L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)

Chapter Ten (Part Two) - 11. February. 1789

Her cheeks burn. “Right. Of course you didn’t.”

“This velvet will soak up the blood,” he responds, thankfully giving no other mention about the knife, “but it would be best to return to the palace soon so your cut can be properly dressed.”

Lizabeth reaches up to the cloth, her hand landing momentarily on top of Gabriel’s. His fingers are warm beneath her own, and she glances up with a start to find he's watching her. His gaze moves across her features—her eyes, her lips, her cheeks—his expression unreadable. Her gaze, too, drifts to his lips, and she studies how they curl up in the corners, a permanent ghost of a smile. She parts her mouth, searching for something to say, when Gabriel takes his hand from her face, the moment gone.

“Shall we get you back to Versailles?” he asks. His tone is light, but his voice catches on the last word. “I was returning to the palace when I heard your scream and came to investigate the noise.”

Lizabeth glances into the darkness, half expecting to see the footpad hiding in the shadows. “Where were you coming from?”

Gabriel pauses. For a moment, he’s still, and Lizabeth fears she’s somehow upset him. Then he shakes his head. “You’re not the only one who longs for an escape every now and then, mademoiselle.”

Lizabeth lowers her gaze, hiding her blush beneath her curls. She discards the knife in a pile of dead leaves, lamenting her lost opportunity to acquire a weapon of her own, and follows Gabriel until the two reach his horse. He unties the horse and swings onto its back, the very picture of grace. When he reaches to help Lizabeth up, she hesitates, glancing back and forth between the animal and Gabriel’s hand.

“You’ll be all right,” he assures her. “She’s gentle.”

The horse isn’t what worries Lizabeth, but she doesn’t dare admit that out loud. She allows him to pull her up, trying to ignore how warm his hand feels wrapped around her own. Gabriel kicks the side of the horse, and it begins to move. Lizabeth isn’t sure how she is meant to keep balance and remains awkwardly perched on the horse’s back until it breaks into a canter, and she’s forced to grip its sides so she doesn’t fall. 

“Hold onto me,” Gabriel calls over his shoulder.

Hold onto Gabriel? She couldn’t. But the horse is moving quicker now, and surely falling off the animal will make the situation far more embarrassing than it already is. Though, when she lifts her hands and attempts to grab onto Gabriel, she freezes, hands dangling in the open air, inches from his back. Before she can touch anything solid, the horse jerks to the left to avoid a fallen tree, and Lizabeth tumbles forward, her fingers digging into Gabriel’s side. He flinches but says nothing.

She clears her throat in the most nonchalant way she can muster and adjusts her grip until she’s only clutching at fistfuls of Gabriel’s velvet cloak. Even so, his back brushes her knuckles whenever he leans in time with the horse, the heat of his body warming the chill in her bones. Her heart is beating so hard, she fears he'll hear it.

Regardless of her discomfort, is this not what Lizabeth was hoping for? A moment alone to ask someone for information without any other interruptions? Gabriel isn’t as social as Marguerite or Jean, but he is just as well connected, and therefore he must know something. She might not have another chance like this for a long while, without hundreds of ears angled in her direction, thirsting for gossip. Gabriel’s presence may stir up an odd feeling in her gut she doesn’t quite know the reason for, but if she squanders the moment now, she’ll never forgive herself.