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Gabrielle moved closer. He heard her mantle brush the floor and felt the warmth of her body. Her hand touched his knee tentatively, and he reached down and grasped it in his. She was cold, and her hand shook. He squeezed her fingers reassuringly.
“They won’t find us here,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. He wasn’t at all certain they wouldn’t be discovered.
“At this point, I’m less worried about the soldiers than I am about the rats.” She shuddered.
Ramsey squeezed her hand. “And I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”
“I’m not afraid of rats,” she protested. “I’m terrified. There’s a difference.”
“So there is.” He should try and distract her so she would stop trembling so violently.
Outside all was silent again. Ramsey leaned close until he felt Gabrielle’s hair brush his cheek. He turned his head, hoping he was somewhere near her ear. “Did you really shoot that soldier?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Her breath caught, and she let it out shakily. “There was no other choice.”
“Where did you acquire the pistol?”
There was a long pause. “I brought it with me.”
He hadn’t seen it in her luggage, but he wouldn’t mention that he’d peeked inside. “I kept it in the pockets under my gown. I’ve never even fired a pistol. I tried once, but it didn’t fire.”
“Thank God this one fired tonight.”
She didn’t answer, and the silence washed over them again. His eyes were adjusting to the dark. He could see almost nothing except for a slash of gray where the mausoleum door did not quite meet the frame. He could not see Gabrielle. But he could smell her. She smelled of lilies. Even in this grave she smelled sweet. He listened for the soldiers, knowing he couldn’t protect her if they returned. He had no pistol, and he doubted she had any more powder or another ball with which to prime hers. How long would the scent of lilies cling to her in prison?
He had to get them out of here.
“Do you think I am damned to hell?” she whispered after a long time.
“No.”
“But that soldier—I killed him.”
“He would have killed me. You saved my life.” Not that saving him would spare her from hellfire. He was no saint. But he’d killed a man before, and he didn’t want her to struggle with the inevitable guilt more than necessary.
“But…”
“Don’t you think Sir Andrew has killed when it’s necessary? Don’t you think the Scarlet Pimpernel takes a life when he must?”
She didn’t answer, and Ramsey stared into the gray at the door again. He strained to hear any sound of men outside. Was it his imagination, or was that the clink of metal?
“I would not blame you if you decided to rid yourself of me and the scheme to steal the bracelet, but I will ask anyway. Will you help me?”
No. Not in the way she meant. When people asked for help—something he doubted Gabrielle McCullough did very often or very lightly—they wanted help in the form of altruism.
Help me despite the danger to yourself.
Help me even though it’s not in your best interest.
Ramsey had rarely helped anyone altruistically, and he wouldn’t do so now.
“Yes, I’ll help you.”
She squeezed his hand, and he realized he’d almost forgotten he held it. Her glove felt warm against his skin. “Thank you.” Her voice was sweet, the words whispered.
He closed his eyes, not wanting her gratitude, not wanting her sweetness.
“What exactly is our mission? Is that what you call it? You and the rest of the League?”
