Page 52 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“Oh, Souveraine.” His hand slid against her cheek, and she dipped her forehead to his. “I’m so sorry.”
She shook her head, instantly absolving Léon of any wrongdoing, as she always did. And with the thankfulness of seeing her well, and with the love he felt for her friendship, his guilt redoubled itself.
It wasn’t only that she was, in every possible way, the perfect partner for him, had he been able to love her the way she wanted. It was, yet again, the guilt of what if she’d been with someone else? Married safely to a good man. Then she would never have run off with a dangerous villain like Henry—a complete stranger—all for Léon’s sake. What if it hadn’t been Henry who asked? What if it had been someone far worse, with far more terrible intentions, and she had simply walked to her death for Léon’s sake?
The thought made him ill, and he tightened his hand around her waist, only to have their intimacy interrupted by Catherine’s too-close face, barely an inch from Souveraine’s. “Souveraine, is it? I didn’t get your name at the prison.”
Souveraine snapped to, opening her eyes from the warming embrace to see a visage she was growing to dislike immensely, pretty as it was. “That’s correct. I didn’t know you could speak.”
Catherine made no reference to this last fact. “Thank you for your help.” She wrapped her hand around Léon’s forearm, just above the wrist cuff he still wore, saying of him, “He was amazing. So clever. But we couldn’t have done it without you.”
Souveraine’s nostril flared as she tilted her head up to appraise the very forward young woman. But Léon’s attention had been drawn back to Henry. There had been a flash of leather out of the corner of his eye, and now he couldn’t help but note the flex of Henry’s thigh as he raised a foot to lift Émile onto the driver’s seat of the carriage. Émile found him great entertainment, and it was clear he was getting in all the time he could with him before Henry had to depart. It was a touch hurtful, in the careless way children often are, that Léon had gone through all that only to play second fiddle to the man who’d kidnapped him. But after all, Henry did have a way about him. He was all smiles and jokes and his hair falling by his eyes when he leaned forward. And Jesus Christ, he was so fucking hot…
“Léon!” Souveraine said for the third time.
“Sorry. What?” He tried hard to focus on her, but Henry laughed, and had his laugh always been that deep throated? God, his throat… What good use he could make of that throat…
“What happened to you?” She ran a hand over his enormous, naked biceps. “And why do you smell like…that?” Dropping her eyes to the reddish-brownish smears across his abdomen, “Is that blood?”
“Just from work,” he tried to reassure her. “And the rain. But I-I do need a wash.” He hadn’t ever told her about the pit. She’d known his intention to help Catherine escape, but even the existence of the pit was something he didn’t want Souveraine thinking about.
Souveraine had more important things on her mind than how Léon smelled, anyway. “Are we leaving now?” She glared over at Henry with Émile. “Is that our carriage?”
“I don’t recommend you take this carriage.” Catherine had wandered to the front of it as though she owned the thing, stroking a caramel-coloured horse along the white stripe that ran the length of its nose. “It’s quite stolen.”
Léon’s tongue gave off an uncheckedtskand “What?” Souveraine gasped out, her big blue eyes looking up at Léon in alarm.
“Yeah. Um. It just… happened.” Was he actively defending Henry now? No, he certainly was not! “The-the whole thing was appalling,” he corrected sternly, trying to snap back to his old self, who he seemed to have left somewhere along the road. “A nightmare. We need to get back to Reims at once.”
But his fast strides towards the inn were halted by a loud whinny, Henry’s, “There you are!” and the sound of hooves descending fast upon their meeting.
Henry jumped down from the carriage with sturdy calves that Léon absolutely did not notice the shape of, then he leaned his head back with an arrogant air, crossing his arms for good measure. His black stallion trotted out of the night and directly to him, nudging hard into his shoulder. Henry was sent back a step or two with the strength of the affectionate push, but he only said, “And I suppose you’ll be expecting me to pay for your food and board here?”
A neigh came back with the raise of the horse’s head, as if in direct answer, to which Henry replied, “Why should I? You hardly kept your end of the deal.”
Émile had scampered down from the carriage and was fast beside Henry, poking a finger through his belt loop for stability. “Henri! He’s a beauty. What’s his name?”
Another whinny, and the great stallion lowered its head to Émile, who fell back on the ground with a laugh. Léon rushed to pick him up while Henry continued his bizarre communication with the animal. “No, I’m not saying that.”
Another neigh, and Émile still chuckling at their hi-jinx, but Henry doubled down. “I’m not saying it.”
A louder neigh and a strong nudge, then an eye roll from Henry as he stumbled back again.
Émile, having sprung to his feet with Léon curious behind him, insisted, “Henri? His name?”
Henry wrinkled his mouth, and with a hand at his brow, stated flatly, “Astaroth, Bringer of Pain, Leveller of Worlds, and Destroyer of Mankind.”
Astaroth, Bringer of Pain, Leveller of Worlds, and Destroyer of Mankind seemed to nod with satisfaction.
“But I call him Destroyer,” Henry added quickly, to a disgruntled snort from the horse, at which Henry narrowed his eyes, at which Destroyer narrowed his eyes and offered a short-lived flattening of his ears.
“He’s magnificent,” said Émile, stroking the horse’s snout, which appeased the animal appropriately.
“He’s a complete ar—” Léon caught his eye sharply “—Ahhh, where is the help, anyway?” He spun away with a conspiratorial grin that made Léon’s stomach curl in on itself despite everything. He yelled out, “Garçon!” striding into the inn.
“Destroyer,” Émile repeated on a whisper, as enamoured as a boy could be with all the adornments of Henri De Villiers. The kidnapper. The highwayman. Remembering this, Léon picked Émile up onto his hip protectively, but he still couldn’t help running a hand over the soft nose of the strange creature. He’d heard Henry say he was stolen, but he seemed the most docile and friendly beast Léon had ever been near.
It was odd, to say the least, the way Henry interacted with the animal. Was he lying again? Was this really his horse? Léon had seen no sign of it prior, back at that cabin. Yet the rapport they had, the idea of this beast following them all the way from Reims, galloping through the evening by their side…
