Page 68 of Souvenir Heart

“Didn’t you say we’re almost there?” Marcus tightened his grip around Marguerite’s waist. Wisps of her hair ticked his chin. “I can manage...”

Andre chuckled, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Can you?”

“These stupors rarely last long. There’s no hint of fever.”

“Marcus,” Andre’s blue eyes, always piercing, seemed suddenly sharper in the coach’s lamp light. “Is this…” he nodded towards Marguerite. “Is she going to be a problem?”

“She is proving…somewhat challenging,” he admitted. “But I’ve dealt with difficult recruits before.”

“Mme de Rouvroy is not a recruit. She is the reason we are here.”

“We’ve found her and gotten her out of prison. Now we just have to get her out of France.”

“And deliver her to her father,” Andre added.

At the thought of Marguerite’s father, Marcus’s gut twisted. “All of our missions involve challenges.”

“True. But not all of them involve a beautiful and clever woman.”

“Elizabeth Harcrest…”

“Was not part of the mission. And not your woman.”

“Marguerite de Rouvroy is not mine.”

“And that, my dear Tyns, is the heart of the matter,” Andre said, eying the tangle of female limbs in Marcus’s arms. “Lady Elizabeth was Dinsmore’s woman, but this one is your responsibility. Perhaps I should refine my question: can you keep the two notions separate?”

“Are you asking whether I can control myself…?”

Andre’s brow arched. He said in a mixture of French and English, “Your usual sang-froid is becoming noticeably chaud.”

“We have what? A week and a half left together before we reach England.” Marcus looked down at Marguerite. She shifted in his arms. “And the woman believes I’m a bloody mercenary.”

“When in fact, you’re just a simple spy.”

“An occupation she’d doubtless find equally disreputable.”

Andre made a disgusted noise, “You sound like one of my sisters, protesting that she hadn’t the faintest idea the young man who suggested they step outside the ballroom to admire the stars was interested in anything more than astrology.”

“We do nothing but fight…”

“Quite passionately.” He cocked his head, studying the way Marguerite’s fingers were tangled in Marcus’s cravat. “Sunshine and leather, by God.”

The slot above Andre’s head slid open and David’s voice filled the carriage, a welcome interruption. “We’re across from the alley where they were supposed to make the drop.”

“That would be the key to the safehouse and the latest info on security in the area,” Andre said to Marcus. When the carriage slowed, he unhooked one of the lanterns hanging inside the coach, swung open the door and jumped out.

Marcus sat in the near darkness, feeling the warm weight of Marguerite in his arms, listening to the soft whisper of her breath. He laid the back of his hand on her forehead. Damp but still blessedly cool. He looked down at her. At the curve of dark lashes against her pale cheeks. There were smudges of gray beneath her nose and along the delicate line of her jaw. He shook his head; recognizing the graphite he’d given her.

Clever woman. He thought about the way she’d walked out of the Conciergerie. How she’d given nothing away. Brave woman. He felt his chest tighten, traced the cut the razor-sharp button had left on his palm.

She’d been terrified. Not at all surprising, given what she’d been facing. But he had been, too. Not for himself, but for her. He didn’t want to think about why.

Damn Andre Scott for forcing him to.

Marguerite de Rouvroy had been living in hell. She might be free from the Conciergerie, but her safety was far from assured. She was depending on him to deliver her to England.

She was frightened, vulnerable, and in his care. Only a brute would take advantage of that.