She gasps, shoving against my chest. “Archibald Randolph.”
Laughter spills out of me, and I don’t mean to be cruel—hell, it’s a good idea—but I’d be damned before I put her in harm’s way. I sweep a weft of hair from her face.
“Criminal mastermind that you are, by God. I’m pleased you’d like to lend a hand, but there ain’t no way I’m puttin’ you in that kinda danger.”
She sits up straighter and smacks the bed. “I’mindanger, Kodiak. We are both in danger as long as the Shermans are after us.”
“And you think lightin’ the dog’s tail on fire’s gonna help that?”
“I cannot imagine running for the rest of my life.”
“It won’t be forever,” I say, knowing full well it ain’t true.
That seems like the end of it. She sinks back into bed and we settle in. I’m nearly asleep when she says, “Are you not worried your enemies will take your retreat for weakness?”
“Is that a fancy way of callin’ me yella?”
“I would never say such a thing. But the Shermans…they would.”
Is she razzing me? I never met a dainty thing like her find a bear to just poke and poke. “You want back over my knee?”
Her hands slip under the covers, gliding over my chest, and my bones turn to jelly. Damn woman knows how to work me over good.
“You know there are only so many roads out of New Orleans,” she murmurs. “The Shermans could surveil on the trails. Lawmen too. If we leave now, they’ll be watching. Once we’re in open country, there won’t be crowds or city noise to vanish into. Just us and them.”
I let out a long breath. Hell, I know she’s right. I hate that she’s right. Running now, tail between my legs, makes me look weak, leaves us exposed. Standing our ground with a trick like she suggests might just work. Make us a little richer before we move on if nothing else, I suppose. But I don’t like the notion of my woman being in the middle.
“If we do this, we find a way to get you out before any guns are drawn. Leave the vault to me.”
Chapter 22
ALICE
In preparation for my role, I develop a character. Someone important. Trustworthy.
“What about a princess?”
I catch Kodiak mid-yawn before he answers with a sleepy, “Princess of what?”
We’re in bed, having spent the morning expressing our fondness of each other. Kodiak’s arm curls lazily across my stomach, warm and possessive. I trace idle circles along the inside of his wrist, and for a moment, we are nothing but two souls basking in borrowed time—no ledgers, no errands, no titles. I relish in him, and him in me, like a long bath or an unhurried conversation.
The sun cuts through the curtains, half open, our spent breakfast littering a nearby cart.
I think of a place. Somewhere imagined but real enough to be possible.
Sitting up, sheet clutched to my chest, I offer a suggestion. “Princess Callista of Mizarra.” Like Callisto and the star Mizar. Perhaps the connection will offer good luck.
“Where the hell’s Mizarra?”
I shrug. “Nowhere, I made it up.”
That earns a handsome smile, and I’ve half a mind to mount him again.
“What’s Princess Mizarra doin’ in New Orleans?”
“Princess Callista,” I correct him, “is in exile. You see, the Merak have invaded her small mountain kingdom.”
He teases the edge of my sheet with this finger, considering it a moment. “How do you intend to make these folks believe you’re royalty?”
