Free The Forbidden Rose by Joanna Bourne

hairy, too. Even when he wasn’t wearing his scar, there was nothing handsome about him. His father called him “that hairy bog jumper.” They didn’t get along, he and his father.
    No jacket meant he wasn’t carrying anything but the six-inch sticker in his waistcoat and a throwing knife in his boot. He felt a little underdressed. But he had a long view down the road. It was quiet. Only a few frogs spoke up, creaking back in the woods. He’d hear horses before they topped the rise. He’d have time to get Maggie into cover behind those bushes over there.
    She made breathy sighing sounds when she washed. Damn, but that was enticing. A man imagined her sounding like that while he did inventive things.
    He was going to stop imagining.
    She dribbled water here and there, which was something he could watch her do indefinitely. After a while, she sat back on her heels, pressing wet cloth to the back of her neck, and looked at him straight. Assessing. Deciding. “I am not certain where we stand. Am I your prisoner?”
    “God, no.” He got it out fast. He even managed to sound offended. “Walk off if you want to.” He waved at the road uphill. “Go ahead. I’m not stopping you.”
    “I had received a different impression, somehow.” But she didn’t get up to leave. They’d got past the point where he had to chase her down and tackle her. Obviously his sterling character was winning her trust.
    He let himself sound petulant. “I thought I was doing you a favor, taking you with me. Those Jacobins from Paris are ahead somewhere. I figured you didn’t want to meet them alone.”
    She mulled that over a while. “I wish to avoid them.”
    “I don’t like to deal with officials myself. Not these days. Not the bloodthirsty crew that’s ruling Paris.”
    She held the wet cloth to her face. When she lowered it, her eyes were sober. “I do not trust them to deal fairly with one of de Fleurignac’s servants. Especially one who is a foreigner.” The words were lies. The fear underneath was real. “Thank you for hiding me from them.”
    “I was getting out of sight myself. You just got the benefit of it. You have somewhere to go?”
    “I have friends. Not so far. I will go to them.”
    He scratched his chin. It wasn’t easy to keep the right sort of stubble on his chin. It took careful shaving to look this unkempt. “What was in my mind . . . I thought I’d keep an eye on you, as long as we’re walking in the same direction. There’s bad men on the roads. Worse than me.”
    “It is possible,” she agreed, dryly.
    “In these towns, in every direction, they’ve heard about the burning in Voisemont. Everybody you pass is going to be watching for aristos escaped from the chateau. You won’t look like an aristo if you’re with me.” He gestured, taking in Guillaume LeBreton in all his glory. “Nobody would. And nobody bothers a woman traveling with a man my size.”
    A damselfly went flitting over the tall weeds by the water, blue as a sapphire, bright as a jewel flying. Maggie knelt motionless on the moss by the side of the stream, watching it hover. After a while, she said, “I do not see why you would—”
    “Fifty livres.”
    “What?”
    “Fifty livres and I see you to your friend’s house. To the doorstep.” Nothing like asking for money to make a man look honest. Nobody trusted altruism. He stood up, doing it slowly, making sure he looked harmless, and went over to watch water running over the rocks. The damselfly got bored and flew away.
    “I don’t have fifty livres with me.” A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “I don’t have fifty sous.”
    “Then I’ll have to trust you for the money, won’t I?”
    Ah, but she was tempted. One push, and she’d do it. He got down next to her on his haunches. Looked her in the eye. “You’ll do some trusting of your own. You’re afraid of me.”
    Tension buzzed like a swarm of wasps. She didn’t look away. “I am frugal with trust. You will