Page 51

Louise sat in the chair beside Gaetan's hearth while he crossed the room for what might have been the twentieth time. He was saying something, but the hornet's nest in her chest made it hard to follow.

Lefèvre fought because his brother had died and Prussians had eaten from his mother's plates. Perrin followed Napoleon. Bernard followed Gaetan. The villagers they had passed preferred the Bourbons. Men rode beneath the same Eagle for reasons that contradicted one another, while Rodrick claimed to believe in nothing.

Louise was tired of reasons.

She wanted him. Her hands wanted to reach for him when he came near. Her lips craved his, and even the memory of his kiss sent a current through her stomach. She was tired of examining the feeling as though it were a map with disputed borders.

She should have stayed in his bedroom and pushed harder. Should have—No. Napoleon's daughter did not beg. At least she had walked away with her head high, and she was not going to go back. She was going to stay in Gaetan's room long enough for him to believe she had done what she said she would do, and then she was going to sleep in the stables.

The thought warmed her. She tended that warmth carefully and did not let the damp chill of his rejection touch it.

Gaetan crossed in front of her again. Louise tracked him with her eyes until the movement made her dizzy.

Gaetan was handsome. Not in the dark fallen-angel way that made her do things she later had to explain to herself. But golden-handsome, with blue eyes and shoulders designed to make military uniforms feel impressive. He was honorable. Loyal. Decorated. Her father had made him Count of Wagram. Hélène adored him. She should want him.

She did not want him.

Gaetan stopped pacing abruptly. "What you did today with the flag. You did not plan it. You simply went."

"Mm," she said.

"What do you remember of the lady Maggy Hélène spoke about?"

Louise pulled her attention back into the room by force. "Vaguely. Small. Shy. I saw her once in the park. She had wit, though."

Gaetan's jaw tightened. "If it is true that she is a genius in military strategy... What if she indeed knows every tactic Wellington uses?"

She disliked that spark of doubt in him. Gaetan was one of the men who ought to know where he stood.

"Napoleon is better than Wellington," she said.

Gaetan stared at her for a moment before his gaze shifted toward the maps spread over the table. "De Brissac can take the regiment north."

Louise straightened. "Why?"

"Because tomorrow I am going to England."

Of all the things she had expected him to say, crossing the Channel ranked as crazy as becoming a nun.

Lady Maggy was the daughter of Lord Thornton, Britain's foreign minister. As far as Louise knew, the girl remained in London doing whatever aristocratic young women did when Hélène was unavailable to improve them. Embroidery, perhaps. Watercolors.

"You are going to cross the Channel in the middle of a campaign because Hélène once knew a clever girl?"

Had he forgotten about the Channel? Which was closed. Because there was a war. Which Gaetan was supposed to be fighting. On this side.

She was about to say it to him when she heard a sound in the corridor.

Footsteps. Clipped. She knew those boots. She had been listening to those boots for the better part of a week.

Her eyes dropped to the floor. Under the door—the thin strip of yellow candlelight from the corridor—the toes of two boots appeared and stopped.

She had fifteen seconds. Maybe ten. Pulse speeding, Louise surged to her feet. Gaetan barely had time to turn before she seized both lapels of his coat.

Louise tightened her grip and threw herself at him. "Forgive me."

He caught her, his hands coming up to brace her weight, his back hitting the wall with a thud that rattled the map on the table.

Gaetan gasped. "What the hell are you doing?"