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“You don’t know anything. You don’t know how the duc came to our house in the middle of dinner. My sister, my mother, my father, our apprentice boy, and I were eating a simple meal of bread and soup. Then a knock came at the door. My mother went to open it, and the duc pushed his way in.”
“He was angry about alibelleyou had published.”
“Yes, and justifiably so. Thelibellepainted him in a very negative light. And though we did not always verify the contents of the pamphlets andlibelleswe published, the information in this one was quite accurate.”
“But the duc was a powerful man. Surely your father knew the risks of offending such a man.”
Tristan nodded. “Prison, the confiscation of our printing press. It had happened before, but my father didn’t believe the nobility should be immune to censure. He dared speak out, and he died for it.”
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t excuse the duc’s actions. I understand your anger.”
“You understand my anger?” He whirled away from her. “You cannot understand my anger until a dozen men storm your house. The duc directed three to grab my mother, three to grab my father, three to take my sister, and three to take me. I cursed at the duc. I challenged him, and he called me an upstart and bid me watch as he ran my father through with his sword.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “No.”
“No trial. No judge. No jury. He stabbed my father in the stomach and left him bleeding on the floor while he moved on to my mother. He did not rape her. He gave her to his men to take on the floor beside the dying body of my father. But my sister...” His voice threatened to break, but he would not allow it. He could not allow himself to feel the pain anymore, else he would never numb himself to it again. He had thought vengeance would ease the pain, but nothing except cold detachment made it bearable.
“They took my sister and I into the front parlor. They laid on the couch, ripped her clothes, and raped her. But though I would have burned each and every one of those men’s faces into my mind, I could not focus.” Now he raised his chin and looked into her face, telling her what he had only ever told one person before. “Because they raped me too.”
She reached for him. “Monsieur—”
He held up a hand. “It’s citoyen, and do not say you are sorry. We published a piece of paper, and the duc repaid us with murder and rape. He had our shop set on fire. When I came to, I tried to save my family, but my father was already cold, and my mother’s throat had been slashed. My sister would not come. She wanted to die. She would rather have died than live with the shame of what had been done to her.”
He paced away, waiting until his hands had stopped shaking and his voice was level again. “So yes. I repaid the duc in kind. When the revolution came, I gathered my fellow patriots and we visited the duc’s house on the Rue du Bac. But we were far more merciful.”
“You sent his entire family to the guillotine. That is not mercy.”
What did she know of mercy? How dare she question his? Rage boiled up in him, and he rounded on her. “The duc was granted more mercy than he deserved!” he shouted “He was fortunate to be gifted a quick and painless death. His sons were among the men who came to my house, who raped my mother and sister. They paid a small price for their crimes.”
She sighed, but her features didn’t soften. “Perhaps the duc did deserve his fate, but what had his daughters done to you? Surely they were but children when the duc attacked you.”
He frowned, confused. “The duc’s two daughters were spared. Unlike my sister.”
“The duc’s daughters were not spared. Perhaps you did not hear, but they were killed attempting to flee the city.”
He had not heard that news, but he had to admit that even if he had, he would not have felt pity. He could not feel sympathy for any member of that family. He looked away and into the darkness of the woods.
“And now that you have had your vengeance, has justice been done or must more nobles die to satisfy your lust for blood? Tell, me how much blood is enough?”
He whirled on her. “I have no desire for more blood. I am only here with you now because I wanted the bloodshed to end. It has gone too far.”
“Robespierre will never agree.” She stepped toward him. “He does not think justice can be served until every last man, woman, or child who stands against him is sacrificed on the altar of the guillotine. You know it’s true!” she shouted when he shook his head. “I know you know because you made a choice, citoyen, to give evidence that can bring Robespierre down. And now you have another choice to make.”
He stilled, knowing this was his chance to find out her secret. “What is that?”
She hesitated, holding his gaze for such a long time he felt as though she looked through him. He did not possess the power to look into men’s hearts and minds, but it would not surprise him if she did. What would she see? His dark, cold heart? His jumbled and conflicted thoughts?
“You can choose to be merciful and compassionate. You can choose to do what no one else has the courage to do: save an innocent child.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What are you talking about? What child?”
“The boy suffering in the Temple Prison.” She must have seen something in his eyes because she spoke more quickly. “He is a child, an orphan. His father and mother are dead. He is separated from his sister. From all accounts, he is ill and alone and terribly abused.”
“You want me to rescue Louis Charles of France?” He gaped at her as though she had gone completely mad, which she quite obviously had. He might regret the extreme turn the revolution had taken, but he did not regret the end of the royal family.
“I want you to rescue a little boy.” Her eyes were pleading, but those pleas were blunt arrows.
