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Or would she? She’d looked at him with such sadness back at the Temple. Was that her way of saying adieu?
He’d been a fool to trust her. He’d been a blind, lovesick fool to allow her to slip her way into his heart when all along she cared nothing for him. Had she been laughing at him as she took her pleasure over him? Had he been a challenge for her to conquer before she left France to take the little brat to Austria?
He should have never let his guard down. Of course, she would use him if he allowed it. All she cared about was her precious league. Tristan felt the trees closing in on him. He’d risked everything and now he would be left behind to suffer the consequences. He would be caught and put to death. He would be fortunate to die by guillotine. Tristan’s one chance was that when Robespierre discovered the boy was gone, he would not want the people to know the boy had been freed on his watch, so to speak. He would keep the rescue a secret if possible, allowing the people to believe Citoyen Capet was still imprisoned in the Temple. That meant the mobs would have no reason to attack Tristan.
He leaned against a tree and closed his eyes. He’d always known it would end this way. As soon as he’d handed those papers over to Citoyen Allié he’d signed his own death warrant. There’d been no going back after that.
But the more Tristan considered his path, the less he regretted it. Would he have done things differently? If he’d known it would end this way, would he have kept Robespierre’s treachery to himself? Would he have traded the chance to touch, to kiss, to love Alexandra Martin, just to be safe in his position with the republic?
Tristan realized he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have done anything differently. Even if, as it appeared now, Alexandra had betrayed him, he wouldn’t have given up even a moment of the time they’d spent together. She was worth the price he would pay now.
The low rattle of wheels moving toward him caught his attention and Tristan braced. Surely if the guard were looking for him they would come on horseback. Who would be driving a conveyance through the park now? Most people would be hurrying home before the curfew.
And then Dewhurst, hisbonnet rougepulled low over his brow, appeared, driving two horses harnessed to a cart with several wine barrels in the back. He barely slowed the horses before he threw Tristan the reins and jumped down. “What is it?” Tristan called, holding up a hand to settle the horses.
“I didn’t dare stop until now, but one of the barrels fell over. I’m afraid it might be the king.”
Tristan tied the reins to a tree and rushed to help Dewhurst right the barrel and pry the lid open.
“Bloody hell,” Dewhurst muttered.
Tristan’s heart was in his throat. It wasn’t the king but Alexandra. Her blond hair was matted to her face and blood ran down her cheek. “Help me get her out.”
Dewhurst grasped her under the arms and pulled her up, and Tristan freed her legs. Then Dewhurst passed her to Tristan. “I had better open the other barrels quickly.”
Tristan carried Alexandra’s lifeless body off the cart and laid her in the grass. Her eyelids fluttered, giving him hope, but she didn’t move or even moan, though he unintentionally jostled her. Behind him Dewhurst pried open barrels. Montagne emerged first, looking flushed but well. Together Dewhurst and Montagne freed Leroy and the boy. The boy was curled into a ball, clearly terrified but unharmed. Montagne spoke to him softly while Dewhurst rushed to Tristan’s side.
“We can’t stay here. The others are waiting, and we’re already late. If we’re much later, the gates will be closed for the night. I want the king out of Paris.”
“I’m not certain it’s safe to move her.”
“It’s not safe to stay here,” Montagne said. “We must go.”
Leroy had been arranging the wine barrels again and now lifted heavy blankets. Leroy and Dewhurst were to drive the cart to the rendezvous while Tristan, Montagne, Alexandra, and the boy hid under the blankets in the back of the cart.
“We’ll put Alex and the king between us,” Montagne told Tristan. “They’ll be cushioned that way.”
Tristan hated to move Alexandra again. She looked so pale and lifeless, but he carried her to the back of the cart and laid her between the sets of empty barrels. He lay down beside her and Montagne coaxed the boy to lie on her other side. When Montagne was in place, Leroy threw the blanket over them.
The boy whimpered, and Montagne whispered words of encouragement. “We’re almost there, Your Majesty. You know I will keep you safe. Soon you will be reunited with your sister.”
Tristan wondered how that was possible when the daughter of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette was still imprisoned in the Temple, but now was not the time.
“Dewhurst said you would be able to breathe in those barrels,” Tristan said as the cart began to move. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Montagne said. “It was hot and cramped, but I could breathe. If her barrel fell over, that must be how she hit her head. But I don’t know how her barrel would have fallen. Dewhurst drove the horses slowly. So slowly I could barely contain my impatience to be away.”
It was too dangerous to continue to speak, so Tristan lowered his head and pulled Alexandra against him, trying again to keep her head from hitting the boards beneath them. Tristan closed his eyes and for one of the first times since the attack by the Duc du Mérignac, he whispered a sincere prayer. His prayers hadn’t been answered when the duc had killed his parents and taken his innocence, and Tristan had no reason to believe they would be answered now. Still, he prayed.
The wagon clattered over cobblestones on the way to the rendezvous, the little boy began to cry, and still Tristan prayed. Finally, Alexandra moved against him. For a moment he was certain he had only imagined it or it had been nothing more than the movement of the cart, then she lifted her hand and touched her head.
Tristan felt like a man who’s been held under water and finally emerges on the surface again. He could breathe, and his heart, which had felt as though it might burst, now swelled with another feeling—hope.
“Where...”
He could not make out the rest of her words, but he leaned close to her ear. “We’re on the way to the rendezvous. You’re away. You’re safe. I have you.”
Her hand closed on his where he gripped her waist. She squeezed hard. “Youare safe. I worried—”
