Chapter Three

A mber blew hair from her eyes and applied herself to the prickly lock one more time. Her mystery man sat below at his table enjoying his dinner, but if she didn't get his door open, she'd be sitting in the local gaol. She twisted her hairpin and caught the rod on the grate and… viola! The door swung wide.

She dropped her tools in her breeches pockets. They were fisherman's trousers, useful for carrying items to pick a lock or poke an eye. She didn't wish to spoil the spellbinding good looks of her ghost, but oh, how she did need to know who he was and why he was so poor at his attempt to stalk her.

She moved into the room and shut the door carefully, wincing at the sound of the lock clicking in its plate. His was the only room on the top floor of the auberge, but she did not like to arouse any undue attention to someone on the stairs who might casually hear mice about on the upstairs floor.

Hmmm. He had kept a hip bath in the room. Empty now, but with a large sponge on the nearby stool. So he liked cleanliness. Don't we all, sir! A good quality to add to his dark, compelling aura.

Usually, he sat at his dinner for more than two hours. She applauded his good taste…and his effort to aid his digestion. Vaillancourt's men usually tended toward the erratic, the intense, the quick, so this man's tendency to linger over his repast was odd. So was the deft artistry of his tailor, who had sought in vain to make his client appear a country gentleman. This man who shadowed her these past three days could wear rags and yet would not be able to hide the poetry his profile inspired. Indeed, he needed not a stitch to make her widow's empty arms yearn for so devastatingly handsome a lover.

Foolish, Amber. Put your mind to the job!

She glanced around, hands on her hips. Whatever his predilection to adorn himself so expertly—or even to dine so deliberately, if he were in the employ of the deputy chief of police (because who else wished to examine her closely?)—she did, of course, prefer him gone at least. Dead at best. Although he did focus on her in subtle ways, he was quite interested in her. Many men always had been, but with crude and lascivious motivations. Vaillancourt's men had political designs in addition.

However, she had no desire to aid this particular man in his effort to insert himself into her life. Therefore, she had not gotten closer to him than twenty feet away. Still, she had noted his habits. Vin rouge. Beef. Polite regard of ladies. Congeniality toward men. Long walks in the mornings, wherein he learned the streets of the town. But the ones in Varennes were not so large or numerous. His perambulations, therefore, were laudable but necessarily repetitive.

Here in his rooms, she smiled to herself and rubbed her gloved hands together. She glanced about at the large expanse. He was neat. Hanging his nicely tailored waistcoats and frock coats on two different mannequin forms, he showed a tendency to be a dandy. He could never be mistaken for a poseur. He walked the earth as if he owned it all. Were he not in employ of Vaillancourt, she would wish to walk beside him, grasp his arm, feel his strength as he held her in a dance. Certainly, his breadth of shoulder and length of leg told the tale of a man who mastered every task with vigor and sturdy good health. A part of her quivered with longing for the touch of such a virile man.

She shook her head. Foolish! Look around! Who is this creature?

She pressed a hand to her stomach and quelled the old ache for a true lover. Maurice was gone, and this man…

This man was who?

He had no valet accompanying him here, but his small clothes, clean and folded, were put away in the tall chest of drawers. A hand-drawn map of the Meuse-Argonne area sat in the top drawer. It was folded just so. Upon the map lay small coins, French and old. Had he put them in such precise array to catch anyone who would peruse his personal items? Of course he had. Just as, under his bed, he had tucked his satchel, the thick leather straps smartly secured, to detect if anyone tampered with them.

Where her gaze took her was to the array of his personal items on the far bureau. The fellow carried his own soap, beautifully shaped in an oval. She bent to sniff the bar. Sandalwood and a trace of orange oil inspired her to grin. She liked citrus on the skin of a man. Maurice had always asked that lemon be milled into his soaps. This man, as particular as her dear husband had once been, liked his own razor and strap, too. No rough country barber could shave him with poorly tended implements. She put out a finger to touch the bristles of his hairbrush—a frisson zipped through her at the two stray strands of his rich brown-black hair that lingered there.

The stairs creaked.

She snatched back her hand.

Someone—a man—with a sure stride strode across the hallway planks.

The proprietaire ? At this hour?

It could not be… She'd seen him behind the bar.

No matter who it was, he was coming here, and she…

Frantic, she flew toward the only hiding place, a narrow closet wherein her man hung his greatcoat on a peg. He could not need it tonight.

Could he?

She slipped open the door, winced as the rusty hinge squeaked, and shut herself inside.

