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"Mr. Fletcher. Please remove this animal from me."

Mr. Fletcher glanced at the horse. "I should be delighted. But I'm afraid no one has managed to move him since he embarked."

Rolling her eyes, Louise seized the dampened edge of her tulle and pulled it from the horse's mouth. The horse accepted this rebuke with a slow blink. Louise pushed away from his shoulder and stepped into the open space of the hold.

He followed her.

She stopped.

He stopped.

A burst of laughter came from the Danes. One of them said something Louise could not understand. Still, the word Saint John emerged distinctly amid the Danish, followed by another phrase that made Nikolaj laugh harder.

"What did he say?" Louise asked.

Mr. Fletcher's expression became suspiciously neutral.

Nikolaj grinned. "He says Saint John's horse has found himself a new owner. A prettier one."

The men laughed again. They were broad-shouldered, bearded, weather-darkened, and collectively possessed enough muscle to move a cannon.

"All these Viking giants, and not one of you can manage a horse?"

The laughter faltered.

Nikolaj's eyebrows rose.

"You were trying to stable him, oui?" Louise gathered the remains of her skirt in one hand. "Then the pretty one will take him there."

Louise walked toward the open stall. Then she stepped inside, and the horse followed.

She lifted a brow. "Well?"

Nikolaj laughed, throwing his head back. Mr. Fletcher alone preserved his dignity.

The horse lowered his head over Louise's shoulder and began investigating her coat. Louise pushed his muzzle aside.

"No. We have already established that my clothing is not supper."

The horse ignored her and nosed insistently at the pocket near her hip.

Of course. The coat belonged to Rodrick. That was why the horse had been following her. What would she find inside the pocket? A master spy's coat could contain anything. Poison. A coded message. A knife still carrying blood.

Louise slipped her fingers into the pocket. They closed around several irregular lumps. She drew one out. Sugar.

The horse made a low, impatient sound and pushed his muzzle against her wrist.

Louise opened her hand. The sugar vanished between enormous velvet lips.

"You are a fraud," she whispered.

Montfort appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his shirtsleeves rolled once at the wrists. His gaze moved over the scattered oats, the overturned bucket, the sailors, Nikolaj, and Mr. Fletcher before stopping on her. There was no stage here, yet Rodrick looked at her as though the rest of the hold had gone dark. Louise straightened, irritated by the answering awareness along her skin.

"Why is Miss Bonnechoix inside Brutus's stall?"

He spoke quietly. That was apparently worse than shouting, and everyone began at once.

"The oats—" the Englishman said.