Page 74 of Souvenir of Love

“I’d have brought charcoal, sketched the view.”

“I didn’t know you liked to draw.”

He tore a piece of bread from the loaf that sat between them and handed it to her, with a slice of cheese. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

They ate in silence for several moments.

“For example,” he said, eyes fixed on the horizon as if he were studying it for a composition, “I intended to betray you that night at the ball.”

“You did it for Anne, didn’t you?” she said, her eyes also fixed on the horizon. “She was angry that Rafe didn’t marry her.”

He nodded.

“But you had doubts. That’s why you kept asking if it was really what I wanted.”

“I tried to warn you,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “But I didn’t stop you. Nor did I stop myself.”

“Nor did I.” She turned to look at him.

He didn’t meet her gaze. “You were playing that night, looking for excitement. I was not.”

She wanted to ask if that was why his touch felt so serious that night, if that was why things had happened so fast, why he’d come so close to making love to her. Why, no matter what she said or did, she couldn’t seem to keep her distance from him. She looked away again, suddenly embarrassed and ashamed. How could it be that she couldthinkthese things, couldfeelthem, and yet could notspeakof them? “Is that why you did not come for me?”

“I wanted to.” He fingered his cheek. “Had made up my mind to ask for your hand, bad bargain that I am, but your brother called me out before I could do so. Made it clear he’d never accept me, that I wasn’t good enough for you. And he was right.”

“They told me you refused to apologize. Why wouldn’t you?” she asked, turning her eyes once again to him, to the scar that marred the perfect beauty of his face.

It was only then that he turned to look at her, his eyes hollow and dark. “Your brother wanted me to apologize for touching you.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t. Because I wasn’t.”

It hurt to ask the question, but she did. “You weren’t sorryyou ruined me?”

“Oh, no.” His laugh was bitter and broken. “I deeply regret that. But for as long as I live, Elizabeth Harcrest, I’ll never regret touching you.”

Amaury de Joleywatched the couple seated on the blanket, trying to decide if these were his rescuers. The blanket was correct, red and white, but he’d been expecting men, massive, soldierly men, men who looked like Swiss guards or grenadiers. Not this tall, languid-looking courtier and a pretty woman. He swept his hand through his hair, painfully conscious of how dirty it was, how dirtyhewas.

He wanted them to be his rescuers. He wanted them to take him away from his filthy hole in the ground in their well-appointed carriage. He wanted it so much he could almost taste the food laid out in colorful abandon on the blanket. The pale-yellow cheese, the crisp brown bread, the rosy grapes, the golden wine. Amaury licked his chapped lips.

He couldn’t let desperation overcome his caution. If he approached and was mistaken about who they were, they would report him. They might not think he was a fugitive, but considering how he must look, they’d almost certainly believe he was a criminal or a deranged lunatic. To have successfully hidden from the authorities all these weeks and lose his chance at escape because he hadn’t been cautious enough? If they were his rescuers, he knew they would come again.

It was painful to wait. But he would.

“Gourneau.”The captain of the Rouen National Guard in charge of overseeing the security of the area rapped his knuckles on his lieutenant’s desk. “Are you eating your lunch here?” He gave the pile of eggshells a disgusted flick of his fingers.

“No, sir.” Lieutenant Gorneau, who’d been signing papers, put down his quill and straightened in his chair. “Those shells are not from my lunch, sir. They are evidence.”

“Evidence of what? A chicken?” The captain’s voice sounded dubious.

Gourneau shook his head. “They’re from an old woman on the outskirts of town. It’s the second time she’s been here. Claims someone has been stealing eggs from her. Wants us to do something about it.”

“I hope you told her we’ve more important things to do here than chase local sneak thieves.”

“I did, sir.” The lieutenant batted the shells with his quill.

“But she’s insistent it isn’t anyone local. Says she saw the culprit and didn’t recognize him. Says he was wearing a coat stolen from a neighbor.”

The captain, a burly bald man who’d been a miller before the Revolution, scratched his nose. “Anything else suspicious reported in the area? Any fugitive aristocrats thought to be hiding there?”

“No, sir. The family that lived there was rounded up and sent to Paris weeks ago.”