubble that seemed to float in a sea of darkness. It was so eerily quiet the crackle and hiss of the candle wicks was audible.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Marguerite said looking up at him. She was sitting on a blanket, arms clasping her knees, chin resting on them, studying him with those enormous dark eyes under their delicate, winged brows.

“Incredible,” Marcus agreed, thinking if he’d been asked to invent his own rings of hell, one of them would surely include this place, miles below the earth. And with his vulnerabilities laid bare by Andre’s betrayal to a woman who was threatening to blow up the carefully constructed foundations of his life.

A woman who was seated so close he could smell the sweat on her skin and the perfume of her hair.

Her image had been burned in his mind from the first moment he’d seen her, and still, he was unable to prevent his gaze from fixing on the elegant curve of her neck and the hollow of her collarbone. The way her fichu accented the swell of her breasts. Like wrapping on a gift.

At least she wasn’t wearing breeches—he’d barely refrained from throttling Andre when he’d suggested that she might wear them for the trek through the tunnels. The last thing he needed was to spend the next two or three days looking at Marguerite’s legs.

“So,” she said, interrupting his waking nightmare.

Or was it a daymare? Surrounded by perpetual darkness, there was no way of telling.

“Is it part of your plan for us to sit in silence?

Andre’s question echoed mockingly in his head. And, if the lady sees a side of you other than the base one you’re determined to show her…would that be such a terrible thing, my friend?

He pressed his lips together. If he let the silence stretch, if he didn’t speak to her, then he wouldn’t need to look at her. And if he didn’t look at her, then he might not be tempted to reach across the distance separating them. She had the softest skin.

“For what, the next two days?”

He gripped his scarred forearm, fingers pressed tight as if he could dam the surging pulse of blood from his racing heart. He’d concentrate on what would come after this, on how they’d escape from the city. He’d given Andre and David their marching orders. But there were still so many details he needed to consider.

“Or do you think it will be three?”

“Two.” Releasing his forearm, he focused on a spot several inches to the left of her foot. “What do you suggest we discuss? The weather?”

The air in the quarry was cool, a welcome relief from the sweltering heat of the city above, and yet he could feel beads of sweat prickling at his hairline.

“I doubt the weather will be much of a concern down here. Though the coolness is most welcome. This June has been unseasonably warm.”

“Indeed.” With an effort he kept his gaze on the irregular bits of limestone and earth beside her foot.

“Still, the weather is a very English topic for discussion. You are English, M’sieur possibly-Tyndale, are you not? Despite your most excellent French? How do you come to speak it so well? French lovers? A French wife?”

He looked up at her. On her face was the same expression she’d captured in her portrait, that provocative mix of critical amusement and keen observation. “French mother. She could speak English, but generally chose not to, particularly at home. She considered English an inferior language. And after the war, I spent several years in Paris.”

“The war in the Americas?”

He nodded.

“Where you managed to get yourself buried alive.”

“You make it sound intentional.”

Her lips curved upwards. “No more intentional than my sketch of Marat winding up in the hands of the Committee of Public Safety.”

“Indeed.” He supposed he ought to apologize for his first, poorly chosen words to her. But then again, if she hadn’t drawn the fish, rescuing her would have been a far simpler affair. “It was quite a fine sketch. I particularly admired the depth and muscularity of the fish scales—quite realistic. The dorsal fin was a clever touch.”

A wrinkle appeared between her delicately arched brows “Are you mocking me?”

“Not at all. I’m quite serious. Consider me an admirer. Of your work,” he added hastily. “I spent a considerable amount of time in Paris in the 1780s, racketing about the art salons and galleries.”

“Studying to be an artist?”

“More like playing at it. But then, you’ve seen my sketchbook, so you already know that.” As he said it, he couldn’t help thinking his life was increasingly full of things he wished for, but could not have.