Page 69 of The Spy’s Song

France's most loyal daughter will not fail him.

Autun

Louise stared at the signature, and the words blurred, and she blinked, and they cleared and blurred again.

She was not going to cry.

She was not going to cry again.

Tomorrow was Brussels. Tomorrow was Lady Isabelle Vane, devoted wife, elegant, finds Wellington's war inconvenient.

She folded the letter, placed it in her coat pocket, and looked out the carriage window. Fields. A farmhouse. A church spire rising above a tree line that had nothing to do with Charleroi or Napoleon or the medal that would be pinned to a uniform that would no longer be on her body tomorrow.

The method has been arranged.

Poison, she thought. It would be poison. Something small enough to carry in a pocket. She had read enough history to know how these things were done. Napoleon's daughter ought to understand that history was made by people who were willing to do what the moment required.

The nausea that rolled through her stomach said otherwise. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, breathed through her nose, and waited for it to pass.

France's most loyal daughter would not fail him. She had wanted to be needed, hadn't she? This was what being needed looked like.

Her fingers were shaking, and she willed them to stop.

Rodrick's hand closed over both of hers. "What did your letter say?"

Louise shook her head and swallowed a sob.

He did not insist. A spy's courtesy? She had to learn these things now… She returned the discretion. Whatever Autun—or Talleyrand—had asked of him, she hoped it brought him closer to Charlotte. At least one of them ought to get what he had crossed Europe to find.

Rodrick released her, reached beneath the seat, and pulled out a valise. He lifted out a blue wool dress and offered it to her.

She shook her head, chin trembling. "I can't take off the uniform, Rodrick. I can't."

Rodrick knelt in front of her on the carriage floor. Then he reached for her right boot and pulled it free. The left. His hands moved to the fastenings of her breeches, and she sat very still and let him work, her eyes fixed on the carriage roof.

He eased the breeches down over her hips, her thighs, her calves. Then he pressed his mouth to her right knee, and the touch moved through her like a current. She looked down at him, and her throat closed.

After a brief brush of his lips on her thigh, he straightened and reached for the buttons of her jacket. His fingers were unhurried, working each button from its loop. The jacket came open. He slid it from her shoulders, one side then the other, and folded it in his hands.

He set it on the seat beside her. The epaulets caught the milky sunlight, a blur at the edge of her vision. Then the shirt. He lifted it over her head, carefully freeing her injured arm last.

The carriage air was cool against her naked skin.

Rodrick sat back on his heels. "I'm a fucking spy, Lou," he said quietly. "I hate this. Tell me what I can do to make it better."

She touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers.

"Kiss me," she said.

He pushed up, rising between her legs. Cradling her face between his palms, he brushed his lips against hers. It was too sweet. Too sweet a kiss for a woman who would do what she would do at a ball in Brussels.

With shaking hands, she found the fastenings of his breeches. He helped her, one hand bracing against the seat, the other at her waist. She took him in her hand, and he made a sound against her mouth. He sat back on the opposite bench and, with both hands on her hips, pulled her atop him until she was straddling him. The cloth of his civilian trousers chafed her thighs. Her core ached for him. Panting, she sank down onto him.

He crossed his arms around her waist, and she shifted closer. Closer still. Not enough. With his hands around her waist, he pressed her down onto him. They both groaned.

"What do you need from me, Lou?" he said. Low. Close. His mouth at her temple.

"Don't move." She pressed her forehead to his shoulder. "I don't want this to end."