The Forbidden Rose

Tension buzzed like a swarm of wasps. She didn’t look away. “I am frugal with trust. You will find this natural, considering the men I have met lately.”

Damn, but I like you. “Does it help if I apologize? I shouldn’t have touched you the way I did. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“It is not important. What happened between us was a . . . a nothing. It was the most insignificant of kisses.”

“Was it now?”

“I became involved in it. For one moment only.” She looked down in her lap, to where she was twisting up the linen of the fichu. She had a little blush on her, just across the top of her cheeks. “It was a small mistake.”

“I’m glad to know you feel that way.”

“You are pleased to be ironic. But, in truth, it was not your fault. You were under great temptation. I do not boast when I say that. I was naked, after all, and you are a man.”

“Last time I took an inventory. Yes. You want me to promise it won’t happen again?”

The taut line of her shoulders loosened a fraction. “It will not. Neither of us wants that. It was surprise between us, as much as anything else. There was a suddenness.”

It wasn’t surprise. It was damn good lust. Don’t fool yourself. “I don’t make a habit of assaulting women. If you were safe last night, you’re safe today. You can put yourself in my hands for a few miles of road.”

“That is logical. We are rational people, we two.” She smoothed the wrinkles out of her damp fichu and pulled it over her shoulders, then wrapped it across her breasts. She made a crease here and there and it lay down smooth and perfect. “If you are willing to come with me on the road, I will thank you very much. I will also pay you. I’ve been cowardly, seeing a threat where none existed.”

“Always glad to turn an honest profit. You’ll need papers. I’ll write some up.” I get to name her. Something pretty . . . No. Something that will annoy her. That’s better. “I got what I need in the baskets. We’ll let them dry on the rock here.”

“You are a forger.” She smiled at him. “That is a handy skill.”

Her smile was like being stroked, right on his privates. All that sensible talk, and his cock was still stupid as a barn owl.

Eight

AN HOUR ONWARD, THEY CROSSED THE CREST OF a hill. Marguerite looked into the countryside beyond. Gypsies had stopped by the road in the straggly trees that marked a trickle of stream between two fields. Three wagons with canvas tops made a rough triangle surrounding a small campfire. In the fields above, women and girls picked blackberries in the bushes that fingered away from the stream, their skirts and scarves vivid as poppies.

She wiped sweat off her face. This was Crow’s family. His kumpania.

She’d recruited Shandor—called the Crow—into La Flèche years ago, almost at the beginning. He was head-man of a large group, a practical man, cautious to a fault, shrewd in keeping his people inconspicuous and safe. He was endlessly protective of the sparrows he carried.

Today he was not following orders.

Guillaume LeBreton, walking beside her, pushed one finger on the brim of his hat, tilting it so the men down below would see his face. Now they wouldn’t be surprised by the scar when he came closer. He didn’t slow down, approaching the Gypsies. He didn’t hurry himself either. Everyone on both sides was given ample opportunity to assess and study each other to their heart’s content.

Shandor had chosen a private spot to lie in wait for her. No farmhouse overlooked them. The road that led off to Paris was a mile ahead, out of sight. How she was going to discuss the business of La Flèche when she was encumbered by Citoyen LeBreton and his inquisitive hobgoblin of a servant, she did not know.

“We come upon the Children of the Road. The Egyptians. Engaged in harmless pursuits.” LeBreton had hidden himself behind the facade of the big, good-natured countryman. His eyes, however, were hard and calculating. “Or not so harmless. There is something just one hair out of place about this. They’re nervous. Look at the men lounging around beside that wagon. That’s the one I’d search first, if I was wearing a uniform.”

It was as well he was not a gendarme. She would not wish to transport sparrows past a man as discerning as Guillaume LeBreton.

So she spoke with great lightness. “They have stopped to pick blackberries. Perhaps hazelnuts, too, though it is early for that, even in a very hot year, which this has been. There are profusions of berries, anyway.”

“Here, and in every hedgerow between Paris and Dieppe. They didn’t unhitch the wagons to pick blackberries.”

“You are a very suspicious man.”

Men and boys came forward to put themselves casually between approaching strangers and the wagons. Shandor stood at the front of his men. He wore a blue vest and a red neckcloth. On every cap and hat was the red, blue, and white circlet of ribbons, the cockade of the Revolution, showing what good republicans they were.

LeBreton scratched the stubble upon his chin. She was coming to recognize that as the accompaniment of his deeper cogitations. He spoke softly, as if to himself. “What it might be . . . Might be there’s some damn thing ahead on the road and they know about it.”

“There is always something unpleasant ahead on the roads these days.”

Shandor knew she would come this way. He had disobeyed and stayed to talk to her, even at risk to his own people.

He was Crow. He had saved the lives of numberless men and women in the last five years. Of course he would try to save her.

As they approached the camp, the half-grown children stopped talking and edged together. The boys wore hats, like their fathers. The little girls were in blazing bright skirts and blouses, with four or five braids lost in the wildness of loose, frizzy hair. An old woman, tanned to mahogany, sat on the step of a wagon, carving with a small, bright knife.

“They’re Kalderash,” LeBreton said. “Coppersmiths. See the pots hung on the wagons? They make those.”

She knew that. They also sharpened shovels and knives and axes. That was why Shandor’s family was intact and unmolested, five years into the Revolution. His kumpania was known on all the roads out of Paris. Armies passed, and Shandor’s people whirred away, grinding knives and sharpening bayonets. Soldiers of the Revolution lined up to take their turn. And in the wagons, under blankets, silent, the sparrows hid.

LeBreton made a sign with his hand, talking to Adrian. She would not have caught this if she had not seen him do it before. The boy twitched a stick at the donkeys’ heels and followed closer.

“Maybe we’ll get our fortune told,” LeBreton said.

They walked into the midst of the camp. Dogs came to sniff. Decorum tried to kick the dogs, who proved to be agile. LeBreton walked past a dozen men to stop in front of Shandor.

LeBreton said, “Sastipe. And good morning to you. Hot as the hinges of hell, ain’t it?” He added another dozen words in what must be Romany and waited. He did not quite whistle and twiddle his fingers, but he had a great air of relaxed confidence.

Men answered him in Romany and French. Everyone agreed it was hot. Yes. Hot as the forge of the demons. Yes, it was good to stop in the shade for an hour.

She should not be surprised that LeBreton could speak a few words of their language. He was a reprobate of six or seven kinds and had doubtless led an interesting life.

The ancient grandam put her knife away and climbed down from the wagon. She hobbled to the front, acting like a force to be reckoned with. LeBreton took out a pouch of tobacco from Dulce’s pack, jiggled it open, and offered it round, starting with the old woman. Adrian went off to the stream with the donkeys. In a minute he attracted a dozen half-grown boys. With his ragged clothing and dark hair, he disappeared among them. It would be one of those grubby boys who had brought her Crow’s message last night.