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“When I was in England, I knew a man namedAlex. It’s a man’s name, not suited for you.”
“No one except my father ever called meAlexandra.Do you want me to think of you like my father?”
He did not, but after they returned to Paris, he would not see her again. Unless it was in the back of a tumbrel. As he did not want to consider that possibility, he said, “It might not be the worst idea.”
“Have it your way.”
He was about to speak again when a man he surmised to be the farmer called for his horses. Finally, the cart was readied, and they were off. Alexandra woke Dewhurst to ask him if they were traveling in the correct direction. The big man peered out from under the blanket then ducked back under before answering in the affirmative. A few moments later, Tristan heard him snoring again.
Tristan wished he could sleep. Instead, he lay awake, uncomfortably aware of the scent of Alexandra tickling his nose just as he had managed to ignore, for the moment, that his thigh pressed against hers. How she still managed to smell like spring even after all they’d been through and amidst a cart smelling faintly of manure, he did not know. He knew he smelled like damp wool and straw. By the time they reached Paris, he’d smell of damp wool, straw, and shit.
“Chevalier?”
He heard her voice, a bare murmur over the rattle of the wheels on the road. He didn’t answer right away, and she moved closer, her thigh pressing into his more firmly and her breath on his cheek. The back of a produce cart was the last place he should ever find arousing, but in that moment he could think of little but turning his head and kissing her.
“Chevalier?”
“What?” he said tersely.
Now she seemed to pause. He wished he could see her face, but when he turned his face, the horse blanket obscured all but the dark shape of her.
“Will you do me a favor?”
The gall of these royalists and traitors. She’d dragged him out of Paris, almost got him killed, and now in the back of a farmer’s cart, she wanted a favor.
“No.” He felt small and petty, but he didn’t owe her anything.
Except your life.
Not fair. He had saved her life as well. And he wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t blackmailed him.
“Then will you do it for yourself?”
He sighed. “Is this about the boy king again?”
“Go and see him, Chevalier. You are one of the few who can obtain access. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps my information is incorrect, and he does not suffer. Then you may gleefully tell me how misinformed I am.”
“And if I do not want to see the boy?”
“Then you are a coward,” she hissed in his ear and withdrew.
“That is the way to convince him,” Dewhurst grumbled from the other side of the cart. “Call him names.”
“Shut up, Dewhurst.”
The silence that followed felt even more oppressive than the damp wool of the horse blanket draped over his face. When he returned home, he would take a bath, no matter how weary he was or how much trouble it might be to haul and heat the water. And he would eat a full meal. He’d worry about his next meal another day. Tristan wanted to be clean and full.
And he wanted to sleep. Alone. He did not want to wake with Alexandra’s warm body pressed to his or the scent of daisies in his nose.
Finally, he heard Dewhurst whispering, and Alexandra kicked him. “Get ready.”
He would have kicked her back, but she was already moving. She’d scooted to the edge of the cart, pushing produce back and out of her way. Tristan heard more whispering and then a thud.
“Now!” she said and threw the blanket off. Tristan blinked in the sudden brightness.
“Hey! What are you doing there?” the farmer called.
Tristan turned to look, but Alexandra moved. She scooted to the edge of the cart and slid off, rolling neatly and then rising to her feet and running into the nearby field where Dewhurst was already waiting. She glanced over her shoulder once. “Come on!” she yelled.
