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“I do apologize for polluting you with my touch,” he said, with a quick glare at her.
Honoria realized he must have mistaken the way she rubbed her arms as a desire to rid herself of the residual warmth from his body.
If he only knew the truth. If he only knew how much she would have liked to be able to turn into his warmth and trust him with not only her body but her heart.
And now she knew she was half deranged. She blamed it on exhaustion and hunger. She was not in her right mind. She did not need this man to save her. She had taken care of herself for years, and she would swallow glass before admitting she needed a man to save her.
They walked with only the sound of the water lapping on the quay for company. He had slowed, either because he was a gentleman and did not want to force her to run or—more likely—because walking quickly was suspect.
Finally, he turned away from the river.
“Why are you turning?” she asked.
He indicated the streets before them. “The Rue Saint-Honoré is this way.” He reached for her, almost placed his hand on her back to guide her, then thought better of it and nodded for her to precede him. They’d taken no more than a few steps when she looked at him for directions.
He moved ahead, giving her a curious look over his shoulder. “You really do not know Paris at all, do you?”
“I’ve never been to France before,” she said.
“I cannot quite place your accent. How is it you speak the language so well?” he asked. Indeed, they’d spoken almost exclusively in French since he’d taken her from the safe house.
“My parents were from Brussels.”
He paused and stared at her. It was too dark to see his eyes, but she could see the surprise on his face. “You are not English?”
“Oh, yes, I am. I was born in England. My parents immigrated from Brussels about six months before I was born.”
He continued walking. “You sound almost pleased.”
“England is not the country chopping off heads of its nobles for public amusement.”
“England has chopped off its share of noble heads,” he retorted. She could not argue and saw no need, when to compare the execution of a few traitors over the centuries to the full-scale massacres occurring daily in Paris was laughable.
They continued on, and Honoria supposed they had reached the Rue Saint-Honoré. It was not yet full dark, but she still felt a sense of urgency to reach the safe house before the curfew. The few men and women on the streets hurried past them, rushing to complete their errands before it would be too late.
A distant rumble she had mistaken for thunder or a carriage became more distinct then, hoofbeats on cobblestones.
“It’s the Guard or a contingent of soldiers,” Montagne said, putting a hand back to stay her. “Let’s step into that courtyard until they pass.”
He took her hand, a gesture that surprised her until she saw how close the group of men on horseback were. Then she was too terrified to think much excepthurry.
The marquis dragged her into the courtyard, and they ducked behind a wall. A few moments later the thunder of hooves clattered by.
Honoria tugged her hand from his, and he released it without any protest.
“On their way to the Hôtel de Ville,” Montagne speculated. “I hope there isn’t any unrest.”
Honoria hoped the same. “Should we wait here until we are certain no other soldiers will pass this way?”
“Yes. But not too long.” He eased his back against the wall, close enough to the edge that he could peer around it. He did so now, then looked back at her. “Your parents spoke French, I take it.”
“Yes. It was the first language I learned.”
“That explains why you do not speak it with an English accent. Did your father and mother never take you to Brussels to see their homeland?”
“My mother died when I was very young,” she said. “I barely remember her.”
His eyes turned kind, but she didn’t need kindness from him. Not now. She did not mourn her mother because she hadn’t really known her.