Just in time.

She heard the door handle jiggle, the portal creak open wide. Through the slats of the closet door, she could see him. Closer than she had ever been to him, she smothered her gasp of appreciation. He was taller than she had imagined. She was no petite woman, but he loomed, large and imposing, as he strolled about the room. Then he wandered closer, his frown arresting her breathing. His face, with its classic arches and shadows, captured her imagination. He was Mars, Thor, no man she'd ever encountered. The curve of his lips as he gazed around the room in some private satisfaction was as alluring as his kisses must be. But then he spun toward her, focused on her hidey-hole—and grinned.

"I know you are in there," he said with a bass voice that could rival the depths of Lucifer's. "Do come out."

To run was impossible. She'd get one step and he'd catch her in those long, muscular arms. But before she complied, she stopped to consider one startling fact. If he wished to kill her, to do away with her in the name of Vaillancourt and the glory of the consulate, he would have simply opened the flimsy door and assaulted her. He could snap her neck and be done with her in ten seconds. So. He was on a different mission.

But what?

"I rather like it here," she told him with a sniff. All bravado it was, too.

He settled before her door and, hands on his hips, scoffed. "I've no idea why, madame."

He knew she was a widow? She wore no ring. She'd sewn that into her coat hem with her gold. Well then. Informed scoundrel, wasn't he?

"I prefer dark, close spaces," she told him. "Especially when I am being intimidated."

"I assure you, madame, I've no wish to do that. In fact, I wish to save you from yourself."

"You cannot. No one can. And you cannot talk me into a quick trip to Paris to demonstrate the error of my ways."

He inhaled. Between the slats of the door of her little closet, she could see how he smiled like a hungry jungle cat. His expression was not sadistic, but benevolent. Few rakishly divine men ever developed the capability of compassion. When had he? "I've no desire to take you anywhere you do not wish to go."

Despite his tenderness, she scoffed. "Who are you, then, if you are not Vaillancourt's man come to haul me back to him?"

"I would never do that man's bidding."

"Whose do you do?"

"Scarlett Hawthorne."

She sat with that revelation for far too long. Her hesitance gave credence to his words, but still, they stunned her. Even more, she realized he spoke cultivated English. She had returned the favor, and never noticed in what language they conversed until he revealed this about Scarlett. Speaking English did not make him an agent of her friend's, but it soothed her feathers a bit. "I know her."

"She definitely knows you. She showed me a watercolor portrait of you. A fine one."

Whose painting could that have been? Only Augustine. For years, her best friend Augustine had refined her art by redoing Amber's portrait in ink or pencil or watercolor over again and again. "I know you best," Gus had often said when Amber complained. "It gives me joy."

However, the gentleman before her was not joyful. He frowned at the door slats. "That portrait is how I have been able to track you in and out of town the past few days. Even in your men's attire, to say nothing of your numerous changes of public carriages, hired coachmen—and haylofts."

"I tracked you today," she blurted at him as a ripple of despair shot through her.

"I know. A double play, eh?"

This man trailed her. Were there others? More whom she had not noticed? Were they from Scarlett or from Vaillancourt? What had she not seen? Who else was out there plotting her capture?

Her bravado was for naught. She clutched her middle. If she had had more space in this cramped closet, she would have doubled over in distress.

"Come out, madame," her captor murmured with sweet appeal. "I long to meet you face to face. I have admired your courage."

"And my stupidity to allow you to corner me?"

He waved a hand. "Curiosity was bound to snare you."

That was true. "You allowed me just enough of you to lead me on."

"Ah, well. Essential to one who wishes to meet you."

"But sir, I have no desire to meet you."

"You will."

Did he toy with her? Rather carefree, isn't he? Yet his discovery of her was so dire a challenge to her. "Huh! You think very highly of yourself."

"I think very highly of you, madame. You are quick, nimble, thoughtful in your escapade. Add to that, you are lovely from afar. I can only imagine how stunning you are closer."

She snorted. "I am no imbécile who will welcome your compliments or your protection in exchange for my obedience."

His jaw, square and blunt as it was, went rigid with his displeasure. His pale eyes grew eerie. "Madame, you test my good nature. I do not want you servile. I am here on a mission. You are my quest. I have found you, and now you will do me the courtesy of appearing without further ado. This delay grows tiresome. We have much to say, more to plan." He extended one hand toward the closet and waggled his fingers at her. "Come out, I say."

