Page 100 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
She stepped slowly past the guard, taking the time to revel in the freshness of the air after the dank odors of the prison, to feel the bite of the cold wind against her cheeks. Her younger self would never have allowed a moment to consider how good it was to be alive. It had taken Sinclair to teach her to do that.
The young guard who released Belle was far more courteous than the gruff turnkey. Her bedraggled appearance did nothing to daunt the admiring gleam in the youth’s eye. He followed her through the gate into the bustling street beyond the prison’s outer walls.
“Is madame all alone?” he asked sympathetically. “Have you no friends to meet you?”
Oh, she had friends all right, Belle thought, but none, she trusted, so fool as to come seeking her here. Aloud she thanked the guard for his concern, saying, “I will manage well enough on my own.”
Her words seemed belied the next instant. She was jostled off balance, nearly tumbled into the mud. The culprit was one of the city’s wood peddlers, his hat brim pulled so far down over his long straggling gray hair that it was a wonder he could see a thing.
“Watch where you are going, you old—” But the young guard had no opportunity to complete the insult. With a movement remarkably spry for one of his years, the old man straightened, leveling the guard with one blow of his powerful fist.
Belle gaped in astonishment. She had barely recovered from her surprise when she was seized roughly about the waist. The wood peddler flung her into the back of a passing hay cart. Leaping up beside her, he growled out a command to the driver.
“Allez! Allez! Vite.”
More startled than hurt, Belle struggled to sit up, but as the cart lurched into movement, she was slammed back down again. She heard outcries and curses from the startled pedestrians as the cart began a wild plunge through the streets.
The wood peddler tumbled down beside her. Belle met him, ready to defend herself as best she could. Nails bared, she went for the man’s face hidden beneath its layering of beard. He caught her wrists in a strong grip, forcing them down.
“Be still, Angel. It’s me.”
Shorn of its French accent, the resonant voice was achingly familiar. The next instant the peddler boldly crushed his mouth against hers, all lingering doubts of his identity melting away before the heated fury of his kiss.
Belle ceased her struggles, clinging to Sinclair, returning his embrace, his graying wig coming away in her hand.
When he drew back, the beard had gone askew as well, Sinclair’s hunter-green eyes twinkling wickedly at her. “Now do you know me?”
“Mr. Carrington,” she murmured. “And to think I was beginning to feel as if I had not paid enough heed to the wood peddlers of Paris.”
But the teasing words caught in her throat, her heart too full as she drank in the sight of him. The cart rattled on at a wild pace, jolting and bruising her with every bump, but she did not care enough to even ask where they were going, content to hold Sinclair fast, to feel the reassuring strength of his arms around her.
She buried her face against his shoulder. “Sinclair, I thought I would never see you again.”
“There was no chance that I would allow you to be rid of me that easily, Angel.”
He sought her lips again. At that moment the cart careened around a corner, slamming them against the side and nearly dumping the load of straw atop them.
Belle groaned. “What madman is driving this thing?”
Sinclair struggled to a sitting position and called out, “Baptiste. I don’t believe we are being followed. Draw rein.”
It took several shouts for the old man to hear him, but he sawed back on the harness at last, settling the horse into a respectable trot. Baptiste risked one look back at Belle, his crooked smile beaming from beneath his own battered hat.
“What on earth?” A half-choked laugh escaped her. Sinclair settled back beside her, pulling off what remained of his disguise. “Sinclair, what is all this? What were you and Baptiste doing outside the prison?”
“Trying to get in, of course. Something a little more subtle than being arrested. I figured that even a prison must require wood for fires in the guardroom, and then once inside?—”
“You thought to rescue me from the Conciergerie? Have both you and Baptiste run mad? And to think it was my one consolation that at least you had better sense than that.”
“Not where you are concerned, Angel.” The warmth of his gaze caused her heart to race. “I will admit I was not looking forward to the challenge. It was most convenient when they brought you out to the gate. By the way, what were you doing out there?”
“I was being set free.”
“What!”
“I have an official pardon from Bonaparte for saving his life.”
Sinclair looked considerably chagrined. “You mean I hit that innocent-looking guard and nearly broke our bones in this cart for nothing?”
