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The Spy’s Song

Page 11

by Giovanna Siniscalchi

Then she placed her hand in his. Her palm was warm, almost fevered. His own was cool from the river air. The contrast jolted through him, and he suppressed the reflex to tighten his grip.

He pulled her toward the concealed panel at the rear of the warehouse.

"If we reach the boat before the docks fill with redcoats, we may both continue the agreeable habit of breathing. And if we survive, you will promise me one thing."

She looked up at him.

"Spare me the loyalty speech. It gives me a headache."

He did not release her hand.

She was finally going to France. Louise kept repeating this as she followed the spy across the deck of the brig. Enormous sailors moved through the lantern light. One man hauled a line hand over hand, forearms thick as timber. Another ducked beneath the rigging with a knife at his belt and a scar disappearing into his beard. No one seemed particularly surprised that Montfort had arrived in the middle of the night with a French ballerina. What sort of crew chose to work with a man who betrayed governments as naturally as other men changed gloves?

Montfort stopped before a narrow companionway and opened the door to a cabin scarcely larger than her dressing room. A bunk stood against one wall, and a small table was bolted to the floor beneath the stern window. Everything smelled of damp wood and old tobacco.

"Wait here."

Louise turned before he could leave. "When will we sail?"

"Patience. First I have to speak with the captain to ensure the Royal Navy does not object to the arrangement."

British ships patrolled the Channel, and British guns guarded it. Louise shivered, and brushed her naked arms.

Montfort shrugged out of his coat, revealing a white shirt open carelessly at the throat and a dark waistcoat fitted close to his body. He stepped behind her and settled it over her shoulders.

"This is hardly necessary, I—"

"My orders didn't include delivering a princess with a runny nose to the Emperor."

Lantern light caught in the loose black hair at his temples and sharpened the long line of his nose, the hard cheekbones, the mouth that always appeared one breath away from saying something intolerable. How unfair that a man without principles should have been given such an excellent face.

She lifted her chin. "What can I do to help?"

Montfort's fingers brushed the wool beneath her chin as he adjusted the collar. Heat followed the contact, and Louise resented that too.

He grinned, flashing his white teeth. "Help? Try not to sink her until I return."

He stepped into the passage and closed the door. Louise tightened his coat around herself. It still held the warmth of his body, which felt like an unnecessary provocation.

She sat on the edge of the bunk, meaning only to rest for a moment, but the ship's rolling worked against her resolve. Footsteps crossed overhead, ropes strained through blocks, and water slapped steadily against the hull until the sounds blurred. Her chin dipped once. She forced her eyes open, then lost the effort somewhere between one creak of timber and the next.

A tremendous crash jolted her awake.

Louise jerked upright. Something heavy struck belowdecks, followed at once by several men shouting in Danish.

"If you offer him that bucket again, I shall personally feed it to you."

Louise lifted her head.

The words had come from somewhere beneath the deck. Montfort had told her to remain in the cabin. He had been quite specific, which was unfortunate, because another blow sounded below.

Louise looked at the closed door for perhaps two seconds before opening it.

She followed the commotion along the passage and down a narrow companionway. With every step, the sharp scent of brine weakened beneath warmer smells—timber, hay, leather, horse. A lantern swung overhead with the ship's movement, sending shadows climbing and retreating across the beams.

Louise stopped on the final step. A gigantic horse pranced in the hold.

Lantern light gleamed over his black coat. A heavy mane spilled over his arched neck, and long black feathering hid his fetlocks. He was the most spectacular creature she had ever seen, and the spectacular creature was throwing a tantrum.