Page 99 of Souvenir Heart

“D’you think those guardsmen from Rouen are still in the city?”

“I doubt it. There’s not much for them to do here. And despite all their talk of ‘fraternity,’ the Paris guardsmen aren’t likely to invite outsiders to their hunt. Less glorious victory against enemy spies to go around.”

Andre shifted his feet. A loosened tile rattled and rolled off the rooftop.

David didn’t look to see its bouncing, clattering course downwards. But it was impossible to miss the crash it made when it hit the ground. Or the shouts of consternation that followed.

The two men hunched down, backs pressed to the gable, listening for shouts of, “Men on the roof!” Or, “Hey, you up there!” Or, more ominously, “Guards!”

“I’m curious about whether you heard the same rumors we did when you were driving the cart around,” David said, deciding to address another nagging concern.

“The city’s swimming in rumors. Which ones in particular?”

“I hear the National Assembly…”

“It’s the National Convention, now.”

David waved away the correction. “They keep changing the damned names of things—months, years, streets, buildings. Makes it damned difficult to keep up.”

“And yet potentially fatal not to…”

“I hear the National Convention is about to ratify their new constitution. Marcus said a source passed you a copy of the draft that’s been submitted for Robespierre’s approval. Do you think that will soften Grenville’s fury over this impromptu mission?”

“So long as we get back to England,” David said, “the good Lord Grenville’s welcome to be as furious with us as he likes.”

Fifty-Nine

Marguerite’s thoughts were as disorganized as shattered stained glass, but she was well aware of the dangers of wandering alone in this place, with only a lantern and in her bare feet. She was standing a short distance from Marcus, concealed behind a column of stone and a pile of long-abandoned chunks of limestone.

“I know you’re angry with me. God knows I’m even clumsier with words than I am with a brush.”

He’d have to be a one-armed house-painter to be any clumsier.

“But I swear on my life, I wasn’t trying to trap you.”

Rocks skittered and crunched as he took a step forward. She bent forward, shielding the glow of her lantern.

“I’m not a mercenary. It’s not about the money. God damn it, Marguerite, it’s about you.”

The pain in his voice matched the pain in her chest, a feeling as if her heart was folding inward. She wanted to believe him. He’d saved her life. Saved her art—her father certainly hadn’t paid him to do that. And when she’d been in his arms, it was as if he’d given her back some lost part of herself.

“You escaped the Conciergerie. You’re the only one in history to do so. Are you going to throw that away…because I’m…” His voice was raw. “I know life in England won’t be easy. But think of all the people who never got a second chance.”

Marisol. She closed her eyes, though it made little difference in the utter darkness of the quarry.

“Please…just…come back. Where it’s safe.”

Was he afraid of losing her? Or losing the fortune her father had promised him?

The connection she felt to him, the passion in their lovemaking, surely it was no fantasy. But even imagining she might be wrong was so sickening, it made her dizzy. Limestone pebbles skittered as she sank to her knees. Perhaps it would be better—simpler—to stop now.

His footsteps quickened, his lantern light spinning wildly about the walls. “Did you fall? Are you hurt? Dear God, tell me you’re not hurt.”

She covered her hands with her face, pressing back the agonizing emotional pain, the tears burning for release.

“If you come back, I promise I won’t try and touch you.” He heaved a ragged sigh. “No. I won’t promise that...I can’t…I…” He hesitated. “I swear I’ll keep my distance. I can do that.” He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “I did it before. Before you. For eleven years.”

“Eleven years?” The number was so oddly precise, she couldn’t help repeating it.