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The bath was large enough for two, which had been Rodrick's only requirement. The innkeeper had taken one look at the road dust, the ruined coat, and the two days of hard riding written across him and wisely asked no questions. Rochefort had spent the last weeks accommodating emperors, fugitives, naval officers, and governments in various stages of collapse. Discretion had apparently become part of the room tariff. Rodrick approved the professionalism and tipped accordingly.

The water had been hot when they climbed in and remained warm enough to keep steam drifting toward the ceiling. Woodsmoke mingled with lavender soap—French lavender, naturally. Whatever its failures of government, France still grew things properly. The candles had burned low on the shelf, and beyond the window evening had deepened into blue.

Rodrick sat with Louise's back against his chest and her wet hair gathered in his hands. He had not shifted from that position in some time because shifting implied there might be somewhere better to be, and he had exhausted Europe sufficiently to know there was not. She was warm. She was here. She was real.

So he occupied himself with her hair. He worked the soap slowly through its length, drawing the dark weight across his palms and between his fingers. Wet, it became almost absurd in quantity, heavy ropes of black catching the candlelight without quite surrendering any of it. The dossier had recorded dark hair, notable quantity. Rodrick regarded this now as one of the more embarrassing failures of intelligence in his career.

"Your hair is blacker than ever, Lou."

Her grunt vibrated against his chest. "I could always cut it."

He gathered its full weight in his fist and drew her back against him. "Never. I love it exactly as it is. Darker than a raven's wings."

She turned in the water, one knee sliding past his hip and then the other, until she settled astride him. Water sloshed against the copper sides as her weight came down across his thighs and her wet hair spread over both their chests.

Rodrick watched the words gather behind her gray eyes. Her mouth parted once, then closed. Her fingers tightened lightly against his shoulders, and he knew before she spoke that whatever she had brought to say had edges.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't trust you then—"

He kissed her. The apology in her voice had begun applying pressure beneath his ribs, and Rodrick preferred to deal with dangerous developments before they became unmanageable. Her body stilled against his for a breath, then softened, her hands sliding higher over his shoulders.

He drew back only far enough to speak. "I was an ass about it."

"No, I should've—"

"I was jealous of your loyalty," he said. "I wanted all of it for myself and lacked the decency to admit it. So I said goodbye, pretended I meant it, and eventually went to my knees on a French dock like a cavalry officer auditioning for Greek tragedy. I am given to understand this is becoming a pattern."

Rodrick let his gaze travel over her face. Candlelight caught the sharp line of her cheekbone, the wet black hair against her skin, the gray eyes fixed entirely on him. Christ, even now she looked capable of commanding something.

"I understand it now. Give me whatever parts of you are freely mine, Lou. I will take them greedily and ask for no accounting of the rest."

His hand settled at her waist beneath the water. "This is how much your spy craves you."

Your spy. He had been many things in many rooms, and he had not belonged to any of them. He was apparently not opposed to belonging to her.

Something settled behind her gray eyes, some last decision being made and accepted, and the hand resting against his shoulder grew still.

"Then take what is mine to give. My loyalty is no longer blind, Rodrick. I give it to you with my eyes open."

Rodrick forgot the next breath. He held her gaze. A weaker man might have looked away. Rodrick was not a weaker man, but he understood the impulse. Heated and certain and entirely directed at him, those gray eyes at full force were not comfortable to receive. Being looked at by Louise felt like staring straight at the sun.

Once, he had looked into those eyes and seen Napoleon. He understood now how badly he had mistaken them. Napoleon's gaze commanded. Louise's did something infinitely more dangerous. It saw through every lie, every betrayal, every ugly thing he had done—and still she chose him.

Rodrick kissed her slowly, letting himself feel Louise astride him, dressed only in steam and trust.

He moved his hands beneath the water to her waist, then upward, smoothing over wet skin until he cupped her breasts. Louise breathed into his mouth and leaned into him. The response went through him at once. He stroked his thumbs over her nipples, felt them tighten beneath his touch, and drank her moans. Her wet hair clung across his wrists and chest, and each time she shifted against him, the bathwater moved between their bodies with a soft slap against the copper.

Rodrick let his hand travel down again, following the curve of her hip before slipping between her thighs. Louise opened for him.

Christ.

He touched her slowly and watched the consequences gather across her face. Those gray eyes that had just offered him everything darkened, her breath catching as she moved against his hand once, then again. Rodrick had endured interrogations conducted with considerably more mercy.

"Lou," he said, already so hard beneath her that coherent thought had become an administrative burden. "Take me inside you."

She nodded against his neck, then braced both hands on his shoulders and rose onto her knees. Water streamed down her body and returned to the bath in soft patters. Rodrick caught her hips, intending only to steady her, which was optimistic of him considering the state of his pulse.

Louise reached between them.