Page 21 of The Spy’s Song

"First, we gather information. My friend's château sits near the Canche road," he said.

"Rodrick de Montfort has a friend? How can that be?"

He laughed ruefully and dropped his hands from her shoulders. "Can we have a truce for as long as we are in each other's company? At least a cease-fire?"

She studied his eyes, searching for mockery. She could manage a cease-fire. "On one condition. You don't touch me anymore."

His brows lifted. Then he stepped back and made an extravagant bow.

"Rest assured, my dear Corsican princess. From now on, I will only touch you when you beg it of me."

Louise frowned. The road to Paris had better be short.

Rodrick had discovered several disadvantages to traveling across northern France in a closed carriage with Louise Bonnechoix, though the most offensive was the persistence of gardenias.

The scent had survived a laundry cart, a pitched struggle aboard a Danish brig, salt spray, terror, treason, and several hours in clothing that had no business surviving any of the above. Yet there it remained, reaching him every time the carriage rocked and stirred the air between them.

Excessive, really.

James had taken the box beside the coachman, while Brutus traveled behind them on a long lead, his hooves providing a disapproving accompaniment whenever the road deteriorated. Rodrick might have ridden, but the Channel had exhausted the horse, and only a barbarian would climb onto the back of an animal after a night spent pitching about in a wooden box.

Louise sat opposite him with her face turned toward the window, one hand braced against the sill as the countryside rolled past. The effort she put into not looking at him would have been touching if Rodrick had possessed the temperament to be touched by such things.

He, naturally, behaved with considerably greater maturity—he looked at her whenever he pleased.

At least the cease-fire had restored certain principles of civilization between them. No arguments concerning loyalty. No threats involving knives. No mention of what had happened in the cabin.

You don't touch me anymore.

An unnecessarily memorable sentence.

He had been furious. Extreme circumstances produced extreme behavior, and he had kissed her. She had kissed him back. Everyone had survived. No reason to compose an opera about it. Rodrick settled deeper into the squabs.

The kiss proved very little. Louise desired him. Excellent. He desired Louise, which was less convenient but hardly surprising given the recent discovery that his cock harbored Bonapartist sympathies.

That was unfortunate, but manageable. What remained less manageable was the exact memory of Louise's mouth opening beneath his. Rodrick's fingers tightened around the head of his cane, and he forced his gaze out his own window.

Fields. Excellent things, fields. Very little emotional complexity in agriculture.

Pauline, Napoleon's sister, was the family's great beauty. Louise had something of Pauline in the structure of her face—the fine bones, the mouth that suggested more than it offered. But the coloring was all Napoleon. Black hair. Gray eyes like a blade held flat. Skin so fair that light seemed to consider it twice before deciding what to do.

Pity the Bonaparte sitting across from him had the Emperor's pride and not Pauline's appetites. The journey would have been considerably more agreeable.

Could he make her forget that prohibition without technically violating it? Not touching was a constraint, not a sentence. Proximity was a different category entirely. She had forbidden his hands. She had not forbidden his voice.

He could always lean forward, lowering his tone, and describe in detail what he intended to do once she rescinded that condition... Breath against the ear, for instance, occupied interesting legal territory—

She cleared her throat. "What sort of friend receives a spy? Royalists? Jacobins? Other spies?"

He inspected his nails. Found them satisfactory. "If you can curb your Corsican impatience, you will discover that yourself. And who knows… If you behave, you may earn a friend to play with as well."

She scoffed. "It is rather late for Christmas presents."

"Your ingratitude is noted."

"I have found your presents tend to involve chloroform."

"That was transportation."