Out, she had to go. With a huff and a shake of her trousers, she emerged into the golden candlelight of his presence.

She stood toe to toe with him. But that was all that matched. Her breasts came to his ribcage. Her chin was level to his throat. Her gaze took in his mouth, generous and strong. His own eyes, in the fuller light now afforded her, could have sent her to her knees. How could a man possess such an erotic gaze of Nordic blue with long brown lashes so sweeping she could envy them herself?

"Yes." He pronounced the word in a long, low drawl that had her sensing his bass voice down through her stomach to her loins. "I see one reason why Vaillancourt pursues you. 'Tis not simply your hair. Though the red does claim the eye, burn the mind. It is your demeanor."

"Far from it!"

The fellow shot up a hand to make her pause. "You are rare."

"Not at all." How unique, she dared not say.

"I disagree. No freckles. No blemishes. No girlish whimsy. No frailty of bone or eye or gumption." He grinned, broad and nigh unto evil in his praise of her.

Praise. She would have no more of this. She spun to one side and strode toward his sideboard. "Have you whisky in that decanter?"

"I'm surprised you did not pour yourself a draught."

She flashed him a withering gaze. "That would have been poor manners. Besides, I was not here long enough to sample it. I do gather you clocked how long I've been here."

"Upstairs?" He fished his watch from his waistcoat pocket and noted the time. "Eight minutes. Perhaps not long enough for your particular taste."

She availed herself of the decanter and one earthen cup. A strong dose of spirits would be just what she needed to endure this inquisition. She downed it, and the warmth sank through her limbs. With her cup empty but still in hand, she sat upon the edge of his firm, wide bed. The sumptuous feel of it had her spine easing. She smiled in relief but killed the expression, for this man would not need to know how she desired the comfort of his bed. "Now that you have me, what do you propose to do with me?"

"I hoped you would readily see the value of my company." He offered her a brilliant sample of his most pleasant bow.

"Fit for the Tuileries, you certainly are." She lifted her cup in fake homage.

"I'm thrilled you see it that way," he said with sarcasm. "But we both know you do not wish to return. Frankly, I don't blame you. I have been there, and I did not find the court's questionable charms amusing."

She snorted. "Touché. So then, regale me with your solution."

"We travel together." He said it with such finality that it left little room for her objections.

"You are presumptuous."

With a theatrical sigh, he turned on his heel and claimed the only good chair in the room. "I am prudent."

Whatever she might think, he would argue against. From his commanding position near the door, he watched her like a king on his throne. At his leisure, so easy in his skin, he ran his large blue eyes over her as if she were a diamond to regard, measure, and seize. She was no man's. But she tipped her head and said, "Do enlighten me."

"You are in a precarious situation. A woman alone. Fleeing not merely one man, albeit one who is the second most capable of detaining anyone in the country, but eluding his entire cadre of underlings. You have limited resources. Money goes only so far for so long, then you must return home to Reims or to Paris to get more. Under disguise and in the dead of night, too. That carries dangers of discovery. Alternately, you could try to leave France and go to the coast, Britain, or south to Spain or one of the Italian states. But they are far and require a long journey, perilous and hot. Going to one of the German duchies on the Rhine is not a good idea, either. They, after all, are beholden to Vienna."

"Not for long, from what I hear."

"Right you are. For once they are officially aligned with France, you cannot find succor there. Plus, one thing more." He lifted a finger. "You do not speak any German."

She sat taller. "You have done quite a bit of research about my background."

He smiled. It was perfunctory. "I have."

"So then you offer me your presence, your protection, and your funds. I am shocked, sir. Do you not offer me, as well, your prayers?"

"If you wish." Humor warmed the cool self-confidence in his gaze.

"I have no need of them."

"Because you are on the right side of your quest?"

She nodded.

He gave her the sharp regard of a predator about to attack prey. "Never in this country, or in any other on this green earth, did being right assure one of victory. Give over, Amber."

At his use of her given name, she stilled and gazed down into her empty glass. He had a point.

"You need me."

Do I? How can I avoid it? "It is safer for you if you simply leave me."

He gave little nod. "But I won't."

She had to get rid of him. "As much as I would like to have a companion in my travels, I can offer you nothing for your service."

"You need not compensate me."

"Scarlett does?"

He gave a smile. "Scarlett does."

"Does she know you have found me?"

"No." His blue eyes flared with certainty.

"Why not?"

"It is only recently that I did find you." He focused on her mouth and ran a fingertip over his lips, as if…as if he could taste her. "The other reason should be obvious."

