His mind planned while lying beside her, curled around her body. Life for himself, life for Scarlet, could be remarkable, filled with joy and happiness. But what peace would they have while France suffered? He knew that neither he nor she would be able to rest until peace again returned to his homeland, until some semblance of order in their government could be trusted to care for its citizens.

She snuggled into him again, and a supreme sense of protective care filled him. She led a dangerous life, one he did not fully understand. Watching her struggle with this fever, unresponsive, everything faded when up against his greatest desire, above all else, to see her eyes, staring, coherent, back at him. He wanted her to live. He wanted her well. The reality that he could not live if she perished sharply impressed upon him, a brand of sorts. He could not endure the knowledge of her in harm’s path again, not without his presence beside her. Whatever her mission, he would aid it. Even if she went to assist this Pimpernel, whoever he was, even if she truly loved him.

But first, they would have to leave the prison. He knew Simon would do his part, knew if they could but exit the outer prison doors, they would be as good as home in England. With any luck, they would all meet in the courtyard. Everything was ready. Just the passage of time stood between him and his efforts to leave this cursed place. He prayed they could reach those doors.

The clothes Abella had brought fit. They were tan, nondescript workers’ clothing, large enough to conceal his jacket beneath. Like many in France, once out of the prison, they would blend in beautifully. And here in the prison, hopefully they would look just like any other staff, tasked with running dinner to all the many rooms.

Now, he waited. Waited for the hours to pass, waited for Abella to come and unlock their door, waited for Scarlet to wake. But awake or asleep, he planned to walk out of the prison with her tonight.

He shifted, waking from a doze. With no way of actually knowing the hour, his prison sense had developed somewhat and his stomach rumbled, indicating that dinner should be on its way. But where was Abella?

He extricated himself from Scarlet’s arms and went to the door to listen. Silence. Anxiety welled within him. All the possible reasons she had not yet opened their door crashed into each other in his brain, increasing the tightness in his chest.

“Click.” Scarlet shifted on the pallet.

Using his finger, he tried to push open the hatch window on the door. Stuck, locked, it wouldn’t move. His frustration growing, he pounded on the door, shouting, “Hey! Dinner! We are hungry in here.”