Page 81 of The Spy’s Song

She had closed her eyes when a sound came from the street, close now, the dull thud of bodies meeting resistance.

She sat up, the coverlet falling to her lap, her pulse quickening.

Then a melody sifted through the closed shutters. Rodrick's voice. He sang Plaisir d'amour. The same song from the château, so many nights ago.

Cold air struck her face when she opened the window.

Right on the walkway, held by two English soldiers, Rodrick swayed precariously. Still, the music lifted every hair on her arms.

Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie—

She sought his gaze, and this strange bond that connected them solidified the air, tugging straight at her heart.

A dancer could travel on notes. A phrase lifted you, carried you beyond the place where your feet had begun, and set you down somewhere else. Louise wished his voice could do that now. Take them both away from Brussels, from the Richmonds' ball, from the thing waiting for her there. One long note, perhaps, and they might land somewhere France wanted nothing from either of them.

Suddenly the music changed, and pain dulled his dark eyes.

The duplicitous spy has the voice of an angel. Disturbing, isn't it? One naturally expects moral corruption to affect the lungs.

It seemed a lifetime since she had found him singing alone beside a lake.

Pressure gathered beneath Louise's breastbone until swallowing hurt. Why are you singing tonight? What happened to make you check if your soul is still there?

Louise put one hand against the window frame. If only she could cross the gap between them and tell him she had looked inside him and found no ugliness.

Rodrick's gaze stayed on hers. The thread seemed to draw taut.

Then his voice broke. Rodrick tipped his head back as though the missed note amused him and lurched against the soldiers holding his arms.

"God save our gracious King!" he sang, too loud. "Long live our noble King! God save the King!"

Laughter broke from the redcoats. Rodrick grinned as the soldiers hauled him toward the steps.

Louise raced down the stairs, the wood creaking under her feet, and opened the door.

Rodrick sagged between two redcoats, hair disordered and coat hanging open.

"Oh," he slurred. "There she is. My sweet wife."

"What happened?" Louise said, stepping back to let them through.

"Your husband, milady." The taller soldier had the tone of a man making a report. "We found him in the rue de Namur attempting to converse with a horse."

"Thackeray," Rodrick said, with drunk dignity. "Do you remember Thackeray, darling? My dearest friend. Sixteen hands. Bay. Remarkable listener. Never once interrupted me mid-sentence. Better conversationalist than most of the lords. Significantly better looking."

"Thank you, gentlemen. He has been like this since Cambridge. I am so sorry for the disturbance."

"He tried to give the horse his calling card," the taller soldier offered, as though she needed that information.

"Of course he did," Louise said.

She passed her arm around Rodrick's narrow waist. His weight bore down on her, and she had to shift her feet to hold him upright. His heat singed her, and the scent of brandy clung to his coat. Perhaps he was actually drunk.

One soldier tipped his head, the other stepped back, and the door closed behind them, sealing the house from the street.

Rodrick's weight lifted. His arm left her shoulders, and then he straightened. The man who had leaned into her moments before stood now at his full height, steady, contained, the last trace of imbalance gone.

"Where were you?" she asked and flinched at how wifely she sounded.