Page 29 of The Spy’s Song
"Turn," he ordered.
"I beg your pardon?"
"If you intend to pass as one of Gaetan's chasseurs, you will do as you are told."
His face was impassive, bored even, but his eyes flashed with that light that never failed to make her blood boil.
She turned briskly, curbing the impulse to shift her weight, and cursed Hélène for giving her such a tight outfit. "Are you done?"
"As your superior, I am duty-bound to inspect the armaments. Thoroughly, if necessary." His gaze traveled over her with insulting leisure. "I must say, Lou, you appear indecently well equipped."
He was mocking her. She spun, fist ready to punch.
He stepped back, devil's grin and all. "Easy, Lou. I am attempting to preserve your disguise. Every man in Gaetan's regiment will know within thirty seconds that you are not one of them unless I lengthen your coat by a good five inches. Now, if you have finished distracting your superior, we may proceed."
"I'm not trying to—"
"We shall begin with the fundamentals. This magnificent creature is a horse."
Louise rolled her eyes. Brutus was magnificent, unfortunately, and knew it. He watched her with the coiled stillness of an animal temporarily prepared to tolerate lesser beings.
"Brutus is indeed beautiful," she said, smoothing his glossy neck.
"He is. He is also mine." Rodrick gestured toward the faded brown horse waiting beside him. "You have been assigned Bucephalus."
He tapped the other beast's flank. The poor thing shared only his species with the legendary steed of Alexander the Great. He snorted and regarded her with one ear forward and one ear elsewhere, as though conserving his attention for more promising occasions.
"That seems hardly fair. Why must I ride the ugly—"
"Hush, Bucephalus. We must forgive her. She plainly has no eye for quality." He had the gall to cover the pony's ears. "Now, if you are done whining, Lou, you will place your left foot in the stirrup, and we will start with a gentle walk."
Louise looked from Bucephalus's tired eyes to Rodrick's mocking ones, and her pulse stirred. She caught Brutus's reins. With a deep plié, she vaulted. The ground dropped away, and then she was astride the horse.
Gripping the steed's flanks with her thighs, she dug her heels into his sides. Brutus surged beneath her, and they were off.
Air rushed past her face, tore at her hair, filled her chest so fast it hurt. The rhythm climbed into her bones, into her spine. At the far edge she turned him hard and brought him back at speed, gathering him only within inches of the spy.
Rodrick had not moved. His hat lay in the grass beside him. His mouth—open. That was surprise on Rodrick de Montfort's face. She had seen him bored, vexed, angry, heated… but surprise was by far the best emotion she had caused in him. Warmth exploded into her chest. Certainly such joy had to be disproportionate to the occasion. Still, she would not have missed his expression for the continent of Europe.
Louise attempted a polite inquiry. It failed somewhere around the mouth. "Well? Was that gentle enough for you?"
Rodrick recovered his hat with the tip of his riding whip and inspected it as though the humiliation belonged entirely to the headwear. "You might have mentioned that you could ride."
She smiled. "You looked surprised."
"I had dust in my eye."
Louise bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Both of them?"
Rodrick settled the hat back onto his head. "If this were a campaign, and you had vaulted onto a horse and galloped off like some clothed Lady Godiva, your little exhibition would have ended with you shot, your unit scattered, and some unfortunate officer explaining why Napoleon's daughter mistook a cavalry maneuver for an audition at the Paris Opera."
"I just wanted to—"
"Relieve your spy of his endless ennui?" One corner of his mouth lifted. "You succeeded. Spectacularly. I may never recover. Now, are you ready to learn how to be a chasseur?"
Louise drew a slow breath through her nose and nodded. "D'accord."
He reached for her. "This is your sword hand. You don't waste it on reins."
