Chapter Six

B reakfast in the small strawberry-painted room off the kitchen was always a cheerful, chatty affair.

Ram today was in no mood to appear bright and affable. Rather, he could easily chew the hefty circular table down to wood chips. Frustration had him trying to plaster on a smiling face. Acting for once in his life took too much out of him.

"Good morning," he bade Georges, his three children, and Amber. He took his usual chair beside his supposed wife, uncommonly gorgeous in muslin violet at eight in the morning.

One cause of his grumpiness was his failure to learn much about weapons production in town. The other, bigger, cause of his sour mood was that his back was killing him. He had volunteered yesterday to help Georges and the men of the town to build out wooden planks in front of the h?tel de ville to create a dance floor. All for the fair tomorrow and ball Friday night. But his shoulders throbbed because he had slept on the floor of his and Amber's bedroom last night. It was not the first night of such rude incapacitation. It was his third.

Oh, Amber had argued with him last night as he grabbed a pillow and threw it to the floor.

He had barked back.

Drawing in her pretty chin to her neck in shock at his growling, she'd appeared chastised. "I wish you wouldn't sleep there," she had said in a pout.

"Well, we don't always get what we want." He knew that too damn well. If he had his wish, his hands would be full of her every night. His cock would be buried inside her mouth-watering flesh and—

"I wish I didn't sprawl out so much. I could learn to be a more polite bed partner. Honestly—"

"Polite, my arse." More tempting, she could never be. He blew air from his lips. "Hardly the major problem, ma femme ."

"I could say we had an argument and ask for another room—"

He shook a finger at her. "That you will not do."

"Come now, Ram. I am safe here. No one can hurt—"

"I said no." Then he threw blankets to the floor.

"You'll not be able to help tomorrow with the woodwork. I see how you stoop."

"Will you leave it alone? If I stoop, it is not from working with wood. But from working wood."

She had blinked. Hard. Began to form the word what? But never finished it—instead she'd clamped her lips together and turned away to the bed, giving him her back and her silence.

She was no innocent, and she jolly well knew now that his aching back did not give him a problem as much as his aching cock.

This morning's conversation, thankfully, turned to the musicians for the ball. Adele played the violin and would be among those playing for the dancers. Edouard, who had helped with the planks for the dance floor, had hurt his hand yesterday.

"I know they will be without a drummer, but my wrist hurts," he said.

Amber piped up. "It looks swollen, Edouard. Will you allow me to bandage your wrist? If we keep it secure, it will heal more quickly."

"If you think it wise," the boy agreed.

"I do. My husband had an injury like that, and we healed it with good, firm bandaging."

What she had said about Maurice had Ram holding his breath. But he, in the process of buttering bread, heard no gasps of surprise. They all assumed it was he who had hurt his wrist. He glanced at Amber in kind regard to cover the story, and she sat, unmoving, realizing, he supposed, what she had almost revealed.

Edouard was not bothered. "I can dance now. I wished to."

Georges locked his gaze on Ram. "Edouard has a tendre for Suzanne Moreau. The lovely daughter of the new director of the armory."

Beneath the table, Amber nudged her foot against Ram's.

"She has many suitors, Papa." Edouard shook his head, accepting his lot. "I'm her age and she pays me no mind. Besides, when I go to Paris in September, she will just have one fewer man calling on her."

Georges frowned. "She would be lucky to have you. But I say you are too young to think of courting. Go to university and you will find many pretty young women."

"Your papa is right," Amber told the young man with a smile. "Paris is filled with many lovely ladies who enjoy men who have a good education."

"And those," added Sophie with a jab of her elbow to her brother, "who can play the drums."

"Oh, phew," Edouard replied.

"Suzanne Moreau doesn't want any man from Charleville." This came from the oldest girl, Adele.

"No?" Ram joined in this little family debate as he helped himself to eggs. "Why not?"

"She wants to return to Mauberge, where they lived before. Her father was transferred here last autumn to increase production, and she hates being here. That's because she likes a man who works at that Mauberge factory. She hopes her father will fail here and they can return. Then she can encourage the fellow she favors."

"Can her father?" Amber asked that as casually as if she simply discussed a young girl's frivolous affair. "Return?"

Ram knew the man could not. If he failed to ramp up production, he would find himself in prison.

Adele drank her coffee. "Suzanne says she is stuck here until her father helps the old director figure out where to hire new workers for the factory."

"They need another forty at least," Edouard added, and asked Adele to pass the platter of ham.

Amber looked bewildered. "That is a lot of men. But then, wouldn't there be enough men in the next town down along the Meuse River to come work here?"

Ram regarded Amber, his brain ticking like a clock. The town of Mézières was around the bend of the river, and many traveled between the two towns by boat. But it was just as easy to journey between them by coach or horse. Still, that town was far enough away that if men from Mézières wished to work here, they would have to come here to live. They might not wish to unless they were offered fine wages as incentive. But Ram dare not speculate aloud.

"Too many in Mézières are free thinkers," Georges added with a shake of his head. "A garrison with more than five hundred soldiers is stationed there. The townsfolk don't like it, and they certainly would not want to come here to work in an armory that makes weapons for the consulate. Moreau will have to import men from other villages or increase every current worker's hours to make the new quota of muskets Bonaparte wants."

Ram shook his head, saying nothing so he could appear uninterested.

But the subject died a normal death. Soon they were on to the weather for the fair and the ball. Minutes later, everyone in the Boyer family left the room.

Bursting with the first clues about production at the armory, Ram bided his time until he no longer heard their footsteps in the hall.

Amber met his gaze with excitement in her own. "Shall we go upstairs to talk?"

When Ram closed their bedroom door behind him, he strode to her.