"You don't have an associate who can run the message to London?"

"I work alone. And as long as I know where you are, how you are, I have no need to risk any informant falling into Vaillancourt's hands."

She gripped her stomach. The possibility that Vaillancourt might haul her away felt like a punch to her gut. She was caught. And for now, persuaded. "You propose to accompany me around France?"

"If that is what you wish, yes."

"How?" She sniffed. "That looks odd."

"For one woman to travel alone in shabby men's clothes, changing horses and carriages constantly? Yes."

He had her—and she called him a very bad name.

His gaze grew hard and dangerously lethal. "For a man and his wife to travel together in comfort and style, not at all."

"Doing what?" she demanded, trying to call his bluff.

"Touring the country. You and I are, after all, English invited here under the peace treaty."

She scoffed. "I do not collaborate with neophytes to gain ground."

"Madame, I know what you did in Paris—but now you run. Furthermore," he said, smiling with a hand to his heart, feigning insult, "‘neophyte' stings."

She raised her glass. " Non, je ne regrette rien. "

"I gather." He shrugged. "Regrets are a waste of time. Better to do a job the right way the first time. Face it. You are better off with me."

"Very well. I will play. Why?"

"Yesterday you asked residents if they had heard about shipments to military depots in the eastern border towns."

That stilled her. Her inquiry was a whim, an attempt to learn something useful. "Many expect that."

He smiled pleasantly. "Many men discuss that. Odd for a lady to do so."

She crossed her arms.

He tipped his head. "Did you learn anything?"

She bit her lip. He'd pricked her pride—and her curiosity. "No."

"I did not think so."

He was too confident, this dashing British devil. She raised her chin, defiant, wounded by her failure to learn anything in the cafés or the wine cellars about a fact so valuable. "I suppose you have the answer?"

"I do. We will go to a town where such talk is usual, even for a lady."

That made her mouth water. "A depot?"

"We visit a town that sends supplies to many depots."

Her nerves sang with excitement. "What town?"

"Charleville."

"The armory north of here that makes muskets," she said, admiration escaping her.

"And pistols. After we have an idea of numbers manufactured, we travel to towns that receive the shipments and confirm receipt."

"Such as?" she led him on, excitement thrumming in her ears at knowledge of the numbers of all those weapons.

He shrugged. "Sedan. Verdun."

She huffed. He spoke of dreams. "Impossible. You and I will be obvious. We will be arrested by a gendarme and sent to Paris for Fouché and Vaillancourt to throw us in prison!"

"Two are always better at subterfuge than one."

"Say you!" She shook her head at his self-importance.

"I do." He inhaled, his sky-blue eyes so menacing with his intent. "I have devised a ruse."

"More than pretending to be married?" She had to pick at him.

"One must. Marriage is such a small lie. I have a distant cousin who lives in Charleville. He was, years ago, the mayor. He owns the green grocery, the blacksmith shop, and a saddlery. He is gregarious, well respected. You and I will visit him and learn all we can."

Her heart leapt at the prospect. Yet she knew the next problem. Even if she got information, what would she do with it? Her own network was gone. Destroyed by her flight from Vaillancourt. "Why? Why do that, unless you will take the information to London, to Scarlett?"

"My primary job is to keep you safe. I go nowhere unless you do. Until and unless you decide to go to London, the information about pistols and muskets and uniforms and anything else remains right here."

She was torn. "Then why go to Charleville at all?"

"Unless you decide to go to London, going to Charleville is a journey to pass the time or to amuse you. But eventually on our journey, I predict I will meet one of my colleagues and give him what we have learned."

There were others here in France, spying on the government. She had long thought it so, but it comforted her to hear it from another. "Just like you."

" Oui, madame ." He gave her a sad smile. "And you."

Without doubt, his presence was a gift. He had the same objectives, and he worked for the country most opposed to Bonaparte's regime.

She knew how valuable his suggestion was. "That kind of intelligence about supplies is what every foe would want."

"Exactly," he said, "it is the kind you would want. The kind you would love to pass on to whomever is your control agent. In lieu of that, what better to do than aid me in my investigations?"

Wild with regret that she had to leave Paris and her work, she clamped a hand to her mouth. A sudden sob rose and tears fell from her eyes. She dashed them away.

His expression fell to compassion, and she had the urge to fall against him and accept all his help and succor. But she stood her ground, sniffing back her remorse. What was wrong with her? Crying like a girl? She hated the appearance she was weak and frightened. Once more in control of herself, she said, "Vaillancourt has ruined me."

