Page 65 of Souvenir of Love

Husband.The word was unsettling. “Yes.”

The man unsnapped the straps holding the trunk closed and began rifling through the contents: shirts, stocks, nightshirts. Elizabeth turned away. They hadn’t touched, not since he’d helped her up from the grass at Moreham Hall, and they hadn’t kissed, not since before the duel. If they kissed, she wondered, would she run her hand down the angry ridge of his scar? She could almost feel the skin smooth beneath her fingers, and the even softer touch of his lips against hers…stop, stop, stop!

And there it was.

The real reason she’d said what she had about James’s plotting with Anne. She needed to remind herself that no matter how drawn she was to the man, her instincts were probably wrong. And her question had done the trick, dividing them as fiercely as an axe through wood.

“Citizeness.” The greasy customs official held up a bottle and uncorked it, sniffing. “What is this?”

The pungent odor of James’s cologne, the one he’d begun wearing shortly before they’d disembarked the packet boat that had brought them to France earlier that day, assaulted hernostrils. She wrinkled her nose. “It is my husband’s; everything in that case is his.”

The official recorked the bottle and waved a grime-lined hand over it. “It is strong, no?”

“It is strong, yes,” she agreed, wondering vaguely if the cologne was some peculiar form of retribution. James’s new scent was nearly as off-putting as her question had been.

The official put the bottle back and closed the trunk, turning his attention to the remainder of the luggage. He began opening hatboxes. “You have a great deal of hats, citizeness.”

She nodded absently.

“Aristocrats in our country have no need of such things.”

Something in his tone caught her attention; Elizabeth glanced over at the man.

He smiled broadly and, seizing a straw bonnet decorated with ribbons and flowers, waved it about, announcing loudly, “Aristocrats in France have no need of such hats since most of them no longer have heads.”

There was a ripple of laughter from his fellow customs officials and the national guardsmen loitering about the line.

Despite the revulsion rippling through her, Elizabeth forced her expression to remain calm. She knew they were looking for a reaction. She was trying to come up with a flippant response when she felt James’s arm settle around her waist. He spoke in fluent French. “My wife, it is true, is devoted to her hats. But she is even more devoted to the cause of revolution. It is why she refused to marry me until I renounced my title and why she insisted that we begin our new life, as husband and wife, in the new France. Long live the revolution,” he shouted. Those in and around the line echoed his cry. Elizabeth, her lips dry, mouthed the words.

James quickly removed his arm, but he remained reassuringly close as the officials rifled through the remainderof their luggage and inspected the berlin, which they’d brought over from England. The amusement the guards found in delaying their English visitors waned as the drizzle turned into rain. Just as the last paper was signed and stamped and the last piece of luggage reloaded onto the coach, it turned into a downpour. James held open the door of the carriage and motioned for Elizabeth to hurry. He leapt in after her.

“What about Marcus?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of rain pelting windows and the roof.

“He and Andre are riding on ahead to make certain everything is set for our arrival.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

“We should reach the outskirts of Amiens by tomorrow afternoon. Of course, it all depends on what time we reach the inn tonight. The roads here are awful and with the rain…” He shrugged.

Elizabeth fell silent, thinking of the inn and the room—and the bed—they would share. Her mind turned to the ploy she’d used to create a distance between them, her question about his involvement in Anne’s schemes, and then, unexpectedly, she found herself wondering how Anne was faring without James. “Does your sister know where you are?”

His blue eyes appraised her carefully. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve always seemed so inseparable. I remember when we were children, you were always watching out for her, always the first one there if she needed help.”

“She knows I’ve left England. I told her I needed some time alone, to think.” Unconsciously he touched his scar.

“But you haven’t told her you’ve gone to France?”

“I didn’t want to worry her.” He paused. “Does that surprise you?”

“No, not at all. I was just wondering. What if she should hear rumors?”

“There is no reason to expect that rumors of my—or our—sojourn here should make their way back across the channel.” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, why this unexpected show of concern for my sister? Are you afraid she will catch wind of your latest escapade and tell the ton?”

“Don’t presume to read my mind, James Dinsmore.”

“Presume to read your mind?” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’d sooner presume to read those indecipherable scratchings on ancient temples in the Far East.”