Page 106 of Souvenir Heart

Marcus was still ahead of them, fast approaching the square, three-story tax office with its distinctive columns and arches. Its broken windows and fire-blackened walls remained unrepaired since the early days of the Revolution. Marguerite knew that beyond the building lay the gates. But she couldn’t see them; the view was blocked by a pea green Berlin, squatting like an ancient toad in the muddy road. It was surrounded by an obstacle course of battered furniture.

She leaned forward, bridging her reins, her hands on either side of the horse’s neck. The mare’s mane whipped her cheeks. She focused on controlling the unfamiliar horse; she already knew the way through. She’d memorized it: Marcus impressing the order and placement of each piece of furniture with kisses on her belly and breasts: Table, chair, table, table, chair...

“See, I’ve got my papers.” David was standing beside a high-backed chair, waving the documents she’d watched Marcus prepare, working deliciously half-naked in the flickering lantern light

“I’m David Corbet. This coach used to belong to some aristocrat. He has no use for it now. I use it as a hackney cab—see, here’s the paper for that. But today, I’m using it to take this furniture to my brother-in-law, Jacques Dubois. Lives in Darnétal, you’ll see I’ve got papers to travel there. He’s going to repair it, and we’re going to sell it.”

Table. Marguerite readied herself for the first jump.

The guards surrounding the gate were too busy arguing with David to notice the approaching horses.

“You’ve been blocking the gate for nearly an hour,” one of them shouted.

“I just have to finish repacking my goods.”

“You didn’t have to unpack them in the first place.” The guard fanned his sweat-soaked hair and begrimed face with his hat.

“I’m a patriot, me. And do you know what good patriots do? They set an example for their fellow citizens. Inspections are a pain in the ass, yes, but they’re the price of liberty. A big coach like this, you shouldn’t just wave it through. Think of how the late king, God curse his name, almost escaped. Why, I could be hiding an entire family of aristocrats. Inspect away, citizens!”

Marguerite could see the details of the table now, a heavily carved console. She heard Andre, riding behind her. They’d agreed he’d come to her aid if anyone tried to stop her.

“See,” David swung open the coach door and an enormous brindle dog jumped out, barking enthusiastically.

She was prepared for the dog; had watched with amusement as the three men had coaxed the beast into the Berlin with a mixture of encouragement and beef bones. The guard, however, was not. He backed up, waving hands and hat, and screaming, “Get him off me,” as the dog leapt forward.

Another guard, who’d been leaning on his rifle while his companion had been arguing with David, stepped forward, lifted his gun and aimed it at the dog.

David, catching sight of the rifle’s turn, screamed “No!” Lunging forward, he wrapped his massive arms around the dog’s belly. He, dog and guard went crashing down, into a rolling, yelping, yelling heap, just outside the gate.

Marcus’s horse, a dappled grey, sailed over the console.

“Stop them!” A third guard man who’d been sitting on the stairs of the grant house, rose to his feet, his attention turning from the tangle with the dog, to them. “Stop that man in brown.”

“He’s ours,” Marguerite shouted.

Andre, passing her on the right, held his saber aloft, and yelled, “Out of our way, out of our way, he’s the Rouen assassin.”

As her horse leapt over the console, she could see Marcus’s horse clearing a chair.

Andre followed, then pulled ahead, a flash of blue, white and bay gelding as his horse’s flying hooves toppled a chair.

One less for me. The mare’s muscles bunched and stretched; they soared over it, too.

The guard who’d been aiming at the dog, swung his gun around, pointing it at Marcus.

“No!” she screamed.

Marcus didn’t turn, didn’t slow. He rode straight at the man, reins in one hand. He swung his other arm out, grabbed the weapon, then shoved back hard, sending the man sprawling backwards into the mud. Even before the man hit the ground, Marcus cleared another table, the gray thundering past towards the gate.

A guard stumbled towards them, desperately trying to run, pour powder, and load shot.

“Out of my way!” Andre slashed the weapon from him with his saber. Gunpowder flew sparkling into the air. “He’s ours. Rouen’s!”

Marguerite crouched over her horse’s neck, knees tight, mane whipping her face, as she flew over the last hurdle, an absurdly delicate rosewood tea table, and towards the open gate. Marcus and Andre had almost reached it. David, the dog, and the guard who’d been inspecting his papers, still were struggling to untangle their flailing limbs. As she neared them, another guard ran past. Stopped. Shouldered his weapon, the barrel aimed at Marcus.

“Gun!” The word came out in a guttural roar.

She didn’t know if it was the sound of her voice, or the bang of the gun, that made him turn as his horse carried him through the gate. Only that she could have sworn his eyes met hers, those severe yet sensuous lips curving in a smile—as his hand flew to his chest and he was obscured by a mist of red.