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maddeningly slow and shuffling gait, his grip on her shoulder always remained firm, his steps never faltered, and he never seemed to require any rest. Most of all, why did she not wonder at the strength he exhibited when he brought his cane down on the thug who tried to rob them, or the ease and confidence with which he drew back his pasty fist to smash it into the face of the other? These were not the actions of an old, frail man. These were the actions of a young, strong man in an exceptionally clever disguise. A man who knew his way around a prison. A man who spoke easily with guards and jailers and could offer authentic-looking identification papers. A man who risked his life to save condemned aristocrats. Understanding plunged into her like a knife.
    “You are the one they call the Black Prince!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “I heard the guards and prisoners talking about you. You snatch condemned and persecuted aristocrats and their families out from under the nose of the National Guard and the Committee of Public Safety and smuggle them out of France. You are never accurately described because you have never worn the same disguise twice. Your escapes are a legend among the ancien régime and counterrevolutionaries. They even say you are related to King Louis the Sixteenth himself, through the bloodlines of one of his grandfather’s secret bastards.” She stared at his massive form lying on the bed, her voice clearly filled with awe.
    He turned toward her and carelessly propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes again reflecting a trace of amusement. “You flatter me, Mademoiselle. Although I must admit, at this particular moment I almost wish that I could be this character, this Black Prince you evidently so admire.” He paused and slowly swept his gaze over her from head to foot, as if he were trying to imagine what she looked like under her loose and filthy sansculotte outfit. “It would perhaps be interesting to see how a true aristocrat like you would show your gratitude to a man driven by such pure and noble intentions.”
    His tone was grossly sarcastic, and the leering way he looked at her made her uneasy, embarrassed, causing her to fold her arms across her chest. She must have made a mistake. The man known as the Black Prince was rumored to be a distant cousin to the royal family, perhaps not a duc, but at the very least a marquis. A gentleman of noble birth would not speak so to a lady, nor was it proper for any man to ogle her in such a way. She lifted her chin and gave him a condescending look, determined to put him in his place. “If you are not he, then who are you and why did you put yourself in such peril to rescue me?” she demanded in a properly frigid voice.
    Evidently finished with his scrutiny of her, he fell back against the pillow and wearily closed his eyes. “Unfortunately, Mademoiselle, I am merely a man of business, without any royalist sympathies or bloodlines lurking in my background to lend chivalry to my actions. And you, Mademoiselle, are my business.”
    “What do you mean?” Jacqueline asked, still confused. “Almost all of my father’s properties and investments were confiscated by the revolutionary government when he was condemned. The Château de Lambert had already been transferred to Antoine’s name before my father was found guilty, but I am sure those crooks have taken it over by now as well. Since I no longer own anything and I have no money, how can my escape possibly aid your business?”
    He yawned and rudely turned away from her. “I said
you
are my business,” he told her impatiently. “You are a package I have agreed to deliver.” He adjusted the blanket over his shoulder and prepared to go to sleep.
    “A package?” repeated Jacqueline in confusion. Understanding dawned on her. “Do you mean to tell me that you are rescuing me for money?” Her incredulously haughty tone indicated what she thought of that reason.
    “Not noble enough for you?” he