Page 62 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
And in that same moment, Léon realised that Henry had committed Catherine to his care should he not make it, the clearest mark he had ever seen of Henry’s esteem for him.
A spray of dirt erupted from the hooves of the nearest horses. Henry lifted his sword, and with no thought for who the man pursuing his sister may have been, plunged his blade straight through his heart.
“The fuck!” Léon cried as the torso slapped down at his feet. Henry swung the sword high, and the head of another rolled to a splat on the ground.
The two horses, dethroned of their riders, pulled up, one rearing into another with a loud whinny.
The next men tried to halt their horses, the dark and tight space creating confusion as one almost rode into another, the animals stopping so fast two more of the riders were thrown to the ground.
Henry moved for the fallen like death itself, silent and fatal, sliding his sword into one man’s neck, into another’s chest. The screams that ripped out of them drew the attention of the next. “We’re under attack!”
The man drew his own blade, which flashed bright in Léon’s eyes. Henry’s back was to it as he fought off a new assailant, his great shoulders in profile against the light of their lanterns, about to be sliced into.
Léon lunged. He ripped the man down from his horse, dislocating his arm in the process. He cracked a foot down on his chest and punched him so hard he fell unconscious into the mud.
He turned, breathless, to see Henry’s eyes plastered on him, a fleeting look of surprise mingled with… What was that look?
A whip came cracking down across Léon’s back, and no sooner did Léon shout in pain than the man who’d committed the offence screamed, his hand caught in Henry’s, his wrist snapped, and Henry, with all his great strength, wrenched him to the ground and stomped a foot down on his face with such force the eyes would never open again.
A fist came from Léon’s right, slammed into his stomach, and knocked him to the ground. Henry’s sword swung around and straight through the man, impaling him from one end of the weapon to the other. He lifted a leg, muscles tensing right in front of Léon’s floored face, and he kicked the man back with an unfathomably sexy movement that sloughed him off the bloody blade, dripping a trickle of warm blood onto Léon’s cheek.
As this last body slumped to the ground, Henry’s hand stretched out for Léon’s.
Léon hesitated. There, lying in the mud, his eyes flashed distrust.
Henry, breathing hard, his face half golden in the lamplight, didn’t retract the offer. “You probably just killed a man to save my life, and now you won’t even touch my hand?”
It was ridiculous. Even Léon had to admit that. A grin fell across his face as an admission, and he grasped Henry’s hand. Being pulled up by the strong arm so that his chest brushed against Henry’s forced a fierce blush across Léon’s cheeks. He took a step back, though he let Henry retain the fingers he showed no sign of wanting to relinquish. He glanced down at the pulverised face of the man who had hit him, trying to hide his smile. “Thank you.”
“That’s okay.” Henry lowered their two clasped hands, but just before his touch slipped away, he pulled Léon’s back compulsively. His other hand came over Léon’s fingers and the tips of Henry’s found the tips of his, tentatively. “Thank you.”
Léon studied him—the scrunch of the brow, the slant of regret at his lips. Then Henry dropped his hand, and Léon knew Henry had meant that as their final romantic touch.
“Léon.” Henry glanced around to make sure all their assailants had been properly dispatched, and seeing this was done, he placed two awkward hands on his hips. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you.” Before the laugh could burst out of Léon, Henry rushed in to quiet him. “I’m serious. This time. I’ve been flippant, and I’ve been cruel, and in addition to all of that, I’ve embarrassed myself. Dreadfully.” He coughed out his own laugh, but the lines on Léon’s face had settled to serious. He was really listening to Henry this time, really ready to hear him, and all that seemed to do was tie Henry’s insides back into the knot that had made him so hopeless at speaking his feeling earlier.
But Henry was determined. “I want to thank you. You’ve done things for me and for Catherine that went beyond what I forced you to do. And I wish… I wish I’d just asked you in the first place. Because I believe now that you would have helped me. Because the last few days, I’ve seen a side of you that…” His eyes swept over Léon’s face. Could he ever have loved him back? Could those beautiful, troubled pink cheeks have lain on his pillow? Could that tired head have rested on his shoulder?
The answer was irrelevant. It was over and it was done, and Henry felt a crushing regret that restricted every last word he was going to speak to Léon. “You have every right to hate me.”
“I know I do,” Léon replied, his words provoking Henry while easing some small part of him with the slight edge of humour.
“You do. I readily admit that. Which isn’t to say you didn’t make things worse by punching me.”
“You absolutely deserved it,” Léon returned.
“I did. But anyway, to get back to the point…” He met Léon’s gaze, earnest and kind, in a way that seemed to scoop out Léon’s insides. “I’m sorry I did what I did. I’m sorry I made you feelthe way I made you feel. And… what happened back there…” He glanced towards the door of the pub, the memory of their lips pressed together rearing high in both their minds. “I had no right to do that. And what I said to you… I am deeply ashamed of it, and I’m eternally sorry. You’re…” With a blush and a bashful half laugh, “You’re so beautiful, it scares me. It unsettles me on a primal level, and it makes me… It’s a frightening beauty, not just the way you look on the outside, it’s everything. You’re too smart, and-and-and-uh-too…” He stretched a hand out to indicate all of Léon. “You're graceful. You’re graceful when you move, and when you speak and-and in the things you do, and…” Casting his overwrought eyes to the ground, “God, Léon, I don’t hate you. Not even a bit. I never could. I think you’re wonderful. I think you’re lovely. I think you’re strong, and brave, and resilient, and I have so much respect for you. I just… I think it broke my heart to realise I’d messed this up so irreparably. To know that you’ll never look at me the way I look at you.”
But had Henry not been so caught up in his feelings, had he looked up from the mud just then, he would have caught the very same look in Léon’s eyes, bright and adoring. “Henri?”
His eyes flew up sharply.
“I don’t hate you either. Not entirely.”
“Not entirely,” Henry repeated with a chuckle. “High praise. Higher than I deserve at any rate.”
“Probably.” Léon’s smile grabbed Henry at the throat. “But after everything, I think, if you did come back to Reims, one day, and if you did still want me to sit on a chair next to you and drink something… I think I would.”
“I would like that,” said Henry, relief flooding every inch of him.
