Page 96 of Souvenir Heart

“Are you so certain that your husband wasn’t a gelding, rather than a stallion?”

In truth, it hadn’t mattered who was at fault, only whom Gerard had chosen to blame. He was gone. There was nothing left to tie her to him or to the de Rouvroy family. She had money in the bank, freedom to paint, and, thanks to Marcus, artwork with which to make her name. “You needn’t worry about it.”

“But I do,” he persisted.

“Why is this so important to you?”

He gripped her arm, eyes boring into hers. “I will never leave a child behind.”

She peered up at him, at the fierce expression on his face. Like a soldier who’d chosen the hill he would die on. Had he been discarded as child? He’d mentioned his French mother, but not his father. “Are you a bastard?”

He inhaled sharply. His grip tightened. “Does my social status matter? Do you think I’m not good enough to be the father of your child?”

She would have laughed again at the absurd twists their conversation was taking. All over emotions she didn’t feel and for something that would almost certainly never happen. But the tension in his face, his body, made it clear this was painfully serious for him. “How can you even think that? After everything you’ve told me about yourself—that you’re a forger, a thief, a mercenary, a murderer, I freely gave myself to you. Why would you imagine discovering you were born on the wrong side of the blanket would change how I feel about you?”

His expression—fiercely determined, didn’t alter, and a chill swept over her. “Or is it my social status that is of interest to you?” She scrabbled for her chemise, pulled it on, began searching for her stays. “Is that why you made love to me? Because you think if you get me with child, I will have to marry you? That you will be able to lay claim to an even greater fortune than the one my father has promised you?

“You really are a mercenary,” she whispered, her body shaking with disbelief as she scrambled to her feet, stepped into her stays. He’d always seemed to be there when she faltered, ready to catch her. Catch her. She fumbled with the laces, as the words took on a different meaning. “Is that why you’ve been so kind to me? So gentle? So caring.” Her voice broke.

“May I remind you, Madame de Rouvroy,” he said stiffly. “You were the one who kissed me first.”

“You kissed me in my cell.”

“It was part of the job.”

Her body went cold.

“I tried to resist you.”

“Do forgive me,” she said, attempting to match the formality of his tone. Attempting to breathe. “For forcing myself on you. For besmirching your nobility. Or rather, your bastardy. Because regardless of who you really are, Marcus Tyndale, you are a proper bastard.”

She’d thought she’d learned from her betrayal and her imprisonment, but it was clear she’d learned nothing. Nothing.

Her fingers were like wet dough. Abandoning her efforts to tie her stays properly, she looked desperately around for her dress. She pulled it on over her head, knotted the sash.

“Marguerite…”

Marcus’s voice sounded shocked. Confused. The way she felt. Snatching up a lantern, she stumbled out of the circle of light and into the darkness.

“Where are you going?”

Marguerite didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get as far away as possible from him.

Fifty-Seven

Standing naked and alone in the circle of lanterns, Marcus felt as if Marguerite had reached in, pulled his rib cage apart and yanked out his heart. How had he gotten here?

One minute they’d been lying together, close as two heartbeats. All he’d wanted to do was tell her that no matter what the future held, he would always be there to protect her. That he’d never give her cause to regret their lovemaking.

Then he’d opened his mouth and somehow managed to do the exact opposite.

And she’d run from him, stumbling into a darkness so complete and so full of twisting, turning tunnels that people who became lost in them were sometimes never found.

“Marguerite, wait. Stop.” But the only answer was his desperate voice echoing around the walls of the quarry.

He pulled the shirt over his head, slipped into the breeches, and tied the laces. What had he said that was so terrible?

He’d offered to marry her, for God’s sake.