Page 107 of Souvenir Heart

Pain shot through her, as if the ball had torn through her own body. Her horse still galloping forward, Marguerite watched helplessly as Marcus’s body sagged over the neck of his horse. The gray did not stop, clearly terrified, as it raced down the road towards freedom.

She urged her horse to go faster, past the coach, the tangle of men, through the gate. The explosion of blood, like a lingering nightmare, tinting her vision red. She thought of Marisol, of the maybe-vicomtesse, of all the rest she’d met in prison, their heads sliced from their bodies.

So much blood.

Marcus was still riding. Andre was still riding. She knew David must be getting back into the coach. Driving it through the gate, through the chaos, blocking their pursuers. Just as Marcus had planned.

He couldn’t be dead.

She had to keep moving, no matter what happened. That’s what Marcus had said. Everything depended on each of them sticking to their assigned roles.

So she kept riding, even when, through the dust and the shimmering heat of the June sun, she saw Marcus tumble from the horse. He hit the ground, limbs splayed, his body still.

Sixty-Three

Marguerite swallowed the agonized howl that tore through every fiber of her being. Her horse surged forward. Marcus’s last—please God not final, words to her had been, “Whatever happens, whatever you see, keep going.” And then, he’d kissed her. A quick press of his lips to her forehead.

Would she ever feel them again? She leaned forward. Tightened her grip on the reins. Spurred her horse. There would be more time. More kisses. There had to be.

Andre reined in his horse ahead of her. He swung out of the saddle. Knelt beside Marcus’s body.

No. Not beside his body. Beside Marcus.

“Is he alive?” she demanded.

Marcus lay belly down on the ground, his head turned to one side, a rapidly growing puddle of blood pooling in the dirt.

Andre pressed two fingers to Marcus’s neck just below the jaw. Then he gripped his jaw, turning Marcus’s head this way and that. He released it and stood. Stepping back, he hooked a boot under Marcus’s side, flipping him over as if he was a sack of rotting potatoes.

Marguerite couldn’t see Marcus’s face; it was turned away from her. Blood and dirt matted his brown waistcoat, the linen at his throat.

“He’s dead,” Andre said, looking past her at a guardsman, a man she hadn’t even noticed following them.

Dead. If she hadn’t been holding the pommel of her saddle, she might have fallen.

The guardsman reined his horse up beside them. “You sure?”

Andre nodded at him, then gestured back at the gate. “Tell that idiot with the coach we could use his help. Rouen wants the fellow alive or dead.” He gave a grim chuckle. “Dead’s going to be a hell of a lot easier.”

The guard, a lean man with pox scars, glanced back over his shoulder. The coach was still blocking the gate. The dog was tied to a wheel rim, and David was gathering up the furniture. He scowled at the obstacle course which now resembled a barricade. Then, turning back to Andre, he said, “You’re absolutely certain the bastard’s dead?”

“You want to check?” Andre nudged Marcus in the ribs with his boot. “Bloody mess, massive hole in his chest, but you’re welcome to look.”

“I’ve seen my share of dead men. City’s running out of places to put them.” The man cocked his chin at Marcus. “And I’ve more than enough work to do this morning. Far as I’m concerned, Rouen can have that one.” With a glance up at the blazing mid-morning sun, he added, “Though he’s going to stink to the high heavens by the time you get him there.”

Andre nodded in agreement. “I thought about taking just the head, but it’s a devil of a chore and I’ve only got the one clean uniform. That’s why I’m asking for the coach. Figured I’ll make the reek the driver’s concern. Tell him he’s been commandeered. Official business.”

“Only fair, the way the stupid sod’s jammed up traffic.” Wheeling his horse around, the guardsman trotted back to the gate.

Marguerite knotted her reins and slipped her feet out the stirrups.

Andre put up a hand to stop her from dismounting. “Stay where you are.”

he hissed. “Don’t look at Marcus. Or, if you do, look at him like you don’t give a damn.”

He glanced towards the gate; the guardsman had reached the Berlin and was pointing at them. David seated atop the box, the dog beside him, flicked the reins, and the team started forward. A few moments later, it rumbled to stop in front of them.

“Did you have to bring that beast?” Andre glared at the dog who was panting in canine delight.