Page 143 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
Henry may have been furious about the edits made to his story, but he was very happy with the payment he received for it. This bought them several months of a lease on a small house, in a small village, in the middle of nowhere, England.
Henry wrote DuPont on Souveraine’s behalf, and he was thrilled to help. Because rather a funny thing had occurred in Paris after they left.
There was no record of an Henri De Villiers being brought to the guillotine, that day or any other. There was no record of Léon Lyon murdering a group of onlookers in the square to save his lover. There was never a single mention of the fact Charles-Henri Sanson had been found bound and gagged that very morning, unable to carry out his duties as executioner, or that he was then caught selling the locks of the King’s hair that were trimmed that grim January day. And there was certainly never even the merest rumour that he’d gone along with the plan willingly so as not to be remembered for eternity as the man who took Louis’ head.
No.
The public relations machine had spun into overdrive, and the once-King’s demise was recorded as a dignified and trouble-free affair, carried out by Sanson himself. DuPont had assumed, naturally enough, Léon and Souveraine had married and set up a new life elsewhere. Indeed, he’d been expecting such a letter for some time. Oh, but had Léon heard the sad news about Mollard? The man who did it never was caught, but they all suspected it was the witch, who must have used his magic to escape from the tower before killing that poor, innocent man.
Souveraine’s bar, being of great popularity, well kept, and in such close proximity to the sight of all executions, was sold for a good price. The money was forwarded by DuPont to one Mary Wollstonecraft in Paris, and she, at great personal risk, forwarded it on to Souveraine.
Thus, the five were able to afford some land for Destroyer and Azazel, an inn, which proved popular with travellers on the road from London to Bath, and a small cottage with threebedrooms. It was a veritable mansion to Léon, and a very happy compromise to Henry.
Émile attended a nearby school, escorted there and back daily by Henry, who spared all the time he could for the boy, when he wasn’t selling popular articles, or writing seditious pamphlets (the latter anonymously, at Léon’s insistence).
Souveraine and Catherine ran the bar, the one learning from the other, and there was never an instance of mismanaged magic while Souveraine was by Catherine’s side.
Léon cut wood, and brought in a good earning doing so, given how much faster and more precisely he worked than the other men. He needn’t have done it, as he earned less than all the rest for harder work, but it felt good to build from their safe base, and to lay all the money aside for Émile for when he grew up. To know his brother would have a name and a family, an education and a home, all the things Henry always said everyone should have.
They lived their days long and loving in the sunshine and rain, among falling golden leaves or drifting snow, in flowers and forests, and even if their family was a little unusual, there never was a happier one in England, France, or in all the world.
Henry and Léon’s room, in the attic of their pretty cottage, caught the morning sun through the branches of a magnificent oak tree, and overlooked the paddock where Destroyer whinnied and ran happily all day long.
Henry had been right. It was a paradise, only made more heavenly when Henry returned to their room one bright Sunday morning. He kicked the door closed behind him, placed a tray down, and crawled over to Léon to drop a kiss on his neck.
Henry smelled of warmth, masculine comfort, safety, compassion—all the things Léon had spent a life dreaming of, and here it all was, in his bed.
As neither had any interest in attending church with the rest of their village, they had the house to themselves while Émile helped Catherine and Souveraine prepare for lunch at the inn.
“Are you happy, Ange?” Henry asked, perhaps for the billionth time. He’d never stopped checking. He knew the great sacrifice Léon had made for him, and he worked tirelessly in the hopes he deserved it.
He needn’t have done more than simply be Henry.
“Every day feels like a dream,” Léon said, as Henry sank down beside him on the soft sheets. “Like I died and went to Heaven. This house, this life. It’s so peaceful.”
Henry kissed his cheek, his long, precious body stretched out against Léon’s. “You deserve it. That and more.”
“I don’t want anything more. I am so perfectly content.”
“You don’t want anything?” Henry raised an eyebrow towards the tray he’d brought in. “Because I made muffins. And they’re hot. And the butter…” His eyes returned to Léon, hotter even than the steaming breakfast. “I brought extra butter.”
“Oh? Oh…” Léon leaned harder into the next kiss that landed on his shoulder, losing fingers in Henry’s thick hair that had grown back plentiful and gorgeous, while Henry licked his way down his body. “Well, I guess perfection can be improved upon after all…”
Sex in bed on Sunday morning with Henri De Villiers. Yes, Léon Lyon was well satisfied. And he remained that way, just as Henry did, the two of them deeply in love, for the rest of time.
The End
