Page 27

Louise crossed the château, her boots echoing off the bare stone walls. Why would they stay put for a week? Seven days of Hélène's gentle questions and Gaetan's careful silences, while her father awaited her?

The spy was stalling. Either he planned to sell her, which was probable, or, now that they had reached France, he had decided the mission no longer interested him.

The second possibility had lodged beneath her ribs since breakfast. Louise treated it with the contempt it deserved. She had no further need of Rodrick de Montfort. If he had changed his mind, she would find another escort.

Louise pushed open the library door without knocking.

Rodrick sat behind an oak desk near the tall windows. Light fell across the left side of his head, catching blue in his black hair.

Louise stopped inside the door as the unwelcome flutter started low in her stomach.

His finger rested upon the map, and he did not look up. No doubt scrying for the next set of people to betray.

"If you want to become a lazy château owner and sit on your hands all day, I will find another escort to take me to Paris."

"Good luck trying," he said pleasantly.

Louise stared at the top of his head. She had expected an argument in which Rodrick rearranged every premise until she could no longer remember why she wanted to stab him. Indifference had not occurred to her.

Louise folded her arms. "Typical. You abandoned the plan—"

He looked up. His eyes found hers. "Plans change. But never fear, Lou. I have no intention of abandoning you."

Heat burned her cheeks before spreading beneath her skin. He watched it happen with eyes that saw everything and gave nothing back. His mouth curved into a wicked smile that made him look like a fallen angel in an old painting—the beautiful ones, caught midway between heaven and damnation and entirely too pleased with the direction of travel.

"I have something to gain from this mission, remember?" he said.

She girded herself. Straightened her spine. Of course. He was being paid to escort her. The warmth in his eyes was professional courtesy at best and calculated management at worst.

She walked to the desk. "What is the new plan?"

Rodrick leaned back in his chair. "Napoleon has moved north. Paris is irrelevant. Gaetan's regiment marches in a week. We will march with them, under disguises, of course. You will be a sous-lieutenant riding with all speed to rejoin the 7th Chasseurs à Cheval. Your name is Jean d'Arc."

His face remained perfectly straight. Jean d'Arc. Joan of Arc. French maiden, military devotion, inconvenient martyrdom. Rodrick probably congratulated himself upon the elegance of the joke.

"And that makes you what?" she said, lifting a brow. "Colonel Lucifer?"

His eyes lit up, and then he laughed. The sound caught her off guard, and before she could blame this on another one of his strategies to disarm her, he did something completely unfair. He flashed her a dimple.

Apparently Satan had those.

"I was aiming for something less obvious, Lou."

Lou. Another nickname. He scattered them around as if her name was his to chop as he saw fit.

She scoffed. "There is nothing obvious about you."

"Thank you," he said, accepting the remark with enough satisfaction to make her regret it. "But if we are meant to be inconspicuous, I will be Captain de Montreval."

De Montreval? That was too tame for him. A Montreval sounded like a man who owned a respectable manor, paid his tradesmen promptly, and had never kissed a woman while calling her foolish.

"If I'm going to be a martyr, it is only fair that—"

"This is not a farce, or one of your staged ballets. One false step and we will be unmasked. We will travel through enemy lines, royalist bands, and nests of spies."

Louise sobered at once. "Where is Napoleon?"

Rodrick leaned over the map. "He left the capital two days ago. The army gathers along the frontier. Here—Avesnes. Maubeuge. Charleroi."