Rafe ran a hand through his hair, “Alix, he’s a National Assembly member.”
“You thought I hadn’t noticed?” A slight smile curved her full lips.
“You are the most damnably frustrating woman.” In more ways than one, he thought.
Alix squeezed his arm. “If you think about it, it’s a perfect arrangement. No one would ever imagine an aristocrat would be riding with a government representative.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“You and Jervis keep telling me my identity papers are a work of art and all our other papers are in perfect order. Victor’s father has approved them. There shouldn’t be any problem.”
“But what if you accidentally let something slip?”
She tossed her head, the red and blue ribbons of Henriette’s borrowed bonnet fluttering in the wind. “And what is there to let slip, citizen? I am the newly married wife of the upstanding English merchant Rafe Harcrest. A man who is willing to defend his bride’s honor, even to the jakes.”
He looked down on her, his brow furrowed with concern.
Alix felt an odd desire to smooth the deep indentation above his aquiline nose. “We both know this is our best chance of meeting the packet.”
He started to speak, and she pressed a finger to his lips. “I can do this Rafe. I made it from Valcour to Paris and I won’t founder now. Trust me.”
Twelve
They left Senlis shortly after breakfast. Victor de Poix’s Berlin was not as sleek or swift as the hired post chaise, but it was comfortable, and his status as a representative of the National Assembly ensured that they moved easily through the many checkpoints along the road to the coast. Jervis had ridden ahead to reserve food and lodging for the night and a carriage for the ride to Calais the following day. Tucked in his waistcoat was a note Victor had written placing them under his protection.
For a short time they made polite conversation, but Victor’s eyes kept sliding to the leather satchel on the seat beside him. When Rafe suggested he might like to do a bit of work, Victor apologized for being such poor company and confessed he was anxious to complete a report he was preparing for one of the National Assembly’s many committees.
The road to Calais was well traveled, deeply rutted by the wheels of thousands of carriages, wagons, and horseshooves. Clouds of dust billowed past the windows of the coach. Alix tried to sort through the twisted strands of emotion in her head. Each turn of the carriage wheel reminded her that she was closer to her goal of escaping France and reaching her mother. It was both exhilarating and depressing; the de La Brou titles would be safe, but the new laws might render them worthless. There was no way of knowing when the revolutionary madness would pass and she and Madeleine could return.
What would it be like to live with her mother? Her year at Versailles was the longest they’d been together, and Alix remembered it as a time of cumbersome clothes, uncomfortable hairstyles, and relentless criticism.
“Stand up straight, shoulders back, can’t you wear those stays any tighter? Glide when you walk, Alix, don’t trot like a carriage horse. Hold your head still, just a gentle incline of the neck when you talk, you don’t want your dinner companion dodging showers of your hair powder. Puce, puce, never wear puce Alix, it makes you look as sallow as a plucked chicken.”
Madeleine, Alix reflected, had a way of making her feel like an unpolished stone under a jeweler’s loupe. Her mother rarely doled out compliments. By year’s end, when she’d learned to glide through the long corridors of Versailles and to avoid catching her panniers in the doorways, the criticisms eased and Alix suspected Madeleine was pleased with her progress. Surely her mother would be impressed at how she’d matured since then, and managed to escape Valcour with her father’s papers?
As she stirred restlessly, her arm brushed against Rafe’s and a sick feeling that had nothing to do with the rocking of the coach snaked through her stomach. How would she explain him to Madeleine? She could just picture her mother, dark eyes snapping with disapproval, tapping a slippered foot and demanding to know how on earth she could have been so foolish not only to have married a complete stranger, but a common merchant. Alix knottedher fingers together. Perhaps she and Rafe could have the thing quietly annulled and her mother would never need be told.
It might work, if nothing like what had happened last evening in the shed ever occurred again.
She could not give way, not if she wanted an annulment. And yet, there was something about Rafe, something about the warmth in his eyes, about his body. Ever since they’d left Senlis she’d tried to avoid looking at him. She knew her eyes invariably would be drawn to his hands, or his mouth, and that the memory of how he had touched her would come rushing back as vividly as if he were still holding her in his arms. He’s just a man, Alexandre Charlotte, she scolded herself. It was the prospect of leaving France, and all that was familiar, that had weakened her defenses. She willed herself to turn and look at him.
He was absorbed in a book Victor had lent him; his hazel eyes moving intently along the text, a slight frown settled above his long straight nose. As always, Alix found herself wanting to smooth the worried crease. No more of that, she warned herself. She forced herself to focus instead on the bulky white bandage above his brow, a reminder of the trouble she’d brought him. He’d nearly gotten his skull caved in trying to defend her honor. Heaven knew what damage she’d caused his business. And his life, what plans had he made for his life that might be destroyed by his taking on the burden of a wife whose fortune was entailed in France?
Closing her eyes resolutely, she leaned against the side of the carriage, absorbing its rocking sway, and tried to clear her mind of Rafe, her mother, and France. Gradually, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
The rustleof Victor’s papers woke her several hours later. Alix looked up and saw him sliding his work back into his satchel, closing his lap desk with a snap, and pulling out asimple silver watch from a fob beneath his waistcoat. “Goodness,” he said, “it’s nearly two o’clock and I’ve been so absorbed in my work I haven’t thought whether you two might be hungry and wish to stop for lunch.” Unrolling his widow, he leaned out and called to the driver. “Hercule, see if you can’t find a place to stop, and we’ll pull out the hamper and have a bite to eat.”
Moments later, Alix heard the coachman clucking to the horses, felt the carriage slow and then stop.
“I’ll pull out the hamper for you, citizen,” Hercule said, swinging open the door, “then see about getting some water to cool the horses down.”
Hercule unstrapped a hefty basket from the back of the berlin, and put it down in a sunny spot near a streambed. Alix reached for the coarse woven blanket packed on top at the same time Rafe did, and his hand grazed hers. It felt like sparks sweeping over her skin. She stepped back so quickly she nearly stumbled.
Victor unpacked the contents of the basket. There was a loaf of fresh bread and wrapped packages of cheese, paté, olives, gherkins, and several bottles of wine.
“This is quite a feast,” Alix observed.
“There are food shortages throughout the country, but my parents are concerned that I might starve.” He shook his head with some embarrassment, his golden curls dancing about his shoulders in odd contrast to the intense look in his eyes.
