Page 56 of Souvenir Heart

“Grunt?” he repeated, feeling very much the world’s biggest idiot.

The matron at the far end of the cell was beginning to intersperse her early cry of “disgusting,” with additional ones of “disgraceful,” “appalling,” and “young women these days!”

Marcus didn’t lie down, only leaned back against the headboard and stretched out his legs.

“Or whatever noise it is you make to the women with whom you share your beds.”

“The only female with whom I share my bed is a Jack Russel bitch who has a propensity to steal my stockings.”

“Your stockings are safe with me. But while we’re on the subject of stockings …”

Were they? He thought of the stockings she’d been holding when he’d entered the cell the previous day. With the delicately embroidered flowers at the ankle and the thigh.

She pushed aside the box and the artist’s tube, squeezing herself into the space between him and the wall.

“What other men’s clothes have you brought me?”

Of course she was talking about the rescue. It was the whole reason he was there. But she was distractingly close, and he was finding it difficult to refocus his attention on the task at hand. Still, he was supposed to be the one giving her instructions. This was his plan.

Marcus gestured at the artist’s tube she’d pushed towards the end of the bed, grateful that he was right-handed. His left arm was wedged against her soft curves. She leaned across his legs and retrieved it. “This?”

Instructions, he told himself firmly.

“Hmmh.” Marguerite frowned as she sat up, examining the tube. “This looks just like mine. Even the green smear near the tie.”

“It is yours.”

“You stole it from my apartments?” Her eyes narrowed.

He suspected she was wondering what else he’d taken. Marcus was considering telling her he’d rescued three of her paintings as well, when she flipped open the cap, peered inside and said, “You brought wine?”

Removing the tube from her grasp, he drew out the bottle neck, reached inside and pulled out the tightly rolled jacket and waistcoat.

“Cleverly done.” She raised an admiring eyebrow. Then she leaned close and whispered in his ear, “As I suspected, you’re planning to smuggle me out as a soldier.”

“As you suspected?” he whispered back. First Rouen, now this. Was he becoming careless?

“I heard Saint-Just talking to the guards about the attack on that soldier, thought about what you’d hidden in the mattress, and well, it was obvious.”

Not that obvious. Marcus bit back the retort, telling himself rescuing a clever woman would be far easier than rescuing a simple one. Wouldn’t it?

“I’m already wearing the things you’ve brought me under my gown but that…” she frowned at the blue jacket. “Will be difficult to conceal…”

“The mattress…” He gestured in the direction of the slash he’d made.

“Will have to do. But it’s getting rather close.”

Stuffing the jacket into the space he’d cut proved difficult on a narrow mattress designed for a single body. Marcus found himself steadying Marguerite with his hands around her waist as she tugged the blanket free, lifted up the flap he’d cut into the side of the mattress, then shoved the coat and waistcoat inside. The shawl shielding them from the eyes of her cellmates, billowed and flapped around them. Marguerite moaned enthusiastically, encouraging the impression they were making love, instead of plans for an escape.

“You’re both going to burn in hell,” said the outraged matron in the bed at the end cell.

“I daresay they’re already burning,” added the woman in the bed next to hers, in a tone of great amusement.

Marcus, holding Marguerite as she twisted and turned against him, felt fairly certain he could feel the lick of flames.

“There.” She stopped wrestling with the mattress and sat up, panting. “That should do it.” Her brow glistened with beads of perspiration and her cheeks were flushed. “So,” she placed a hand on his chest, leaned close to him, and put her lips to his ear. “When?”

He slid his fingers into the tangle of her hair and pulled her closer. “Tonight. When the lights are out and the rest are abed, dress.” He drew the partial key out of his waistcoat pocket and slipped it under the palm pressed against his chest. “Take this. It should fit the cell door.” Then, after debating several moments, he fished his beloved pocket watch out and slid it under her hand as well. “This, too. Be ready by eight. Wait for me.”