Page 43 of Souvenir Heart

Argen pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and began sorting through them with the stump of his missing index finger.

Marcus watched him, committing the shape and size of the key to memory.

The guard swung the cell door open, motioning for him to enter. “Take your time. I’ve other duties to attend to.”

Marcus stood for a moment, as the pieces of the plan forming in his mind snapped into place. Marguerite de Rouvroy was a fighter.

He was going to bet his life on it.

Thirty

“Time’s up,” a guard stepping into the center of the courtyard announced. “Gather up your things. Let’s go.”

Marguerite braced herself as she joined the crowd shuffling into a line. It was always difficult to go from the sunny courtyard’s illusion of freedom to their fetid confines. With each step, she felt the gloom saturate her hopes like a dark pool of water, dragging them down.

She lifted her chin. She would not give up.

At least for today, she was among the lucky ones. Still alive, the warmth of the sun lingering on her skin, her arms filled with clean linen. She pressed her nose into the damp bundle, inhaling the scents of rosewater and sun-warmed limestone, which almost, but not quite masked the prison’s prevailing odors of sweat, despair, and shit.

Her nose still buried in her laundry, her eyes half closed, she stumbled back up the stairs, through the wickets, and finally, back into the narrow cell with its rows of beds. Shawls and petticoats were slung between headboards and footboard in an attempt to provide their occupants with a modicum of precious privacy.

Setting her shawl down on the mattress, she unknotted it and began removing the damp washing. She draped a stocking over her headboard, wondering if it would dry or simply molder in the dank cell air.

“Marguerite, only look, I’m having my portrait done!”

She turned to see Marisol, the little blonde hairdresser, perched on the edge of her mattress, back perfectly straight, face turned slightly, hands resting on a mirror on her lap. She was dressed in a white day dress, a pale blue sash around her tiny waist. A simple fichu was artfully arranged around her neck, concealing the fragile architecture of her shoulders and neck. Her hair was a masterpiece of curls, plaits, and ribbons.

“You look lovely.” If there were dark circles under her eyes, if her skin was a shade too gray, and her mouth a worried pinch, surely a kind-hearted artist would correct them with his brush.

She looked past Marisol to find the artist. Her mouth dropped open, and her heart stumbled like an awkward child.

Marcus Tisset was sitting on the edge of Marisol’s bed. He was dressed in a navy waistcoat and buff breeches, a sketchbook propped on his well-muscled thighs.

She’d only just decided to send for him; she wasn’t prepared for the full force of him, sitting composed and elegant amongst the chaotic confines of the cell. His powerful, almost arrogant confidence made her want to throw herself into the shelter of his arms—and also to slap him.

As if reading her mind and finding her confusion amusing, Marcus raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on his severe lips. Alternatively, he might be smiling at the sight of the single, thigh-high stocking she was holding up with its dainty pattern of embroidered forget-me-nots. Marguerite flushed, stuffing the intimate item behind her back.

“You are surprised—no shocked and delighted to see him!” Marisol clapped her hands in pleasure. “I had no idea when I received his card and asked him to paint a miniature of me, that you and he are…”

“He and I are…?” Marguerite prompted with rising trepidation.

“Lovers.” Marisol finished, clasping her hands to her chest with a romantic sigh.

“Lovers?” Marguerite rose. “We are not…” But her protest was lost as he dropped his sketchbook, swept her up in his arms and kissed her with a ruthless efficiency that made her head spin and her toes curl.

“Mon coeur,” he said, releasing her lips, but not her body. “You have no idea how I’ve longed to see you.”

“So romantic,” Marisol sighed.

“Decorum,” tsked the maybe-vicomtesse.

“Let ‘em be,” scoffed a woman in an adjacent bed, who was almost certainly a prostitute.

“To speak with you,” he added with a low-voiced urgency.

“Speak?” she repeated, barely able to form the word. She felt breathless, hot, tingling. Furious at the liberties he was taking, but also swept by the desire to feel…more.

She drew back as far as his firm embrace would allow. She was stressed. Tired. It had been too long—no, never—since she’d been held and kissed like that. Her response to this man, this complete stranger, was purely physical. As it was when her foot jerked out when someone struck her knee just so….