Chapter Two

June 5, 1802

Varennes, France

R amsey had tracked a few unsavory characters in his career with Scarlett Hawthorne. Six years ago, the beautiful director of the British merchant enterprise Hawthorne and Company had recruited him for his sharpshooter skills. Later, she appreciated his talents at sniffing out traces of those who had vanished, voluntarily or not.

Tonight, Ram sat at his table in the tavern room of his auberge , unremarkable in his subdued country attire. From this vantage, he had spied his fiery renegade as she slipped past the entrance to the stairs up to the guest rooms. To his room, to be exact. She moved like a sylph, fine boned, exotic, a woman who danced in a man's mind long after she was gone. Yet she was dressed as a boy and resembled no young male he had ever known.

He smiled to himself. She was going to discover who and what he was and why he tracked her. She'd sighted him, just as he'd allowed, this afternoon. He'd even permitted her to follow him back here. So now he'd give his lovely mark three minutes to pick the lock to his door. Two to rummage through his belongings. Then he'd thrust open his door…

And you will be mine.

This particular lovely wraith whom Ram was assigned to find had special skills he'd not observed in most others. For one, she insisted on men's clothing. Odd that, for a female formerly of courtly refinement. But she was a refugee, even though her numerous changes of wardrobe did not hide from him who she was. Tall for a woman, lithe and deliciously buxom despite the boring binding, she had lush lips and a rarely seen but flashing bright smile. Forced though that last was in her current state of flight from Paris and the deputy chief of police who threatened her, she was a refined beauty with shocking red hair and a heart-shaped face. Up to now, Ram had admired her only from afar, but by her beauty and her pluck, she stirred his interest and his loins. Amber, Madame St. Antoine, could indeed launch a thousand ships—and create in a man a million fantasies of bedding her.

If that were not enough to intrigue a man like Ram, the lady had the habit of vanishing for days. It didn't deter him or discourage him. Resourceful, she had availed herself of disappearing into hovels among the desperate poor of the countryside. One night, she'd hidden in tunnels near the riverbank. Alas for his radiant and devious mark, Ram had never feared navigating France's numerous chalk tunnels.

The woman also had friends—or made them easily. A butcher on the edge of a village south of Varennes. The owner of a small barge who plied the waters of the river Aisne. Her diversions didn't dissuade Ram from his efforts to find a means to corner her. He had listened to enough of Paris court gossip at Josephine's Tuileries to know that his bewitching quarry had an adventurous streak as well as the charm of an accomplished leader of the Parisian beau monde.

Funds she had in endless amounts—or so it seemed. She spent them sparingly, but bought herself good food, odd places to lay her head at night, and a supply of men's old clothing. Ram had money in ample store too, so he was able to follow her with any disguise of his own choosing. For three days, she had not noticed him.

He concluded that if she discovered him without his knowing, she would have dispensed with him immediately. Would she not send one of her minions to wait for him in a dark alley? Would she not try to slip a dram of arsenic in his soup? Or use her skills with her little knife to rid herself of him?

She had done none of that. Was she not as mercenary as he thought?

He pondered that with a sip of his wine—and smiled to himself.

Yes. He made mistakes. Everyone did in this work one plied in the shadows. He'd had setbacks. It was natural to lose a mark. One could not always predict the nefarious nature and cunning of a spy.

But he'd had extraordinary successes. Tonight was one. A great one. His friend Kane Whittington, the head of their continental espionage operation, would rejoice with him at finding this missing lady. What to do with her, now that Ram had found her, was another matter. One that did not bear great deliberation. Whatever the woman planned, whatever she desired, was his plan, his desire.

He cared naught for the future or for arguments. He had time. He had options. He was to find the woman. Keep her safe. Simple. Having watched her for days and seen her in trousers, Ram could only expect what days and nights with the luscious lady would do to test his good manners. But test them she would not. He was on a mission—and he knew how to keep his hands, and his cock, to himself.

Ram suppressed the grin that bubbled up from his chest—and drained his mug.

She might delude some, but never him. He was too refined a connoisseur of feminine assets—and so what if his mouth watered to savor hers? He gave her credit that she had managed to elude so many for so very long. Was it five or six weeks that she had avoided recognition? A record, it was, that she had been able to deflect the efforts of many who sought her. Especially the attempts by the vainglorious likes of the deputy chief of police, Vaillancourt. Her act was an astonishing victory for her. No one that Ram had seen who sold her bread or apples had hinted in their manner that they surmised she was a woman. That was best for her in this town, where the last king and his family had been arrested by suspicious local gendarmes and hauled back to Paris to die.

Ram had taken his accommodations here two days ago and paid for the privilege of renting the largest room with the largest bed. What could he say? He'd not pretend humility when he gladly paid any price for clean sheets and a bed that accommodated his very long length.

Here, however, he was not so interested in the bed, per se, as he was in the knowledge that it was on the top floor of the three-story carriage inn. So then. Once the lady's curiosity was piqued and she had decided that she needed to learn who and what he was, he would trap her.

He paid the proprietor the sum for his satisfying wine and pot-au-feu and rose to his feet.

It was time.

Time to stop following. Time to lead. Time to help Madame Amber St. Antoine realize her solo flight had come to an end. If she wished to continue her wandering, he was with her from now on.

Oui , he had her.

And he was not letting her go anywhere alone.