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LAURENT COULD NOT SLEEP. He had grown used to the sounds of La Force and sharing a room with a dozen other men. The bedchamber on the Boulevard du Temple was too quiet, too still. The bed felt too soft and smelled too sweet, as he had made it with clean linens stored with floral sachets.
Oh, very well. The Englishwoman had made it. He’d supervised her, though.
Or perhaps the scent teasing his nose was not the linens but the lavender scent of the woman sleeping beside him. Not beside him exactly. The bed was large enough to sleep six, and she had curled up on the edge farthest from him. She probably would have liked to sleep with her back to him, but the fetter on her wrist prevented her from lying on that side. And so her face was turned toward his, and he could see her quite clearly in the dying firelight.
He had not expected her to agree to help him nor had he expected his heart to ache with gratitude when she had. He had shouldered this burden for so long on his own that the relief he felt when she had taken some of it from him was tangible.
And yet he was torn. He had not exaggerated when he’d said this mission was suicide. The dauphin and princess meant more to him than his own life, but what gave him the right to risk this Englishwoman’s life as well?
Laurent had never really believed all the nonsense about divine right. He could fawn as well as any other courtier, but he saw the claims of divinity for what they were—tactics to keep the populace in line and to preserve the monarchy. They had worked for nine hundred years. But now everyone had read Rousseau and suddenly reform was in the air.
And who could blame the sansculottes? If he’d been born a peasant, he’d want to live on the Rue Saint-Honoré and hold sumptuous balls and lavish dinner parties as well.
Laurent had never considered himself divinely chosen for his position in the world, but he’d sure as hell taken full advantage of it. He did not regret his past either. He’d enjoyed his life. Perhaps he might have acted more moderately in some of his pursuits, but that was a discussion for another day.
The Englishwoman, that was who concerned him now. Had she lived her life fully? Would she have regrets if she were to die today?
And why the devil did he even care? She was nothing to him.
His gaze traced the lines of her face, the slope of her cheek, and the shadow of her lashes. Her full lips were relaxed in sleep, making her look younger than she was—although as to that he had no idea how old she was. Perhaps five and twenty. Her life had barely begun.
She was beautiful, he thought again as he watched her sleep. It would be a shame if such a beauty should die. But then beautiful women were dying every day at the Place de la Révolution. No one mourned the loss of their loveliness.
“I can hardly sleep if you insist on staring at me,” she murmured.
He almost laughed. “I am not staring. I am admiring.”
“I’d rather you admire my skills as a forger than my face, which is merely an accident of my birth.”
He recognized the crux of his argument about the dauphin and princess from the night before. “I was not only admiring your face,” he added. “I admire your body as well.”
Her eyes opened and shot him a glare.
“I have never met a woman who detested a compliment. Why do you dislike your beauty? I know many women who have spent fortunes to look half as beautiful as you appear without even trying.”
“I pity them.” She tried to turn over, remembered the cuff on her hand and the attached chain and swore under her breath. Instead she settled for lying on her back and pretending to go back to sleep.
“I pity them too, but you did not answer my question.”
“I don’t have to answer your question. Just because I have agreed to follow you on the path to death does not mean we need to become confidantes.”
“What about lovers?” He had intended it as a quip, but as soon as the words had passed his lips, he realized he’d meant them. He wanted this woman. For what little time he had left of this life, he wanted to possess her beauty, her spirit, and her sense of mystery.
“I am not one of your courtesans,” she said without opening her eyes.
“I am not implying that you are. However, if we are both to die soon, perhaps we might spend our last days indulging in pleasure.”
Now her eyes snapped open. “Perhaps we might better spend our last days planning how we can ensure these are not our last days. I want to return to the safe house.”
“What?” Laurent sat up, the sheet falling down about his waist. She lay on top of the bedclothes and had gone to sleep fully clothed. She had not even been willing to remove her boots. While he had stripped down to the loose trousers he had borrowed from the safe house and nothing else. Now her gaze strayed to his bare chest before she snapped it to the ceiling again.
“Just a few hours ago you agreed to help me rescue Madame Royale and the dauphin. Now you are talking escape again.”
“No, I am not talking about escape. I am thinking of how we can best succeed in this mission. You and I trying to save the children at the Temple is doomed to failure, but if we ask the League to help us—”
He sliced a hand through the air. “You were there when I proposed rescuing the children. The League refused.”
Now she sat up. “They did not refuse. They merely did not think it a prudent action at the moment.”
