Page 37 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
Henry jumped up, bringing the blanket with him. Léon turned, and Henry found himself lost for words as their two faces came close. Too close. Breath catching in his throat, he whispered, “Western woods, two o’clock?”
“That’s right,” said Léon. “We’ll make the trade. Your sister for my brother.” He glanced back at Émile. “Take care of him.”
“I will,” said Henry. Léon reached for the door. “Léon?”
“Mmm?”
Henry had already realised Léon was beautiful. But not that beautiful. Not like in the quiet and the peace of that cabin. Not inthe way that felt like his lungs had been punctured. Arrestingly beautiful. And Henry didn’t want him to go.
“What is it?” Léon asked, big and luminous eyes searching Henry’s.
Honestly, he replied, “I don’t know.”
Léon remained a moment longer, hesitating.
Then Henry stretched his hand out. “Shake on it.”
Léon took a few seconds, staring down at the long and elegant fingers. He reached for them slowly, as though he expected Henry to pull away, but Henry’s hand remained firm, and Léon’s slid into his as though it were a glove made for him—the perfect fit. Neither of them said a word, but both felt the fire of that touch run through their arms and straight into their hearts. Their eyes locked, attraction, curiosity, fear.
Henry felt the urge to pull him, wrench him in, and kiss him. What would he have done? How would he have tasted?
But it was Léon who took his hand away, head sinking low, and who put the door between them just as quickly as he could.
Henry’s fingers ran down the wood of the closed door, his heart pounding in his chest. He moved to his mattress to try to calm down—to sleep away what was left of the night—but he was far too unsettled.
What the hell was he doing? Was he falling for this pretty executioner?
He was not.
He couldn’t let himself trust Léon. He couldn’t, after everything he’d worked for, everything he’d been through, the trial and the kidnapping, Catherine in that cell all by herself for so long, falling apart, becoming dangerously scared…
There was too much at stake.
He wouldn’t throw it all away now because of a handsome face. He needed to take action. He needed insurance.
“Émile,” he called out softly. A grunt came back. “Émile? Wake up, we need to go.”
The boy rolled over towards him, yawned and blinked.
“Good boy,” said Henry, reaching a cake off a nearby table to pass to him. “Now… What can you tell me about this barmaid?”
20
TO THE PRISON
It was dawn, and Souveraine was waiting on the street by the corner of the prison, clutching the best dress she owned. Thanks to Léon. She’d spent the previous evening calling in favours, while working, and had amassed an impressive array of costume jewellery. For Léon. She had no wig or powder, but she had hair pins and flour, and she’d decided that would do just as well. Léon would be impressed.
And there he was, handsome, sweet, harried. Sad and exhausted. And all Souveraine wanted was to throw her arms around him and make everything better.
But as always, Léon pulled up just that little bit too short, saying breathlessly, “I can’t thank you enough for this. Is Mollard here yet?”
“I haven’t looked.” She’d hoped for more from him, but his eyes were already on the dress, holding it up, assessing the size, then he was rifling through her bag. “No wig?”
“I couldn’t get one.” His face dropped, just a little. “But I’ll help you do the hair.”
“Thank you.” He took her arm. He offered up the smile she’d adored almost all her life and leant in. The kiss landed on her cheek. She had begun to despair of him ever placing one onher lips. “Let’s go,” he said. And all the warmth, his scent, the safe feeling of being with Léon, slipped away, and he returned to his usual too-respectful distance that he’d taken to keeping whenever they were in public.
Léon never meant to treat Souveraine that way. He didn’t know how to treat her most of the time. His natural instinct was to be close—he was naturally affectionate, and he loved her better than almost anyone else in the world. But he knew what the touch meant to her. He knew what it meant to everyone around them, who were always watching. And he knew, now, what a touch could be.
