Page 44 of Souvenir Heart

“Hear me out,” he murmured against her ear.

She lifted her chin. Which had the unfortunate result of drawing her eyes level with those stern, but sensual, lips.

“You will finish my portrait?” Marisol inquired hesitantly.

Marcus turned to look at Marisol. Speaking with a gentleness she hadn’t heard from him before, he said. “It is nearly complete, Citizeness Auginot. And even if it were not, I should have no trouble remembering your sweet countenance.”

Marisol’s thin hand fluttered at her chest. “You flatter me, citizen.”

“I do not flatter.” He nodded at where his sketchbook lay amidst the straw. “See for yourself.”

Marisol picked it up, her lips forming an ‘O’ of wonder as she examined his portrait of her. “It’s lovely,” she breathed, looking up at him hopefully. “Is it truly me?”

“It is the job of an artist to ‘correct and amend the common Nature, and to represent it as it was first created without fault,’ citizeness.”

Was he quoting De Arte Graphica? The thought was swept away, as a rebellious strand of his hair tickled her cheek; his scent of sunshine and leather filled her nostrils. Already caught off balance by his unexpected appearance, and even more unexpected kiss, this reminder of freedom and the outside world made her sway.

His arms tightened around her, steadying her, even as his eyes remained fixed on Marisol. “It is but my draftsman’s attempt to capture you. I have none of my lady’s art.”

“You’re an artist, too, Citizeness Rouvroy?” Marisol exclaimed. “I’ve seen you sitting with paper and pencil. But I have never seen you draw…”

Marcus turned to look at Marguerite.

She didn’t know him well enough to read the expression on his face; was it worry or anger? Was this a rescue or a trap?

“Indeed,” he said, “my Marguerite is a rare talent.”

His Marguerite? And what did he know of her art?

“My apologies for taking such liberties,” he whispered in her ear, “but this is the only way we can speak privately. And we must speak, Madame. Time is running out.

As if she didn’t know.

One arm still firmly wrapped around her waist; he reached with the other for his sketchbook. “Citizeness Auginot, I promise I shall finish your portrait this evening and return with your miniature tomorrow.” With a meaningful glance at Marguerite, he added. “And I always keep my word.”

“M’sieur miniaturist, you will return tomorrow and paint me as well,” the maybe-vicomtesse commanded, craning her regal head from around her headboard.

“But of course,” he dipped his head, “It would be my pleasure to return.”

Marguerite eyed him warily.

Nodding in the direction of the beds draped with shawls and blankets, he murmured. “Do you have something like that? Something that will give us some privacy?”

Reminding herself that she’d made up her mind to speak with him even before his outrageous appearance, she eyed the arm around her waist and said, “If you will release me?”

He dropped his arm.

Marguerite turned to her bed, adding the balled-up stocking in her hand to the pile of laundry she’d spread on the mattress and sweeping the lot under the straw-filled sack that passed as a pillow. She picked up her shawl, shook it out, and began tying one corner to the outer post of her headboard. As she drew the other end across the bed, he came to stand beside her

“How are you here?” she hissed.

“Consolation portraits.” He lifted his sketchbook. “They’re, sadly, in great demand.”

She looped the other end of her shawl over the outer post of the footboard, then hesitated before tying it in a knot, her gaze moving from his broad shoulders, down the length of his right arm, to his hand. At the base of his artistic fingers, she recognized the calluses of an experienced swordsman.

Who was this man?

Ducking beneath the curtain of her shawl, she seated herself on the bed, then plucked his sketchbook from his hand.