Free Destiny's Kiss by Jo Ann Ferguson

flinched when she heard the woman called vicomtesse . That woman could be her. The man next to her could be Philippe. Although the queen was imprisoned at one end of Île de la Citè in the Conciergerie, it had been easy to forget the horror filling the city while walking among the trees edging the Seine. One word could betray them, Philippe had warned her. She bit her lip to keep from calling out for sanity.
    â€œFine day for an execution, isn’t it, madame?” asked a deep voice behind her.
    She ignored the question, but he repeated it a bit louder. Heads swivelled toward her. She could not allow someone to call attention to her now. Copying the most vile accent of the streets, she replied, “Any day’s a fine day.”
    â€œThought you looked a bit upset.” He stepped closer.
    Glancing at his face, over which greasy hair hung, she raised a single brow. “It’s not easy to see when I’m so short.”
    â€œI can—”
    â€œNo need,” she hurried to say. She had seen too much already. “I have to get home to my babes. They want some breakfast.”
    â€œIt’s nearly noon.”
    Again she arched one brow. “I got delayed getting out of bed this morning.”
    He chuckled lustily, and she edged away into the crowd. She never had thought she would copy Madame Fortier’s coquettish ways, but they had worked.
    The tightly packed crowd refused to give way easily. She had to fight for every step as they sang “La Marseillaise.” The song clanged through her head louder than the rumble of the death carts’ wheels.
    The two carts continued along the street toward the guillotine at La Place du Carrousel, drawing the people with them. As soon as she could, she scurried to the nearest alley. She paid no attention to the reek of garbage and human waste. She wanted only to put the grisly scene behind her. When she heard footfalls, she looked over her shoulder. A man was reeling drunkenly at the other end of the alley. She rushed toward the bridge.
    She hurried across it and to the back of the duc’s house. She jumped aside as a wagon rushed along the narrow drive that was hidden among the trees. The driver shouted to the horses as they reached the street, and the wagon vanished at top speed into the traffic.
    Who was driving so recklessly? Fear gripped her. Had someone broken into the duc’s house? Lifting her skirts, she ran to the kitchen and tossed the bread on a table.
    She looked into the small room where she slept alone each night. Desperately she longed for Philippe’s arms around her. She had been so unaware of the truth of what was happening in Paris because Madame Fortier had no interest in matters beyond her boudoir. She had heard of how people were dying in Paris, but, after the scare of the Grande Peur two years ago when many houses in the countryside had been ransacked, the Revolution had seemed so far away.
    The door from the front of the house crashed open. The duc rushed in, then paused. “What are you doing here?” Not giving her a chance to answer, he added, “I thought you had left with Fantina.”
    â€œShe’s left?”
    â€œJust now. I thought—” He muttered a curse as a thump came from the front of the house. “You can’t leave now.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    He took her arm and led her back into the finer section of the house, where about two dozen people had gathered. She stared at them, for she had seen no one but the duc and Philippe since they’d come here. As he called orders, she realized these were the real servants of the household, who had stayed to protect their lord.
    She stiffened when she heard the duc say, “And make sure there is water. This may become a siege.” He looked at her and asked, “Can I dare believe you know how to fire a gun, Madame de Villeneuve?”
    â€œI have, but—”
    â€œAccuracy is not an issue when there are so