Page 43

"Every trooper in Gaetan's regiment wears a queue." He took the scissors from her hand. Set them down. "You will do the same."

Louise found his eyes in the mirror. They gazed at each other. His jaw was set. Her breathing came fast beneath the coat.

"I'll check on the horses," Gaetan said to no one in particular, then left.

Rodrick broke eye contact and sifted his fingers through her hair. She leaned back into the chair, eyes closing. Her scalp prickled. When had hair become so sensitive?

His brows were gathered. "If an enemy cavalryman tries to saber your neck, the queue may defend you."

"Are you certain that is the reason? Or is it because you like my hair?"

His hands stilled. "I don't like your hair, Lou. It is blacker than a raven's wing, and I hate ravens."

She smiled, trying for something sweet, but knowing she had no talent for sweet smiles. "I'm glad we are in accord then because your hair is blacker than Lucifer's wings. And I despise Satan."

It was his turn to smile, and his was legendary.

She felt his breath against her temple as he drew in the scent of her hair. Her heart knocked against her ribs.

"Your hair," he said, very quietly, "is blacker than my soul, chérie."

"I thought spies didn't have souls."

The words left her mouth, and her stomach dropped. Idiot. How could she say that after the lake and his voice in the dark? Of all the wounds she might have touched, she had found the worst.

"Nearly there, Louise," he said.

He finished the braid and stepped back. She heard him leave the room.

She sat at the vanity alone. Napoleon's daughter looked back at her, but now she was wearing a braid made by a spy. She stood, picked up her gloves, and went downstairs.

The road curved north between fields, and every turn carried Louise closer to the man she had spent years imagining. The gray horse beneath her moved with an unremarkable steadiness. No one had been able to tell her his name when an aide-de-camp handed over the reins, and she had briefly considered something martial—Lodi, perhaps, or Eylau. Then Rodrick had crossed in front of her wearing that insufferable smirk, and she had named the horse Lucifer instead.

The name had lasted less than an hour. Lucifer neither bit nor kicked nor attempted to breathe fire like Brutus. He had a square chest, sensible feet, and the manners of a horse who preferred reaching his destination to making a legend of the journey. By the second hour, Louise had shortened the name to Lucie.

She ought to have been watching the road. Instead, she kept looking at Brutus. This was entirely the horse's fault. The Friesian moved a few paces ahead of her, black against the pale road, his mane lifting whenever the breeze found it.

Rodrick did not help matters. The green cavalry coat suited the broad line of his shoulders far better than Louise considered reasonable. Horse and rider moved as if each had forgotten there were two bodies involved.

She looked away. Then back again. There was a military explanation for this. Napoleon had understood the usefulness of spectacle. A commander did not merely need to possess authority; sometimes he needed to look as though victory had already chosen him. Uniforms, standards, horses, the arrangement of men before battle—none of it was trivial if it changed what soldiers believed possible before the first shot.

Brutus would frighten an enemy cavalryman before Rodrick ever drew his sword.

And Rodrick—

Louise narrowed her eyes at his back. Rodrick looked exactly like a man one would prefer not to discover charging toward one across a field.

This was therefore observation. Military observation. She studied the effect several more times to be certain.

A horse drew level with hers. Rodrick's valet had exchanged his usual black coat for something suited to the road. A small pack had been strapped behind his saddle, and another hung from the horse's flank.

Mr. Fletcher inclined his head. "Miss Bonnechoix. His lordship has asked me to remind you of several points before we join the regiment."

Rodrick rode perhaps two horse lengths away.

She looked back at James. "Has he?"

"Yes, Your Highness—"