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Six
She had not expectedhim to possess quick reflexes. Everything about him had seemed slow and deliberate and pretentious. She’d swung the padlock, aiming for his already injured temple. She hadn’t wanted to kill him, but neither was she in jest. She intended to wound him badly enough that she might have time to escape and return to the safe house.
But his hand came up at the last second. He swiped fast as a cat, knocking the padlock to the ground and catching her wrist in his hand. His grip was unforgiving, and her knees buckled at the pain.
“Get up,” he ordered, his silken voice hard. With one hand, he pulled the gate open and with the other yanked her to her feet. “Inside.”
Heart slamming in her chest, she struggled to rise before he all but dragged her inside and shut the gate behind her. With the gate closed, he unhanded her, shoving her to the ground and turning on her. Behind him the late afternoon sun dappled the paving stones in the pretty little courtyard. The walls surrounding them were high, so high as to make scaling them almost impossible without a ladder. Perhaps that was why this little haven had remained untouched.
Honoria recognized all the trappings of a well-kept garden, although it was somewhat overgrown and unkempt. The trees offered shade and the flowering bushes had, at one time, been well manicured and provided a pretty view for anyone sitting at the shaded wrought-iron table and chairs. In the center of the paved area a statue of a winged bird rose out of a fountain, and although no water flowed at present, Honoria could imagine when it had, it would have appeared as though the bird rose from a spray of waves.
“You want to kill me?” the marquis all but growled at her. “Then do it. But you’ll have to wait until after I rescue Madame Royale and the dauphin. Then if there’s anything left of me, you may take the first shot.”
“I don’t want to kill you.”
His eyes narrowed.
“But you can’t keep me here like your prisoner. I want to return to the safe house.”
“I’ll return you.”
Now it was her turn to narrow her eyes. “When?” She rose from the paving stones.
“When I don’t need you any longer.”
Honoria inhaled sharply. “You arrogant...bastard.”
“My mother swears she and the duke were only friends.”
Although her French was flawless, Honoria blinked in confusion.
“You called me a bastard,” he explained. “Arrogant—that I will admit, though if you had known me before I was imprisoned you would not think me so arrogant now. I saved your life when the Guard challenged us, and this is the thanks I receive?” He brandished the padlock like a weapon.
“You saved my life?” Honoria did not consider herself easily angered. She had a level temper and a calm demeanor, but this man made her blood boil. “Isavedyourlife. I am the one who mentioned Robespierre. After that, those men could not rush to find the royalists fast enough.”
“That is because you fluttered your lashes at them.”
If she’d been closer, she would have slapped him. “You...you—”
“Bastard? As I said, my mother claims the duke was only a friend. She’s living in exile in Scotland. If you happen to see her when you return to the civilized world, feel free to ask her yourself.”
“Do not be ridiculous. I would never ask such a rude question. And I would never use my looks to gain an advantage. You, however, seem to have no scruples whatsoever.”
He shrugged in the way the French did. “Too true. I lost the last scruples I possessed when they cut off the head of my king, ending almost one thousand years of tradition. I no longer see any point in scruples.”
She supposed she could not argue with that logic. What good were principles when the world around them had resorted to anarchy?
“What do you want?” she demanded. “A document? A passport? Take me back to the safe house, and it is yours.”
“At the moment I want a glass of wine and a bath.” He took her upper arm in a tight grip. “Let us see if the inside of these rooms has fared as well as the outside.”
Left with no other choice, Honoria followed him, dragging her feet out of spite. The door to the ground floor was locked, but the marquis felt the top of the lintel and palmed the key. A moment later they were inside, and Honoria forgot to resist. They entered a small salon with large windows overlooking the garden. At this time of day, the room was in shadow, but she imagined this would be a lovely spot to sip tea in the morning. The chairs were upholstered in cream and robin’s egg blue, while the paper-hangings were of a bucolic country scene. But for a layer of dust, the room was immaculate enough to reside in a museum. The chairs did not look as though anyone had ever sat on them, the hearth looked as though it had never been lit.
“This way,” the marquis said, not even pausing in the salon. “Nothing here of interest.”
Honoria almost argued. If she had a room like this back in England, she would never leave it. She could spend the rest of her days here and be happy. But, of course, that was the benefit of having blunt. Money could buy cushioned chairs and enormous windows and pretty little vases, even if one never intended to sit, stare, or house a single flower in any of it.
She was pulled along in his wake, into another room with a large table and a chandelier. An interior room, it was dark, and she had a vague sense of heavy furniture before he started up the stairs. Honoria glanced over her shoulder at the heavy front door, relieved that the stone wall circled the property. The marquis had no doubt wanted it to maintain his privacy and keep the neighbors from knowing when he was in or out.
