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"I must go," Louise said.

"Morbleu, you are his blood, all right. Worth the lot of them. His family—bleeders, the lot. Not one of them would ride into this for him. Not one."

Louise caught Marengo's reins. "Take the Emperor off the road."

The sergeant saluted.

A horse burst from between the trees. Then another, and another, until six riders cleared the tree line and drove into the open field. Their formation widened as they came, hooves tearing at the turf, blue coats stark against the green. Why not English red?

She drove her heels in. "Run, Marengo. Run as you did for him."

The horse leaped forward, and she lowered herself along his neck, her fingers tightening on the reins as the wind struck her face.

The coat flared behind her, the fabric snapping, pulling at her shoulders. Marengo's muscles bunched and released beneath her, and the gallop's rhythm settled into her bones.

What if the riders didn't take the bait? What if some of them pursued the carriage instead? She chanced a look beneath her arm. All six riders had committed to the chase, their hooves thundering as they fanned behind her. Their mounts were fresh while Marengo had spent the day in battle. If they caught her too soon, they would no doubt realize the deception and return for the carriage.

She needed a diversion. Dark channels ran across the lower slope, their crossings narrow. She shifted her weight, tugging on the left rein, and Marengo swung hard across the slope, his new angle cutting directly into the worst of the ground.

The first channel rushed toward them. Louise gave Marengo his head, and the stallion lengthened his stride, gathering himself at the bank. Her stomach dropped as he launched. For an instant, only air lay beneath them, then his forehooves struck firm ground, the landing jolting through her teeth before he surged into the next stride.

Louise looked back. One horse balked two lengths from the channel, its rider wrenching it sideways and breaking the line. Another cleared the water farther upstream, losing ground in the wider approach. A third committed too late. Its forehoof struck the crumbling lip, the earth gave way, and horse and rider pitched forward together.

She drove Marengo at the second channel, narrower, the banks muddier at the edges. He rocked through the jump, and she moved with him, her hands absolutely still, the gray coat whipping back. Behind her she heard two horses meet the crossing at the same moment—a shout, the thud of bodies colliding, one animal rearing, the rider's curses swallowed by the wind.

Two more delayed. Perhaps more.

She found the next line of rough ground. Was it enough? Had she given Napoleon enough time?

Don't think of Rodrick. But he was here. She had known it since the moment the riders broke from the trees. He was after Napoleon. She had stolen Napoleon's shape, and so he was after her.

She could not finish the thought. She pressed it down with her heels into Marengo's flanks and let the speed swallow it.

A glance under her arm. Two riders still drove hard behind her.

Marengo's breath changed, and his stride grew more forceful, drawn from somewhere deeper now, from the reserves that a horse spent when it had nothing else to give.

A rider drew level. His arm went up, the blade lifting above his shoulder. She reached for the saber with her right hand and pulled it clear of the scabbard, the steel ringing in the open air.

She swung to meet him.

The blades collided. The shock shot up her arm into her shoulder, rattling the bone and wrenching her sideways out of the saddle. She hit the ground hard along her ribs, the impact driving the breath from her lungs.

Louise lay in the grass, her vision whitening at the edges. Pain burned along her side whenever she tried to breathe, while her right arm lay heavy and useless beside her.

Footsteps struck the grass near her. Louise forced her eyes open. The blond cavalryman stood over her, saber raised. She tried to crawl away and managed only a scrape of her heel through the grass.

A shot exploded across the plain. The blond rider jerked. His saber wavered above her, tilted, then slipped from his hand as he dropped face-first into the grass beside her.

Then air rushed back into her lungs too quickly, catching against the pain in her ribs. She dragged in another breath and let her head fall back into the grass.

She had saved her father. She had ridden Napoleon's horse in Napoleon's coat and pulled six riders across the worst terrain she could find. She had given him the time he needed. That much was clear and clean and finished.

And Rodrick—pain tightened across Louise's chest, sharper than the bruising along her ribs. A general had offered him everything Talleyrand's bargain had taken away, the cavalry post, the rank, the honor attached to his own name. All he had needed to do was intercept one man.

Louise had robbed him of that.

Her father was safe now, riding toward France, while Rodrick's restored future had turned to ash. Tears slid sideways over her nose and dripped into the ground.