me!” A faint thread of hysteria overtook her voice. “So much of it, in fact, I think it will continue to run down my legs for another hour !”
He swallowed past the haze, gaping at her. Oh, shite. He did not even remember pulling out. Which meant he— Christ.
She glared. “You are a blaireau . A blaireau !”
A nauseating, sinking feeling seized him knowing he had broken her trust. Usually it was the women who broke their promises. “Thérèse, forgive me,” he pressed, trying to better see her face. He wished he hadn’t gotten so drunk. “That was…I did not spill intentionally. I…the brandy…I…”
She muttered something and chewed on a fingernail.
He tried to focus through the blur. “I give you permission to deliver as many blows as you need to. Go on. Make yourself…feel better.”
Chewing on her nail, she said nothing.
He swallowed. “Thérèse. I have never gotten a woman pregnant.” Of course, he hadn’t spilled into a woman before. Ever. He never engaged them while drunk or without a sheath. What the hell was he doing?
He leaned in close, swaying. He squinted at her. Was she still chewing on her nails? “What are you— Cease doing that. ‘Tis hardly becoming.”
She held up her finger and then put it back into her mouth, chewing more enthusiastically.
He reached out and tapped her hand. “Enough. Are you a lady or a goat?”
She eyed her finger and pinched her lips.
Women. They always tried to control him when they could barely control themselves. If being a drunk was the worst he could be, he would take it over what most men were.
With his outstretched hand, Gérard grabbed up the flask she tossed, uncorked it and grudgingly tilted it upside down. She had spilled all of it. Christ. He tried corking it several times, but kept missing the rim. He kept trying.
She rolled her eyes, leaned in, swiped the flask and cork from his hands and popped the cork into the rim with the quick hit of her palm. “There.” She thrust it back toward him.
Meeting her gaze, he took the flask back and smiled. “You see? You still like me.”
She narrowed her gaze.
Maybe not. He sighed. Lifting his head from the blanket just enough to see what he was doing, he carefully tucked it into his leather satchel, closing it. He tucked the entire satchel beneath his heavy head, ensuring its safety through the sway of the world.
Eyeing the thick satchel he rested on, she said, “I saw all those papers earlier. What are you carrying?”
This one just got curious.
To ease some of the coiled tension not even sex and brandy could free him from, he shifted his neck enough to let it crack. He knew it was best she know nothing about the documents. Trust aside, it was for her own safety.
The documents, after all, chronicled disturbing secrets that were going to blow a few massive cannons through the heart of everything the new Republic stood for. That the revolution so many lower classes and bourgeoisie were so damn proud of, was being privately led and funded by the very root of its corruption: a fellow aristocrat, the Duc d’Orleans .
Gérard had met the man on a few occasions, given they were distant cousins. The sword-swinging, long wigged man had millions in coin to distribute, much like Gérard’s family, and was so vile in his personal endeavor for power, he had repeatedly tried to seduce the queen of France. A queen who resisted each and every one of his overambitious advances.
Was it any wonder pamphlets started showing up all across France calling her a whore?
Some of the documents Gérard had in his satchel also detailed how the Bastille had been seized by a disgruntled, angry mob of a thousand who had strangely not all come out of the regular eight hundred thousand inhabitants of Paris. Most had been gathered and hired. The morning of the massacre, more than a dozen witnesses claimed groups of well-dressed men extravagantly tossed countless coins into the gathered crowd, shouting directions
He swallowed past the haze, gaping at her. Oh, shite. He did not even remember pulling out. Which meant he— Christ.
She glared. “You are a blaireau . A blaireau !”
A nauseating, sinking feeling seized him knowing he had broken her trust. Usually it was the women who broke their promises. “Thérèse, forgive me,” he pressed, trying to better see her face. He wished he hadn’t gotten so drunk. “That was…I did not spill intentionally. I…the brandy…I…”
She muttered something and chewed on a fingernail.
He tried to focus through the blur. “I give you permission to deliver as many blows as you need to. Go on. Make yourself…feel better.”
Chewing on her nail, she said nothing.
He swallowed. “Thérèse. I have never gotten a woman pregnant.” Of course, he hadn’t spilled into a woman before. Ever. He never engaged them while drunk or without a sheath. What the hell was he doing?
He leaned in close, swaying. He squinted at her. Was she still chewing on her nails? “What are you— Cease doing that. ‘Tis hardly becoming.”
She held up her finger and then put it back into her mouth, chewing more enthusiastically.
He reached out and tapped her hand. “Enough. Are you a lady or a goat?”
She eyed her finger and pinched her lips.
Women. They always tried to control him when they could barely control themselves. If being a drunk was the worst he could be, he would take it over what most men were.
With his outstretched hand, Gérard grabbed up the flask she tossed, uncorked it and grudgingly tilted it upside down. She had spilled all of it. Christ. He tried corking it several times, but kept missing the rim. He kept trying.
She rolled her eyes, leaned in, swiped the flask and cork from his hands and popped the cork into the rim with the quick hit of her palm. “There.” She thrust it back toward him.
Meeting her gaze, he took the flask back and smiled. “You see? You still like me.”
She narrowed her gaze.
Maybe not. He sighed. Lifting his head from the blanket just enough to see what he was doing, he carefully tucked it into his leather satchel, closing it. He tucked the entire satchel beneath his heavy head, ensuring its safety through the sway of the world.
Eyeing the thick satchel he rested on, she said, “I saw all those papers earlier. What are you carrying?”
This one just got curious.
To ease some of the coiled tension not even sex and brandy could free him from, he shifted his neck enough to let it crack. He knew it was best she know nothing about the documents. Trust aside, it was for her own safety.
The documents, after all, chronicled disturbing secrets that were going to blow a few massive cannons through the heart of everything the new Republic stood for. That the revolution so many lower classes and bourgeoisie were so damn proud of, was being privately led and funded by the very root of its corruption: a fellow aristocrat, the Duc d’Orleans .
Gérard had met the man on a few occasions, given they were distant cousins. The sword-swinging, long wigged man had millions in coin to distribute, much like Gérard’s family, and was so vile in his personal endeavor for power, he had repeatedly tried to seduce the queen of France. A queen who resisted each and every one of his overambitious advances.
Was it any wonder pamphlets started showing up all across France calling her a whore?
Some of the documents Gérard had in his satchel also detailed how the Bastille had been seized by a disgruntled, angry mob of a thousand who had strangely not all come out of the regular eight hundred thousand inhabitants of Paris. Most had been gathered and hired. The morning of the massacre, more than a dozen witnesses claimed groups of well-dressed men extravagantly tossed countless coins into the gathered crowd, shouting directions
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