Chapter 31
Thirty-One
It was the last thing she expected him to say. And yet, it made perfect sense. Far more than risking one’s life for some romantic cause.
And yet. Marguerite felt oddly disappointed. As if a seemingly dashing hero had whipped off his domino to reveal the face of a tax collector. She sat back, forgetting Marcus’s arm was behind her.
He caught her before her head could strike the cell’s stone wall. His movement was swift, his hand firm against her skull.
Mustn’t deliver the goods damaged. She righted herself and he released her.
“For the money?” she repeated, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Your father promised me a handsome sum if I returned you to him.” He shrugged. “And I’ve sworn to do so.”
She frowned. Did mercenaries usually swear oaths? And then another thought struck her. If he’d been paid to take her to her father’s, might he accept more to take her somewhere else when they reached England? She had more than enough money to tempt him in her account in Geneva.
“Still, since you still seem unconvinced I’m here to help you, try thinking about it another way: you may not trust me, but you can trust what will come to pass if you don’t allow me to help you.”
“There is no need to seek to frighten me, Citizen Tisset,” she said stiffly. She had no trouble imagining the cart, the plank, the whistle of the blade as it hurtled towards her neck. No need to be reminded she was dithering…again.
She squared her shoulders, noticing that even as he was attempting to frighten her, Marcus’s arm remained stretched behind her back as if preparing to catch her again. “So, what do you propose?”
Some of the coiled tension in his body eased. “You’ll find a slit in the far side of your mattress.”
Marguerite reached out a hand to feel for confirmation, but he moved with startling speed, catching her wrist. She was keenly aware of her pulse beating against the rough warmth of his fingers.
“Apologies, madame, if the lumpiness causes any discomfort, but I’d suggest you not rummage about now. While your cellmates may believe we’re lovers, flipping the mattress might rouse suspicions among even the most romantically inclined among them.”
“What did you put there?” She eyed him with suspicion. “If the guards stage one of their infrequent inspections, it would be useful to know what I will be accused of smuggling…”
“Just a few items of clothing,” he reassured her, adding, almost as an afterthought, “Men’s clothing.
If the guards do find it, tell them you wanted to keep something of your lover’s close to you.
When I return, I’ll bring more. And request a visit from your lawyer Andre de Saint-Just. He’ll bring some too. ”
“De Saint-Just, is he…” She wanted to ask if he was related to Louis de Saint-Just, Robespierre’s most zealous ally. She wasn’t ready to trust Marcus, but he was right, she did trust what would happen if she didn’t take the chance he was offering. So instead, she asked, “Is he truly a lawyer?”
“Truly?” A wry smile altered the line of his severe mouth. “Truth and Andre are rarely in the same room. But what we say in the moment, Mme de Rouvroy, is far less important than what we do.”
He released her wrist and placed a finger to her lips.
Marguerite resisted the urge to bite it.
“Send for Saint-Just. Wait. Watch. You have my word. We will not let you die in here.”