Page 3 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
Wondering why he had trapped her in that passionless marriage…
Léon downed another drink to fortify himself, then forcefully tried to stop thinking about that man from earlier. Tried to stop imagining him taking him in the alleyway. Tried to stop imagining how he might smell, how his stubble might feel against his cheek, what his thighs might look like without their leather veil. He threw back another drink.
Somewhere around two in the morning, the tavern closed, and Léon, like on every other execution day, was the last to leave. He kissed Souveraine’s cheek, she let out a faux wail of despair, followed closely by an I’ll-get-you-next-time wink, and he stumbled out into the night.
He was the sort of intoxicated that’s one bad smell away from stomach-rupturing vomit. Not ideal in Reims in the year 1792, which this was. The ground outside the tavern was wet with piss, old and new, and hay and sawdust did nothing to soak it up. He dodged a pile of vomit, nausea churning about his gut as he thought he recognised the very carrots he’d eaten in his stew that night. The hot flank of a horse stepped back against him as he rounded a corner, and he tripped three feet to the left, landing against a wall with an aching smack into his shoulder and his boot in a pile of fresh manure. “Shit!”
Léon steadied himself, swallowed back some bile, then trudged forward with drunken determination. He got a full five steps before a strong hand reached out of the darkness, grasped him by the throat and yanked him into an alley. His head smacked back against the wall and he felt the cold, sharp tip of a blade pressed beneath his chin.
“Listen carefully, pretty boy. You’re going to do everything exactly as I tell you.”
The world swayed before Léon’s eyes—grey stone and a whisper of lamplight around two dark, piercing eyes and cheekbones he wanted to flay himself alive on.
That man.
The man from the bar.
His fantasy come to life.
A voice as rich and deep as good beef bourguignon rang in his ears, and he tried his best to focus on the gorgeous lips that had spoken the two words his sozzled brain allowed him to process.
There was only one reply to be made. “You think I’m pretty? I think you’re pretty, too.”
And Léon promptly doubled over and threw up on the man’s shoes.
4
BLIND DRUNK DATE
Henry was quick with his knife, ripping it away from Léon’s shapely neck before he could impale himself on it. He was not so quick with his footwork, and his stomach rose almost as sharply as Léon’s had at the hot and wet sensation on his feet, and at the smell that accosted him with putrid humidity.
Léon braced himself against his would-be attacker for the first bout, then pushed off and into the wall to eradicate more of the evening’s doings. He grunted, and he purged, and he retched, and his assailant stood still all the while.
Was there any point, Henry wondered, in going ahead with his plan? Would Léon even remember his threats in the morning? But Henry had waited several long hours in the cold of that alleyway, and he wasn’t about to throw it out the window because L’Ange de la Merlot couldn't hold his wine.
“Get up!” Henry hissed.
Léon didn’t seem to hear him over the groan and ensuing splash on the pavement.
Henry’s fingers twitched at his side while he waited for completion of the ejection, and when Léon thrust himself back against the wall, replenished his oxygen, and looked as thoughhe might settle down for a little nap in his puke, Henry grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the alley. Across the square he strode, Léon stumbling to try to keep up, being all but carried, until they made it to a trough in the centre of the square. There, Henry let his grasp slip, and Léon fell in a heap on the wet cobblestones. He flinched at the splash of water Henry threw in his face. “Clean up. Wake up.”
Léon wiped a few drops away, then examined the water on his hand, unable to make out the shade of it in the dark, wondering if the water was stained with the blood of his Godmother, or if it was just that strange red rain. “How often do you think they replace this?”
“What?” Henry snapped.
“The water. Did they refresh it this evening, do you think?”
“What do you care? You live in filth. You are filth.”
Léon, beginning to think perhaps his new companion was somewhat inclement towards him, leaned back on two hands and scowled upwards. “Do I know you?”
“Ah, he’s awake now. Where were we?” A soft rustle sounded against Henry’s cloak, and for the second time that evening, a knife was stuck under Léon’s chin. “Listen carefully. You must do everything I say.”
Léon tried his skin against the blade with a laugh. “I have no money, citizen. They supply the drink, they give me all the food I want for free, that’s the deal. For the heads themselves, I get very little coin. I have nothing for you.”
“I don’t want your blood money, Ange,” Henry seethed. “I wouldn’t take it if you gave it freely, any more than I’d piss on you if you were on fire.”
“Well, then…” With a drunken shrug, Léon scanned the empty square. “If you want neither my money nor my person, I hardly see what use I can be to you.”
