Page 70 of Souvenir Heart

She picked at the knot of the ribbon holding her braid looped against her neck with fingers so clumsy it seemed a marvel they’d ever held a paint brush. Like the fichu, it seemed to take forever to undo it. But finally, finally, the weight of her plait tumbled down her back. Swinging it forward, she raked at the strands, shaking them free.

She closed her eyes, head bent forward, surrounded by a curtain of hair, panting from her efforts. It was so tempting to lie back, surrender to exhaustion. But each inhalation brought with it the cloying prison stink.

Forcing her heavy lids open, she willed her eyes to focus. On the table, in a wavering circle of the lantern light, was the pitcher, the basin, and thank the gods, a folded cloth and a dish of soap.

Two steps away and an arm’s reach. She’d gotten her clothes off, her hair unbound and hell, she’d walked out of the Conciergerie. She could do this.

Her legs felt heavy, boneless as she swung first one, then the other off the mattress. Bracing her hands on it, Marguerite leaned forward and willed herself to stand.

Forty-Four

Marcus and Andre helped David unharness the team, put away the tack and brush down the horses. Then they filled washbasins and water cans with water from a rain barrel in the yard. Marcus intended to bring them directly up to the room where he’d left Marguerite sleeping, but given the heat and labors of the day, as well as the lingering odors of the Conciergerie, he couldn’t resist stripping down and scrubbing his skin and hair. Popular opinion held that a layer of filth protected the body from disease, but Marcus found the feel of fresh water on his skin refreshing and clarifying. And lord knew he needed a clear head for what lay before them.

Pouring a can of water over his head, he tossed his hair back, enjoying the feel of cold liquid on his skin.

“Got to maintain that sunshine and leather smell, eh?” Andre said.

Pulling a wet towel from around his neck, Marcus snapped it at Andre’s head.

Andre, anticipating this response, leapt backwards with impressive speed and the cloth whistled past his nose. “Is that any way to treat a man who brought you a fresh change of clothes?” He waved a weathered traveling bag in his right hand.

Marcus reached for it.

Andre snatched it back, opening it wide, and inhaling dramatically. He shook his head with dramatic regret. “I’m not getting the scent of sunshine.”

“No doubt because of your overwhelming aroma of horse’s arse.” Marcus wrung out the towel, slung it over his shoulder, and grabbed the bag. Pulling out a fresh linen shirt and slipping it over his head, he resisted the urge to sniff it. Of course, Marguerite had been rambling. She’d just escaped France’s most notorious prison with the chief prosecutor at her side. Even the most sensible man would be left gibbering after that.

He donned stockings and breeches and stepped into his shoes. Sweeping his damp hair off his shoulders, he slung a pile of clean towels over his arm. Then he wrapped a clean handkerchief around his cut hand, and hefted the two cans of water Andre had filled for Marguerite’s bath. “Ready.”

Andre, lantern in hand, a washtub slung over his back like a copper-backed tortoise, nodded and led the way up the stairs. The only sounds in the empty house were the click clack of their shoes against the wooden treads, the ticking of a clock, and the slosh of Marcus’s buckets. While he doubted they’d wake the unconscious Madame de Rouvroy, still he made an effort to walk as softly as he could with water cans sloshing each in hand.

Let the lady get as much rest as she could before they set out on the next leg of their journey. She’d need to keep her wits about her for what lay ahead.

As would he.

He thought of the way she’d turned to him as he’d lifted her out of the carriage. Of the sigh that escaped her. The way she tucked her head under his chin, one hand resting on his arm. She was dressed like a soldier; he’d glanced down at her, trying to convince himself she was just that. And failed utterly. How had Fouquier-Tinville missed the delicate beauty of her features?

Setting her down didn’t help. The room was stuffy, her face was flushed and damp with sweat. Removing the blue uniform jacket was the sensible thing to do. Her stockings and shoes were splashed with Paris’s ubiquitous street mud. So, he took them off as well.

It had been an effort to keep his eyes from following the line of her thighs upward. He forced his gaze downwards, which unfortunately led to his lingering appreciation of her shapely legs and ankles. He snatched up a light woven blanket at the foot of the bed and tossed it over them.

He resisted the urge to wipe her face clean of the graphite smudges—like mud on the Mona Lisa—but could not keep from brushing back a renegade curl clinging damply to her forehead.

Marcus shook his head in disgust; he was acting like a love-struck moon calf. He carelessly jostled the cans of water, soaking his stockings and shoes. “Devil take it.”

Andre paused mid step and glanced back over the rim of the basin on his shoulder. “Everything alright?”

“In the bloody pink.”

He’d charged battle lines with a fixed bayonet, marched through woods full of colonial sharpshooters, clawed his way out of a pile of the dead. Why, then, was he having so much trouble steeling himself against the allure of Marguerite de Rouvroy?

She hadn’t even been grateful he’d come to her rescue. The first words to tumble from her mouth? You never came. Thinking of her words made him think of her mouth, her lips soft and full, and the taste of them.

Stifling a groan, Marcus concentrated on the squelch of his soggy shoes as he followed Andre up the stairs and down a narrow hallway.

They reached the door of the bedroom, Andre set the washbasin down, shifted the lantern from his right hand to his left, then knocked softly. Not anticipating an answer from the comatose woman within, he unlatched the door and swung it open.

Marcus followed Andre into the room, determined to think only of his studio with its long windows, rolls of canvas, and tables full of paints and brushes. Blissfully peaceful. Blissfully free of people. Gaze fixed on the floor of the little bedroom, he imagined the studio’s well-worn floor, instead of this polished one glinting in the lantern light.