Page 8 of The Spy’s Song

Rodrick had a dossier about Miss Bonnechoix thick enough to stun a burglar—two years of intercepted correspondence, lists of acquaintances, accounts, routines, loyalties, and habits. One of Conrad's men had followed her so faithfully that Rodrick suspected the poor Dane knew what she ate for breakfast more reliably than she did. Accomplished dancer. Protective friend. Quick temper, generally disciplined. Strong attachment to the other Swans of Paris. No known lovers. No debts. No gambling. No obvious vanity beyond the professional requirements of the stage.

But no dossier could distill Bonaparte's blood. Napoleon wanted power, while most of his family wanted some combination of money and the reflected glory of being related to a man who had reorganized Europe.

Louise might prove no different.

Rodrick bent over her. Unless he intended to invade her dreams—and espionage had not yet advanced to that degree of indecency—he would require her awake.

He touched her shoulder. "Miss Bonnechoix."

Nothing.

He gave her a firmer shake. "Princess, if you intend to remain insensible all the way to—"

She seized his wrist and drove her shoulder into his chest. Momentum carried him backward, and before he could convert the fall into anything resembling dignity, he landed flat against the cushions. Louise came down over him. Steel flashed, and a dagger touched his throat.

She was breathing fast, her thighs bracketing his hips. His pulse struck hard, advertising itself against the steel with a lack of discretion he deeply resented, and he became acutely aware of a disastrous enthusiasm developing beneath his breeches. What the—? For eighteen months that particular portion of his anatomy had displayed the restraint of a Trappist monk. Beautiful women had failed to interest it. Willing women had failed. Naked women had failed. Presumably extremely competent women had failed, though Rodrick had eventually stopped conducting experiments.

Now, with a Corsican princess straddling him, the fellow had apparently decided life still held possibilities. His body had atrocious judgment.

The gray eyes flashed in the dim light. "Who are you?"

"Foolish me. I should have clipped your claws, Princess. Your dagger skills are every bit as charming as advertised," he said.

"Flattery will get your vein pierced. Your name. Now."

Rodrick held his pelvis rigidly still, because allowing Napoleon's daughter to discover that attempted murder had revived his dormant libido would have constituted an intolerable surrender of intelligence.

"Rodrick de Montfort. Viscount Saint John at your service."

Her lips curled. "The master spy. Should I kill you now and rid France of a duplicitous enemy?"

The disgust in her expression made his ribs contract. Rodrick smoothed his smile and tipped his chin nearer the dagger. "That would be ungrateful. The duplicitous enemy removed you from Covent Garden directly beneath Colonel Arlesford's exceptionally pompous nose."

"I was removing myself quite successfully before you drugged me."

"Ah, yes. Your speech. Napoleon is coming. Quite inspired. Lacked subtlety, but one cannot demand restraint from genius. What you didn't know is that Arlesford had the theater surrounded. Horse Guardsmen at the artists' entrance, two men on the western passage, another outside Bow Street. The Foreign Office had discovered enough of your identity to make the rest inevitable."

The dagger remained at his throat.

"You would have made perhaps another corridor. Possibly the alley, if fortune adored you. Then Colonel Arlesford would have taken you. And once Whitehall established beyond doubt whose daughter you are, do you imagine they would send you home with apologies? They would place you in a room without windows where questions are asked until answers are given. And if answers are not satisfactory, the methods improve. Then every minister in London would begin calculating what Napoleon Bonaparte might surrender to obtain his child—or what his enemies might pay to ensure he never did."

Her eyes shone feverishly. She cared about capture, certainly, but the threat to her life had scarcely disturbed her. The possibility of being used against Napoleon did.

Useful.

"I survived perfectly well before scum like you interfered."

"But surviving and thriving are rather different occupations, are they not? Covent Garden. A cold island. Dancing for the enemy. While your father is across the Channel."

The blade faltered a fraction. Rodrick caught her wrist and, closing his other hand above her elbow, and rolled hard beneath her. Louise's knee drove toward his ribs, but he trapped her hands against the cushion, shifted his weight, and came over her. His shoulders eased with the profound satisfaction of geometry restored to its proper order. Still, the warmth of her body beneath his produced another unwelcome tightening in his breeches, rather spoiling the dignity of victory.

She glared.

"Oh, don't look so wounded. You had your turn." Rodrick smiled down at her. "Right now, Princess, I am your only hope. Consider the romance of it. Napoleon Bonaparte's daughter in the hands of Europe's greatest spy. Entirely at his mercy."

He expected some reaction. A flinch would have been sensible. Anger was likely. A sharp insult almost guaranteed. Louise merely met his eyes, and the effect was flint to powder. The hairs along his arms rose beneath his coat, and something coiled low in his spine.

Good God. She had Napoleon's eyes indeed. The emperor's gaze was reputed to enthrall even hardened generals.