Page 14 of The Spy’s Song

"She ran," Nikolaj contributed.

"He chased her," one of the Danes protested.

"He chased everyone," another corrected.

"The oats are entirely unsuitable," the Englishman continued, refusing to surrender the field merely because no one else had the discipline to wait his turn.

"She smells like you," Nikolaj added. "Your coat."

Louise looked down at the black wool around her shoulders. Rodrick looked at it too, and for the briefest instant something unreadable crossed his face.

Rodrick held out his hand. "Give me the bucket."

The sailor passed it over with the reluctance of a man surrendering evidence in his own trial. Rodrick dipped his fingers into the grain, rubbed several oats between thumb and forefinger, then bent his head and smelled them.

"Throw these overboard."

The Dane stared at him. "Good oats."

"Then the fish will be delighted." Montfort handed the bucket back. "You know perfectly well he only eats the sacks marked with red cord."

"I assumed hunger might improve his character," Nikolaj said.

"Brutus has resisted every attempt to improve his character since birth. Next time you arrange this circus, I shall cut your pay in half."

"You are not the one who pays me."

"Then I shall begin solely for the pleasure of reducing it."

Several sailors laughed, and even Mr. Fletcher's mouth twitched.

Rodrick jerked his head toward the companionway. "Out. All of you."

The sailors began filing toward the stairs, and the Englishman followed last, pausing beside Rodrick long enough to murmur something Louise could not hear. Rodrick answered without taking his eyes from the stall, and then they were alone.

Louise became aware of the grain crushed beneath her slippers, the ship rolling gently beneath the boards, the warmth of the horse at her back.

Rodrick opened the stall door. Louise prepared herself for a lecture and stepped toward him. Brutus immediately attempted to follow, but Rodrick caught the halter and checked him with an ease none of the Danes had managed. His other hand closed around Louise's elbow, guiding her past the horse and out through the opening. The hairs on her arm rose, and she cursed the effect.

Once she was clear, Rodrick shut the stall door, crossed to one of the sacks stacked beside the partition, and untied the cord. Red. He scooped oats into the feeder, and Brutus lowered his head immediately and began eating.

Rodrick brushed oat dust from his hands and straightened with a dignity wildly disproportionate to the conversation. "Brutus is the finest warhorse in Europe."

Louise slipped her hand into his coat pocket and found one remaining lump. "And he likes sugar."

Color climbed Rodrick's cheekbone. His attention shifted toward the feeder with an intensity no quantity of oats deserved.

He was embarrassed.

"Indeed."

Louise held the sugar on her palm. Brutus took it with surprising delicacy, his lips brushing her skin before he returned to the feeder. When she looked up again, Rodrick was watching her rather than the horse.

Before she could decide what to do with this newest piece of him, boots thundered across the deck overhead. A bell rang sharply, followed by a shouted warning that sent another set of footsteps racing toward the bow.

Rodrick changed beneath her gaze. The faint embarrassment disappeared, and every softness she had just discovered vanished behind the stillness of a man listening for danger.

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