Ram doubted three thousand muskets from this one armory would sit in a supply depot for very long. The guns were expensive. A government spent such great sums to defend the country. The survival of soldiers depended on their excellent weapons. After all, a soldier might be shot or wounded, but his musket could survive. To kill another.
The knowledge turned Ram even sourer than he had been this morning. Now he had a problem.
It was one thing to learn the details of such an order of muskets by a famed armory. It was another to realize those details must be conveyed to Paris to his friend and head of mission, Kane Whittington, Lord Ashley. But how could Rampossibly get the information to Whit? He was far from any major city where he might meet another British citizen visiting the countryside of France. The chances of his meeting a fellow British man who might discreetly carry a message, coded as it would be, to Ashley was even less. Ram could not simply send such vital information by post. But the biggest thing that prohibited Ram from sending word was that it was his primary duty to protect a lady who was too frightened to return to a city where she would be arrested. And die.
What could he do?
He removed a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his forehead.
He would not write.
He would not go to Paris.
Nor would he ever think of posing the problem to Amber.
She’d want to go to Paris immediately. For his sake, but also for the sake of the very same duty she once had to her own work, she would urge him to leave. Her loyalty and her devotion were as great as his.
But loyalty could kill. Devotion ensured it.
He shook his head. Flummoxed, he followed Dejean to the localoenothèque. In the shade of the café, Ram sat down with the other men to order the localvin rouge.
Espionage was a dirty business.
He’d be damned for a fool if he never went to Paris with this information—but he never would. He’d walk the earth with Amber, wandering forever, if that was what she wished.
He sat drinking, laughing with the men of Charleville as he must. Losing himself in his conundrum. In the memory and lure of Amber’s flashing dark-brown eyes.
Amber St. Antoine was too important to him to risk her life. He wanted her to live a long and a happy one. He even dreamedin odd moments that he’d prefer if she lived the rest of it with him.
If he could persuade her to that, he’d be one hell of a good talker.
But he should save his breath. Because she had no reason to agree.
*
That night atfamily dinner, Amber noticed Ram’s preoccupation. She doubted others did, but she had grown to know him better.
She liked him. Oradmiredwas the better word. He was a man of tempered emotions, and the wild rush beneath the calm river of his exterior was a flow she detected now. She was glad she did. That granite core of his personality was what she relied upon. What she had needed from anyone—any man—who sought to help her. And Ram had. Did. Quite well, too.
Here he sat, conversing with the Boyer family as if he were their old dear friend. In many ways, he was, but he, by hisjoie de vivre, added a depth of honest tenderness that made his affections welcomed and returned.
But tonight there were lines of concern from the corners of his eyes. They had not been there this morning. She could not imagine what might have happened to create it. This morning, with news of the muskets’ production, he had gone off to his chores with the men of the town in hearty good attitude.
She had helped the women of the town finish the sewing of many mummers’ costumes. She had not seen him before all the family gathered for a glass ofvin blancand tiny savories in the salon before dinner. But the meal dragged on, everyone so primed to enjoy the next two days of games and fun. Finally, they each drifted off to their beds.
Ram hung back. “Go up. You must be tired.” He begged off retiring upstairs to their rooms. “I need to walk.”
“May I come with you?” She probed his gaze. “I won’t talk if you don’t wish to.”
“No. Do come. Although I am not good company.”
She smiled in apology. “I am certain that I myself have not often been the best companion.”
He put his hand to her waist and opened the dining room door for her. “I forgive you your poor manners, madame.”
She could see he jested. “I am better these past few days. You must agree,” she teased.
“I do.” To her words, he sounded strangely resigned. Yet, trying for levity, he gallantly offered his arm. “The back garden?”
