Page 7 of The Spy’s Song

"I killed it."

***

The warehouse door gave beneath Rodrick's shoulder with a metallic screech loud enough to wake the dead, though apparently not Louise Bonnechoix.

He entered with one hand still near his sword, letting his gaze travel first to the windows, the side door, the narrow stair leading to the loft.

She was lying on the couch. One black curl adorned her cheek, the rest spreading over the cushion in the kind of disorder women spent hours arranging and never achieved half so well.

He pulled in a breath and strode closer. "Why is she so still?"

James, standing near the window with all the serenity of a man whose employer had not just smuggled Napoleon Bonaparte's daughter across London in a laundry cart, glanced at him. "She is unconscious, my lord."

"Yes, James, I had gathered that. Is she alive?"

James's expression acquired injury. "Even though medical duties do not appear among my agreed-upon services, I checked. She breathes still."

Exhaling all the air in his lungs, Rodrick dropped onto the far end of the couch. "Some people believe spies have no souls, James."

James visibly paled, and if he had been a less disciplined Englishman, he might have tugged at his neckcloth. As it was, one eyelid moved by approximately the width of a pin.

"Don't look at me as if a philosophical conversation is an employment hazard."

"Not a hazard, my lord. Merely one for which we have yet to agree upon a supplement."

James produced a bottle of brandy and poured a measure into a glass. "Perhaps this will prevent the need to establish one."

Rodrick accepted it. "Extortion in the face of spiritual crisis. This is why I keep you."

Perhaps a soul was like a glass of brandy. One began with a respectable measure, then every dark corridor, every lie told to a trusting face, every friend traded for information claimed a dram. One hardly noticed until some evening one held the glass toward the light and discovered that only enough remained to wet the bottom.

"She will wake soon," James said, no doubt hoping the change of subject would shake Rodrick out of his maudlin humor.

"Indeed," Rodrick said. "Go find the Danes. Alert them that we sail with the tide."

James's face pinched.

Rodrick studied him. "Why do you become so testy around them?"

"They are rogues."

"I kidnapped a princess tonight. I believe that qualifies under the medieval definition of rogue."

"Yes, but my lord is civilized. And they are savages."

"They merely escaped the repression that made us such excellent company. One can hardly blame them for having experienced a less damaging education." Rodrick extended the empty glass. "Now run along, and make certain they have Brutus aboard. And his oats. His special oats. The brown sack. Not the other brown sack."

James took the glass. "I know which oats the horse eats."

"Excellent. Then tonight need not conclude with a seventeen-hand tantrum in the middle of the Channel."

James left.

Rodrick rose and stood over the sleeping beauty. He reached to move the curl lying across her cheek, then stopped midway and found the edge of his cuff vastly more deserving of attention. "Well now, Miss Bonnechoix. Or ought I say Bonaparte? What is the key to controlling you?"

Everyone wanted something. Safety. Gold. Love. Revenge. Recognition. A title. A child. A secret kept. A secret revealed. Find the want, and one finds the lever.

Louise Bonnechoix would have one too. She had better. Left unmanaged, she would likely burn half of Britain before Rodrick delivered her to France, and after tonight he had ceased regarding that prospect as metaphorical.