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He stroked her cheek. “It likely will be me one of these days, and you will not mourn me. I have earned the attentions of Madame Guillotine.”
“No.” She clutched his hand and held it tightly. “You have not. You are good, and I cannot bear to think of you with your head speared through—” Her voice broke on a sob.
“Shh.” He squeezed her hand and brought the wineglass to her lips. “Drink. You are thirsty and hungry and overwrought. You will feel better after you eat.”
She managed to sip some of the wine, even swallowed it past the lump in her throat. But when she tried to rise, he gently pushed her shoulders down. “I will bring it to you. Rest.”
She frowned. “But surely you do not know how to prepare a meal.”
He smiled. “Even I am not so spoiled that I cannot feed myself. I learned to dress myself. I can learn this as well. Besides, it’s bread and cheese. How difficult can that be?”
Honoria closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the chair while he set the food out, selected the cheese and bread, and began to cut and slice with the one dull knife they’d found in a cabinet with the plates and glasses.
She willed her hands to stop shaking and her teeth to cease chattering, but she could not seem to forget the feel of the dead man’s skin against her lips or the sickly sweet smell of death that clung to him.
When the marquis brought her a plate, she was not certain she could stomach any of the meal. But he pulled her to her feet and brought her to sit across from him at the window. “Watch with me,” he said.
She stared out the window, her untouched food before her. As they sat and watched, he pointed out aspects of life in Paris—a mother and child walking hand in hand, a man with a pack of firewood slung over his shoulder, a group of boys kicking a ball in one of the streets, and a woman coming out to yell at them after it bounced off her door.
Soon Honoria had ceased shaking and managed to nibble the bread. There was nothing like bread baked in Paris, and she ate more and more until she’d finished it. The marquis had been right that she’d feel steadier with food in her belly. She even laughed at the antics of a street performer who pretended to pull flowers out of the ears of the women in the crowd gathered around him and sang and danced while everyone clapped along.
“Paris is still alive,” the marquis said quietly. “We will not allow these revolutionaries to kill it. It will rise again. The Bourbons will rise again. They killed our king and may kill our queen, but the monarchy is not dead. Paris is not dead. Soon the people will rise up and give Robespierre a taste of his own medicine.”
Honoria watched him, the way his eyes hardened into emeralds and his fist closed on the table. It was dangerous to speak like this. If he was overheard, he could be imprisoned. And yet his conviction moved her.
“You think Robespierre will go to the guillotine?”
“Yes. He will die in the manner in which he killed so many of his political enemies.”
“I do not like to wish for anyone’s death, but I hope his is sooner rather than later.” She yawned. When she looked back out the window, she realized dusk had fallen.
“You should sleep for a few hours,” he said.
“But it’s my turn to keep watch. You should have slept. Instead you prepared food and kept me company.”
“I don’t mind.” He gazed at the Tower. “I feel close to her here. Her mother and father have been taken from her, but here I can watch over her.”
Honoria stared at him. Had her own parents loved her so much? She believed they had, but she had not felt that sort of love in years. Her mother had died so long ago that Honoria barely remembered her. Her father had been affectionate and caring, but then he too had been taken from her. There had been no love after his passing, only guilt and shame.
But the marquis seemed to have an unwavering love for the princess. He would die for her and she was not even his own flesh and blood. What would it be like to be loved like that? To be loved by him?
“Sleep,” he told her again, reaching over the table to squeeze her hand in an intimate gesture she had not expected. “I will wake you when I grow tired, and you will have your turn.”
She saw no point in arguing. She was so weary her eyes would hardly stay open. If she insisted on watching while he slept, she would certainly fall asleep and leave her post unattended. Instead, she rose wearily and trudged to the bedchamber. She removed shoes and stockings and had her bodice unpinned before she remembered the marquis was in the next room and she had intended to sleep fully dressed.
It would be more trouble than she cared to take to pin the bodice again, so she stripped it off, removed the heavy skirts, and climbed into bed in petticoat, corset, and chemise. The corset was linen and not boned, but it was not comfortable. And though it was the sort peasant women wore so they could don it without the aid of a servant, Honoria did not want to trouble herself with removing it and then having to tug and squeeze herself into it again. She fell asleep wishing she could curl herself into a ball.
She fell into a dream where men clenched her about the waist and would not let her go. One look over her shoulder showed her it was the men from the mob she had met earlier that day. Honoria fought and fought, but she could not break free. And then the woman with the smear of blood on her cheek appeared—her feet dirty in her sabots, her blouse torn, her hair wild under its red cap. She stood before Honoria.
“Beauty is a gift from Satan,” she hissed. Then she drew her finger across her neck, and Honoria screamed as she was dragged to the guillotine.
“No!” she cried. “No! I do not want to die. Don’t hurt me!”
But she was pushed, face to the sky, onto the plank so that she stared up at the blade glinting silver in the fading light.
And thenhisface was there—Mr. Bowder. He covered her mouth with his hand, the hand that always smelled like manure—and reached into her bodice to fondle her breasts.
“You like this, don’t you?” he said, breath smelling of onions and ale. “You know you like it. Tell Mrs. Bowder and she’ll send you away for doing this to me. You’ll live on the streets, where any man can have you. They’re not all as nice as me.” He thrust forward, pushing his hard rod against her stomach. “Touch it. Hurry now before she finds us and sees what a temptress you truly are.”
