Page 42 of The Spy’s Song

The door opened. Rodrick stood in the doorway. The dark green jacket sat on his shoulders as though it had been cut for him, his golden epaulets dazzling in the morning light.

He stepped inside and halted, eyes widening as he took in her state of undress.

Her stomach fluttered—the low pull she had been telling herself was some form of spy trick.

He will be my lover before this mission ends.

Louise made no move to cover herself. She stood at the vanity in her underthings, her hair loose, her chin up, and held his gaze.

His jaw tightened. His next breath came a half-beat late. Then the spy's smile arrived, and his gaze moved down her loose hair, her bare arms, her thighs, leaving a trail of warmth on her skin.

"What? No maidenly missishness?"

She lifted one shoulder. "There should be no shame between comrades in arms."

He crossed to her. Standing her ground became harder. Carefully, he took her injured arm and turned it toward the window light. She inhaled, taking his scent inside her. He had bathed, and the spicy cologne tickled the roof of her mouth. She licked her lips. His throat was three inches from her face. What would his skin taste like there?

"Don't forget I am your superior, Lieutenant Jean d'Arc." His thumb pressed gently along the bandage edge. "The cut is clean. Are you well to ride today?"

She took his hand in hers, and the pulse at his wrist jumped under her fingers.

"I'm sorry for her. Your sister." She felt his hand tighten around hers. "And if you ever need my help to find the other man—"

"Don't enlist in my war, Lou. It has already ruined enough people."

"But—"

"We are late." He released her hand. "Do you need help with the uniform?"

"I can manage," she said.

Turning his back on her, he watched the window as though it held something of urgent professional interest.

Louise took the breeches from the chair and speared her legs in, then hauled the shirt over her head. Then came the jacket, and she winced against the pain in her arm.

When she finished, she turned to the mirror. The woman looking back was not Louise Bonnechoix of Covent Garden. Not the girl who had danced for English money. That woman in the glass was Napoleon's daughter.

At last.

She did not look at Rodrick at the window, and she did not think about his hand on her arm, and she was entirely, completely fine.

Gaetan strode into her room. "Good morning, Louise."

His mouth opened. Closed. "Good God," he said softly. "You will be the most beautiful officer in the regiment."

Heat climbed her neck, and she looked away from his admiring blue eyes.

Rodrick cleared his throat. "Careful, Gaetan. The Emperor might take offense at your flirting with his newest lieutenant."

"You are here as well. Good. We leave after breakfast. The horses are ready. We join the regiment at Avesnes by noon," Gaetan said.

Nodding, she sat at the vanity and picked up the scissors. "I'll be fifteen minutes. As soon as I get rid of my hair—"

"Put the scissors down," Rodrick said.

He was already behind her. She had not heard him cross the room.

"I cannot pass for an officer with hair to my waist."