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Sixteen
Honoria shopped quickly, choosing bread, cheese, fruit, and vegetables from the meager selection. She also bought wine, adding to the weight of her basket. But she suffered the pain in her shoulders stoically as she walked back to their lodgings. She had food and drink. She was alive. She had no reason to complain.
If the marquis had not come to her aid earlier, would she still be free? Still be alive? She did not know what she would have done if confronted by that mob without him standing at her side and facing them bravely. He must have seen them from the window and rushed to try and catch her before she encountered the patriots. He didn’t have to save her. He needed her to forge documents for him, but with the League on his side, she was by no means irreplaceable. All of them could forge papers with varying degrees of skill.
Why had he saved her? Again? Surely this sort of self-sacrifice was not usual for a man who freely admitted his life before the revolution had been debauched and selfish. Was it possible he had come to care for her, as he so obviously cared for the young princess?
These were dangerous thoughts—thoughts that might push her from infatuation with him to something more. How could she help her infatuation? He was handsome, charming, and she had always admired people who stood up for what was right and risked their lives to save others. She was slightly infatuated with all of the men of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, not to mention the Pimpernel himself. Laurent had that same determination and resolve that appealed to her. Laurent seemed to possess. He risked his life with every hour he remained in Paris.
And he’d kissed her.
Honoria stopped at the entrance to the building where Montagne and she shared the rooms and tried to compose herself. Her arms ached and her cheeks felt hot. The heat was not from exertion, but the memory of that kiss. She’d been kissed before, and she had even liked the kisses, but no one had ever made her feel the way she’d felt when Laurent kissed her.
Honoria had felt as though she could go on kissing him forever. When his lips touched hers, everything else faded away. Her legs went weak, her belly fluttered, her breasts felt heavy and ached. She wanted him to do more than kiss her, though she knew she should not want such things.
But she was no chaste virgin. She knew what it was to take a lover, and though she was by no means experienced in lovemaking, she had no doubt the Marquis de Montagne would be a lover she would never forget. Therein lay the problem. He was a gamble. If she allowed herself to grow closer to him, she hazarded her heart, possibly her life. That was a large wager for a woman who never gambled.
She climbed the stairs to their chambers, not trying to put the thoughts of lovemaking out of her mind. If she had, she might have begun to think of the mob and the dead aristo again, and if she did that, she feared she might never manage the climb.
Finally, she reached their rooms and knocked quietly. “I’ve returned,” she said quietly.
A moment later, the marquis opened the door and despite the red cut on his temple and the bruise on his cheek, he was so perfectly handsome, she could only gape at him. Her gaze fell to his lips, those soft lips that could tease her with gentleness and torment her with passion, and then down to the exposed column of his throat. What would his skin taste like? Would it taste of sandalwood and oranges like his scent?
The marquis narrowed his eyes at her, then tugged her inside, shutting the door behind her. “What is wrong? What happened?” he demanded.
She shook her head, still staring at the line of his jaw where the dark stubble intersected with the bronze skin.
“Are you well? Did the mob accost you again?”
“I...no. I’m well, only...” What would she say?I cannot stop thinking about kissing you? Your courage makes me feel things I am afraid to feel?
“You must be exhausted.” He lifted the basket from her arm, and she did sag from relief. To her shock and delight, he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly for a moment. She barely had time to breathe in his scent and lean against him before he set her away from him. “Sit, and I will pour you a glass of wine. I think we both need one.”
She nodded, removing her bonnet and sinking into one of the chairs.
True to his word, he fetched glasses and uncorked one of the two bottles of wine she’d bought. He poured her a glass, but when she reached for it, her hands shook so badly she could not hold it steady.
“Honoria.” He knelt beside her, concern in his eyes. “You are safe now.”
She shook her head, shocked to feel tears burn her eyes. “No, I am not. None of us are safe. That might have been me.” She looked at him, tears blurring his face. “It might have been you.”