"On the contrary, I am here," he declared with a blunt finality that froze her tears, "and I will ensure he never does."

She believed him. Why it was so came to her with the hot blue flame of truth in his eyes. He decreed it would be so, and thus her future was changed. She was part of what he envisioned, and she walked amid his truth. His inescapable command.

At least for now.

"Tell me what else you want of me, Amber."

That shocked her.

But he went on and surprised her more. "The night grows deep, and we must sleep to begin our jobs with vigor."

Persistent cuss. He had won. She shook her head, then rose to get more whisky. Instead of rising to serve her like a gentleman, he watched her like a rogue. His gaze scorched her mouth. Her throat tingled as if those perfect lips of his pressed her there. Her breasts filled; her nipples grew hard as if his large hands held her and his fingers plucked her. Her loins gushed with a desire that had no place in this discussion. This man was pure temptation to women worldwide. But she shook her head. She had years of practice denying men sensual advantage.

She would agree for now to Charleville. Later, she would find a way to leave him. "Very well. You and I are colleagues only. To alleviate any threat. And to investigate Charleville."

"Of course," he said without a hint of duplicity. "And?"

"We will not be intimate. Not for sport. Not for affection. Nor for comfort."

"Agreed." He nodded once, as indifferent to her as a vicar giving a benediction. "Such emotions detract from one's ability to think clearly and act quickly."

She wanted to sputter. "What a fine fellow you are. Your mother must be proud."

"She is. My mother is a darling. I love her. She is worthy of it, for she understands that when one loves, one gives everything, expecting nothing in return. For now, I take your compliment. And I agree. You and I will not be lovers."

At his words, a tiny part of her heart shriveled and went away to pine. She had insulted him, and he had found the means to diminish her for withholding a divine emotion.

Stripped of her independence, she itched to get away. "Concluded, then. Good. I leave you. I am tired. I will return to you at nine in the morning."

"No."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"This is no polite act of chivalry, madame. I am here now to order your days and nights. You will never leave me."

"No! That is—"

"How else can I protect you?" He seared her with his quick and blinding anger.

"I will not sleep here with you. You need only reach over and—"

"I promised you I will not. Like my mother, I give all away not always for love, but for love of my mission. You are not mine to ravish, but mine to protect." He rose to his feet slowly, like an enormous god from the sea. "Give over. We will not argue." He pointed toward the small alcove. "I know you had a few minutes to check my belongings, but you may not have probed them all."

He had so defeated her that she could only question him with knitted brows.

"I see not." He grinned, then marched to the adjacent dressing room. She heard him rustle about. He returned with a sturdy white muslin, a nightgown. "I prefer you in women's clothes. Especially because we will travel as husband and wife. Greens, amethyst, and royal purples, I think, are best for your coloring. We will visit a modiste in Buzancy when we stop along the way to Charleville."

She opened her mouth to express her delight and dismay at his presumption. He had planned so very much that she was impressed and humbled. But she had her own ideas. "I will visit friends of mine here in town tomorrow. The Vernes are loyal to my family, old retainers. I will ask to borrow a few ladies' garments from them." She grabbed the stack of clothes from his hands. "But we have two other problems."

"What are they?"

"I do not have a wedding ring." She would not wear the precious one that Maurice had bestowed upon her. She lifted one hand to wiggle her fingers at him.

"Alas, wife, I fear that you have lost it. It was always too large, too loose. I will have one made for you when we arrive in Charleville." He looked pleased with himself. "And the other problem?"

"I do not know your name. You know much about me. Yet I am left without a clue except that your mother loves you…and so does Scarlett Hawthorne."

"Enough to put you in my care. Oui, madame ." He bowed artfully. "I am Godfrey. Godfrey DuClare. Viscount Ramsey. Twelfth of my line. Now please avail yourself of your new night rail and robe."

"No armor, I assume?"

All hauteur fell from his maddeningly handsome features. "None will be necessary, Amber."

"Good to know. Godfrey."

"Ramsey. Or Ram, if you like." He pointed toward the dressing alcove. "I wait there while you disrobe."

"And bathe."

"If you wish."

"Oh, I do." Especially if we are to sleep together and I am to retain my dignity.

"I will request water for your bath."

"Thank you," she said, gauging the extent of her true gratitude, which would come only later, after he had slept beside her—and not touched her.

"You are welcome, Amber. Your worries are fewer tonight. Tomorrow is a new day."