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“Yes.” But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. She was like a lodestone pulling him closer, setting him off course, making him forget his true path. “I can’t let you go.”
Her eyebrows shot up, and he realized he’d said this aloud. He took another step back from her, trying to break her spell, then scrubbed his hands over his eyes—mainly to stop himself from staring at her and imagining her naked in his arms.
“What I mean is”—he turned away from her, studied the gray view from the porthole—“I can’t allow you to go into Paris alone.”
“Allow?”
He imagined her eyebrows rose again, but this time with more indignation than surprise. He should have chosen his words more carefully. He turned to face her, noted her eyes were sharp and clear and her hands were on her hips. “I was hoping you’d allow me to escort you into Paris, my…citoyenne.”
She shook her head. “I don’t need an escort.”
“Nevertheless.” He spread his hands. “As a gentleman, I feel obliged.” He thought of his father and his brothers. If they could hear him now they’d be falling on their arses laughing.
“How chivalrous you are.” She lifted the sack on her berth and tucked it under her arm—keeping it safe from him, no doubt. “Why the sudden change? You had no qualms stealing Cleopatra’s necklace from me.”
“And you had no compunction about pointing a pistol at me. I think we’re even.”
She studied him, seemed to consider his words. “I don’t suppose I shall be able to disabuse you of this notion to accompany me into Paris.”
“I find I have my heart quite set on it.”
“And if I have my heart set on escaping you?” She arched a brow in challenge. He liked how she looked when she issued a challenge—fearless, bold, and seductive.
But he had to admit if she didn’t want him following her, she’d probably find a way to escape. He didn’t think she’d reveal his true identity, but then again, he wasn’t certain how angry she was about the necklace.
“I shall endeavor to convince you otherwise,” he said.
“You might convince me…if you tell me why you’re traveling to France.”
He crossed his arms. “The truth?”
“The truth.”
He wouldn’t tell her the truth any more than she had told him. “My family has lands and monies in France. I’ve decided to see if anything can be salvaged.”
“A bit late,” she observed.
“I’m not particularly hopeful, but I’m also not stupid. Citoyenne Gabrielle Leboeuf, meet Citoyen Ramsey Delpierre, soldier.”
He hadn’t expected her to laugh, especially not at him. Surprisingly, he found her laughter made her all the more enticing. He wondered if she was ticklish anywhere.
“You? A soldier?”
“Why is that amusing?”
“I simply cannot imagine it.” She wiped her eyes and made some effort, however futile, to stem the tide of guffaws.
“And what is your profession, citoyenne?”
“Lace maker.”
That explained the shabby clothing and the satchel.
“Where is your uniform, soldier?” she asked.
“I’m on leave,” he grumbled. At least that’s what the papers Miss Blake had given him reported.
She nodded, wiped her eyes again, and composed herself. “You may go now,” she said.
