Page 67 of Souvenir Heart

Her hairline prickled with sweat.

Andre leaned forward.

Marguerite turned her head to see what he was doing; it was like trying to shift a bag of wet wool. Marcus was unscrewing the top of a silver flask. “What are Tyns?”

“Tyns, short for my name. Tyndale.” He bent towards her, saying firmly, “drink this.”

Tyndale? Not Tisset, then. She had the odd desire to test the unfamiliar consonants, but she found forming words surprisingly difficult. As if the blazing energy that had propelled her out of the prison and into the night, had abruptly winked out.

“Here,” he placed the flask in her hands, guiding it to her lips, one hand cradling the back of her head. His strength replacing hers. She swallowed. Tasted the smooth burn of cognac. “You,” she mumbled, “weren’t there.”

“I wasn’t able to get through the gates as quickly as you. But I’m here now, Marguerite.” Her name sounded like a caress. She looked up at him; she was having trouble focusing. She could smell his skin though, and his hair. Sunshine. Leather.

“Remind me to try my hand at forging a set of chief prosecutor’s orders.”

“Wouldn’t…recommend.”

He laughed softly. “Do you ever stop arguing?”

She wanted to ask if he ever did. But her jaw, her limbs, felt as if they were weighted down with sodden quilts. She was so cold.

“How far to the safe house?” Marcus demanded in English.

“Not much longer,” Andre answered in the same language.

She didn’t know what a safe house was, but the word ‘safe,’ though harsher than the French sûr, sounded impossibly lovely.

The hand that had been cradling her head shifted, an arm slid under her neck, and she found herself resting against the reassuring solidity of his chest. “Water,” she whispered.

He leaned close. “What?” he asked, reverting to French.

“Water.”

“We only have cognac. Do you want more?”

“No.” Saying the word took so much energy.

“I’ve seen this after a battle.” Marcus spoke again in English. “Particularly after fierce fighting. A young soldier will come through just fine. Often better than fine. Heroically. As she has done. Then suddenly, they fall into a stupor.”

He pressed his hand against her forehead. She felt the odd mix of smooth skin and calluses.

“No fever, thank God. Hold on, my sweet, we’re almost there.”

Not sweet. She wanted to tear off the stolen uniform. Scrub her skin and hair until her time in the Conciergerie was only a memory. “I…reek.” Her cheek fell against his chest. “You,” she inhaled deeply, “smell like sunshine and leather.” And then she sank into blackness.

Forty-Two

Marcus prided himself on his ability to keep women at a distance, but he was failing miserably with Marguerite de Rouvroy. He was acutely aware of her head against his chest, her shoulder beneath his arm, the length of her hip and thigh in men’s trousers pressed against his own, her hand resting on his knee. He was finding it difficult to think clearly, but if he let go of her, she’d fall. He tightened his grip around her shoulders.

“Did she just say you smell like sunshine and leather?” Andre’s tone suggested he was finding far too much amusement in Marcus’s predicament.

“It’s battle shock.” He scowled. “She’s delirious.”

“Hmm.” Andre stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Is commenting on a gentleman’s aroma something soldiers often do in the aftermath of a battle?”

Marguerite stirred and mumbled; Marcus leaned closer to hear what she was saying and his nostrils filled with the odor of sweat and the prison. “Senses get heightened under stress. She said she reeks.” He wrinkled his nose. “And she’s not wrong.”

“My senses are under no stress. Would you like me to take her for you?” Andre leaned forward, arms outstretched.