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“No.” Tears streamed down her face, blurring his face and the blood staining the blade of the guillotine. “I don’t want to.”
“Mademoiselle.”
They’d lower the blade now, and she’d die here, with Bowder squeezing her breasts in a painful vise and her hand rubbing his rod through his trousers.
“Mademoiselle.”
She shook, rocking back and forth as the blade fell.
“Honoria!”
She sat up, biting back a scream, and then hitting out to be free from his awful hands. “Don’t touch me!”
He stood beside the bed, one hand holding a candle and the other raised in the air. “I will not, mademoiselle. You cried out.”
“It’s you,” she said and sagged back against the pillow. Not Bowder. Not the woman from the mob. The marquis—the handsome, arrogant marquis who could surprise her with his kindness.
“I’m sorry.” Then realizing she’d spoken in English, repeated,“Je suis désolé.”
He waved her apology away. “You had a nightmare?”
She nodded. There was no use denying it. She still shook from the fear, though she did not know if it was Bowder or the guillotine she feared more.
He set the candle on the bedside table, glancing at her for approval. She nodded.
“May I?” He indicated the side of the bed she had not occupied, the side he had slept on earlier. She’d avoided it because she feared it would carry his scent of oranges and sandalwood. She’d feared she’d dream of him. How she wished she’d dreamed of him now.
She nodded, and he sat. Though he was not dressed in the silks and linens of the upper class, though he wore no wig, no rings on his fingers, no starched cravat, he still sat with an elegance and dignity that bespoke his station a hundred times over. If it ever was him under the blade of the guillotine, he would not cry or scream or protest. He would die with grace.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She gave him a quizzical look, finding it hard to concentrate when he looked at her with such warmth and caring.
“Your nightmare. Tell me about it.”
She shuddered. “No. It’s too awful. I want to forget it.” She pushed the covers back, forgetting she wore only her corset and chemise. Her breasts all but spilled out. His gaze dropped, and she could feel the effort it took him to force his eyes back to her face.
She dragged the sheets back to her chest. “I am awake. I will take the watch for a few hours. It’s your turn to sleep. Surely you have allowed me to sleep far too long.”
“It has only been a little more than an hour. You’re shaking. Are you cold?”
She shook her head. How could any woman feel cold with him on the bed beside her?
“Then you need a glass of wine. I’ll fetch it.”
“You needn’t—”
But he had risen and marched out of the room before she could finish the protest.
“An hour,” she scoffed. Through the open door, she could see it had grown dark outside.
He returned, handing her a large glass of wine. “Drink.”
She sipped the wine slowly, the liquid coating her dry throat. With a sigh, she set the glass on the stand beside the candle and lay back against the pillow. “If you would leave me for a few moments, I’ll dress and take my turn at the window.”
He sat on the bed beside her again. “We can both afford to rest for a few minutes. The guard has changed and the Temple is quiet. No doubt the children have gone to sleep.”
It was certainly later than he had claimed, then.
