Page 63 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“And I think,” said Léon, quite sure Henry was about to walk out of his life forever, “if you did that again, now, after everything you’ve just said…”
‘That,’ they both knew, was the kiss, and Henry’s heart leapt like a dog on hot coals. “If I did that again?”
“If you did…”
“If I did, would you hit me?”
Léon laughed on a blush that slipped around Henry’s heart, trapping it permanently. “No. I wouldn’t hit you.”
Grinning wider than he had in years, “Do you promise?” Henry stepped a little closer.
With a nod, and another chuckle, dipping his head, “I promise.”
But he still didn’t take the liberty. Henry reached soft fingers beneath Léon’s chin and tilted his face up, his sweet breath ghosting over Léon’s cheek. “May I kiss you, Ange?”
The way he said that word. How it had gone from insulting to infatuated. Henry’s hand was on Léon’s hip, and Henry’s thigh was against Léon’s thigh, and he pressed his pelvis into Léon’s, and “Please,” Léon begged.
Two sets of long lashes closed on all the world but each other, and Henry touched his soft lips to Léon’s.
Léon leaned his head back, curling fingers into Henry’s waist, silk slipping over skin as he dug his fingernails in. Henry pressed harder against his midline in response, and Léon’s lips parted in eagerness for Henry’s tongue. No tentative and tender kiss now, this was the one—this was the kiss to remember all kisses by—this was the kiss that was going to last the two of them a lifetime, to never be replaced or outdone by any other man or any other kiss, should fate divide them permanently from that day on.
Léon knew no other raised eyebrow from across the bar could have drawn him out of the misery of his life. No brushing of fingers in the street, no love letter or handsome face or fleeting daydream could ever have broken his world apart the way Henry had. And just for that moment—that brief and infinitesimally small flicker of time in all the years upon yearsupon years—Léon knew what freedom was. He knew lightness, and he knew life, and he knew the tender touch of a man who wanted to catch his fall. Who wanted to take him away from it. He never needed to say it. Léon felt it in the urgency of Henry’s touch and in the desperation of that kiss. He felt Henry’s heart grinding to a stop, the shattering of hopes at the inevitability of their parting.
They had found some piece of beauty, some rare and elusive thing. But both knew they were caught in webs of neither their own design nor making.
Léon dipped his head, breaking the kiss. His temple leaning on Henry’s cheek, he whispered, “I don’t want you to go.”
“I’m not the one leaving.” He felt the slow shake of Henry’s head. “We can figure this out. You’re not happy there.”
The shimmering emerald of Léon’s eyes when he looked up at Henry dashed every hope he might have had. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. You matter. Don’t say that.” Henry cupped his cheek, as though he could force some understanding into him.
But Léon only shook his head. “Life is so tentative, Henri. It comes and it goes so fast. What I want…” He blinked away the tears that started to his eyes. “I love this moment. Please give me one last kiss. So I can remember we had this.”
“Ange…” Léon brought two fingers to his lips, and his heart turned in on itself when Henry kissed them. He caught his hand, gently, and kissed all along his fingers, over his knuckles, the back of his hand, then pulled his palm to his cheek.
Léon let his hands run free in Henry’s beautiful hair, and he pulled him in for one final kiss. There in the dark and the fire, in the icy night, two hearts pressed together, the air around them about to evaporate forever.
And that was when Léon heard it. Another voice—many voices—but one distinctly, that he knew well.
Léon broke from Henry just as the men came in sight of them. He saw that last love-sick flash of Henry’s eyes, desperately adoring, softly reproachful, broken-hearted, yet understanding. He saw the look that begged him, please, to change his mind, but the acceptance that the choice was made. And he saw Henry’s hand move for the hilt of his sword. And he heard Bernard DuPont, of all the people in the world, shout, “Over there!”
“Henri?” Léon said softly.
Henry paused, looking at him with complete and adoring faith, a smile, just as though he was sure Léon was on his side.
And Léon curled his hand into a fist, gathered all the power of his great muscles into his arm, then punched Henry square in the jaw, knocking him flat on his back in the frozen dirt. His sword clattered to the ground, and before he even realised what had happened, Léon had his boot on his chest and that sword at his throat.
The complete and unadulterated horror of Henry’s eyes could only be matched by the sense of betrayal written in every feature that Léon had come to adore. As the beat of another ten horses’ hooves pounded towards them, Henry uttered, “How could I have been so wrong about you?”
“You weren’t,” Léon whispered, but Henry never heard it.
“Léon? Is that you?” DuPont exclaimed, jumping down from his horse.
“I caught him,” Léon said, staring deep into Henry’s devastated, hate-filled eyes. “I had to follow him all the way, but I got him.”
Half a dozen men surrounded him, drawing their weapons. He knew most of them, especially that filthy bastard Mollard,who stayed on his horse, an unnervingly suggestive grin on his face. “And the girl?” he asked.
