Trapped by Scandal Read Online Free PDF Page B

normal enough, she decided.
    â€œRue St. André des Arts.” He took her hand in a gesture that felt perfectly natural in this most unnatural of worlds. “But first, I think, a drop of something to revive us both. Come.” He drew her along beside him, weaving his way through the narrow cobbled alleyways, where children played in the kennels and slatternly women lounged in doorways idly watching the passing scene, until they emerged into a small square with a broken fountain in the middle. Noise and laughter spilled from the open door of a tavern on one side of the square. A pair of mangy mongrels rolled and snapped in the gutter. Wine barrels formed rudimentary tables on the cobblestones in front of the hostelry, where men lounged, tankards in hand, throwing dice with raucous shouts of triumph or irritation.
    Guillaume shouldered his way through a knot of drinkers in the doorway. “Hey, Guillaume, where’ve you been these last two days?” one of them demanded. “You owe me three sous.”
    Guillaume reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of small coins. “Here, François.” He tossed the coins onto the top of a wine barrel. “Next time you roll the dice, I’ll make sure they’re not loaded.”
    The other man grinned and pocketed the money. “You had a run of ill luck, that’s all. What can I get you and this lad? Looks like he could do with some hair on his chest.”
    Guillaume laughed. “Brandy . . . and not that ghastly gut rot you pass off on poor innocents.”
    â€œOh, aye, only the best for you, citoyen .” François touched his forelock in mock humility and disappeared into the crush of people within the tavern.
    â€œStay close,” Guillaume murmured to Hero, who had no intention of doing anything else. Despite the jerkin, she now felt conspicuous amidst the rough crowd, but she was also comfortingly aware of her companion’s heightand the strength in his lithe, slim frame. In just his shirtsleeves, he seemed taller and somehow more powerful than most of the men around them, and he exuded a confidence that was immensely reassuring.
    François came back with two tankards. “Best cognac for my friend and his little companion,” he declared, slamming the tankards onto the top of the wine barrel. “That’ll be five sous.” He caught the coins as Guillaume tossed them to him. “So where’ve you been hiding?”
    â€œIn La Force,” Guillaume said tersely.
    The men around them whistled softly. “What did they pick you up for?” the innkeeper inquired.
    Guillaume drained his tankard in one long swallow. “Wrong place, wrong time,” he said. “Same with my friend here.” He slapped Hero’s shoulder amiably. “We gave them the slip when they were taking the last lot of aristos to Madame Guillotine.”
    Someone spat in disgust, and there was a low rumble from the group of men that made the fine hairs on Hero’s neck prickle. There was something terrifyingly unpredictable about the mood of these Parisian streets, a volatility that could swing from raucous good humor to horrifying violence in the blink of an eye. She sipped cautiously at the brandy in her tankard. It burned as she swallowed but heartened nevertheless.
    â€œDid they take the Latours yet?” Guillaume inquired casually. “Or have they gone to ground already?”
    â€œAye, bastard aristos gave us the slip,” one of the drinkers declared. “God knows how they knew we were coming for them, the maggots. We knew they were hiding inthe attic, living like rats up there, but when we went for them, they were gone.” There was more spitting amidst a chorus of disgruntled disgust, and Hero kept her eyes fixed upon the dark liquid in her tankard. The one thing she had learned in her days on the streets was to avoid eye contact with anyone.
    Guillaume set down his