She stood in the center of the room with a grin on her face and reached for his hands. "We finally have useful news."

"God loves Suzanne Moreau." He opened his arms wide.

Laughing, she went into his embrace to kiss his cheek. Her gesture was all too quick. Her lips too inviting. Her body too lush. He squelched a groan.

"We know why they need forty more workers, don't we?" she asked him, pulling back.

"They have received orders for increased numbers of muskets and need additional men to make the quota."

"Don't they have to be skilled?"

He nodded. "I can't say. But I tell you one thing—Mauberge is a bigger armory. Which is why Suzanne's papa has come to advise. He knows what he's about."

Amber tsked. "Poor Suzanne."

"She'll have to give up her young man in Mauberge." He tapped Amber on the nose.

"I think she'll be here for a long while. Ah, can true love stand the test?" she joked.

Love has too damn many tests.

The thought shocked Ram. He'd never been in love. How would he know that?

*

Hammer in hand, Ram joined six men from the town and sidled up next to the mayor. Charles Dejean was sixty and a talker, the type who never failed to tell you about his mother, her foibles, his wife, now gone to her maker—and most likely glad of the silence. In addition, he had five children, grown, talented (weren't they always?), and all had moved to Paris. Smart of them. Ram smiled. All of that was sprinkled into a lively recital of Dejean's life story, worthy—the man was pleased to say—of a memoir.

Ram bit his tongue and pretended to admire every word. In between whacks of nails and lifting the thin wood into place (because Mayor Charles Dejean did not lift more than he must), Ram easily measured the man's pride as bigger than the height of his achievements.

"Your family has lived in Charleville for centuries, then, eh?" Ram asked him, after a recitation of Dejean's great-great-great-grandfather's achievements.

"We are recorded in the church records here, in Sedan and in Verdun." The portly man stood up straight, a hand to the small of his back. "We have fought for every king since Henry, the first Bourbon. Now we work in the new government. Even for Bonaparte. A good man."

"He has done much for France," Ram said. Indeed, Bonaparte had fixed corruption in the army and quelled rampant inflation. More than that, Ram knew it was not wise to criticize the glorious new military man who was the first consul.

"He will do more. Pardon , monsieur ," Dejean begged, a hand out. "You are so much younger, and my poor back cannot take more."

"Oui , I understand." More than you know.

After a few minutes, the silence could not hold Dejean. "Monsieur Boyer tells me you are a teacher and writer."

"That is true." Ram sat on the ground, fitting the stubborn board snugly against the next. He wrote often, not tomes but letters, and he did once teach his butler how to juggle bottles like a jester at a county fair. Ram had learned the talent at Eton, when he should have been studying his letters.

"You write about the land, Georges says." Was Dejean drawing him out?

"Geological formations, oui ." Best not to become too specific. The subject had appealed to Ram since a child, and he read about natural phenomena whenever he could.

"And you were able to get a passport to come to France when the treaty was signed?"

"That's correct." How else would I be here?

"Here in the country, we are usually skeptical of strangers." Dejean went on to tell tales of Germans and Russians who had come to visit lately. "They were here to learn about our famous Charleville guns."

"I'm sure they were." Ram made himself sound uninterested. He knew how inaccurately the musket fired if one aimed at a person over too long a distance. But with a shorter range, the gun did better than many others, as it could maim and kill quite a few who stood in close proximity. "I understand even the new American government likes your guns. You shipped many of them over for the colonists to fight against the British."

"We won their war for them, too. Those guns are the best in the world." Dejean was then kind enough to discuss the manufacture of the iron and wood components, and the need for the bore to be made very smooth.

Ram let him run on. An uncle of his had fought with the British in New York. He often talked about the French muskets that were the best of their kind. Even given that the powder could jam in a hot bore, so that the only way to cool it was for a soldier to urinate down the muzzle.

"Now Bonaparte wants to increase the supply," Dejean continued, "and we are to lead the world once more with our superb muskets. Bonaparte has ordered two hundred and fifty muskets shipped each month, beginning in October."

"Is that so?" Ram stood. The act, he hoped, covered his shock at the number. "We need another board for this row," he told the mayor. "Then you and I can quit and have a glass of wine."

Dejean liked to drink, Ram had learned yesterday when they worked together. He really did not care what Dejean liked as long as he could keep him talking. After all, two hundred and fifty muskets each month, three thousand a year, was real news. From one factory. To his knowledge, three armories produced this musket. Nine thousand a year was a lot of muskets. The only reason a country needed that many that consistently was because they planned to use them. Bonaparte had pointed his army and their guns at the wily Parisian politicians of the directorate. He'd overcome many in Italy—failing, yes, in Egypt and Palestine, but that did not stop him from rallying and returning still a hero to France. Now he had ordered more guns.

Ram doubted three thousand muskets from this one armory would sit in a supply depot for very long. The guns were expensive. A government spent such great sums to defend the country. The survival of soldiers depended on their excellent weapons. After all, a soldier might be shot or wounded, but his musket could survive. To kill another.

The knowledge turned Ram even sourer than he had been this morning. Now he had a problem.

It was one thing to learn the details of such an order of muskets by a famed armory. It was another to realize those details must be conveyed to Paris to his friend and head of mission, Kane Whittington, Lord Ashley. But how could Ram possibly get the information to Whit? He was far from any major city where he might meet another British citizen visiting the countryside of France. The chances of his meeting a fellow British man who might discreetly carry a message, coded as it would be, to Ashley was even less. Ram could not simply send such vital information by post. But the biggest thing that prohibited Ram from sending word was that it was his primary duty to protect a lady who was too frightened to return to a city where she would be arrested. And die.

What could he do?

He removed a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his forehead.

He would not write.

He would not go to Paris.

Nor would he ever think of posing the problem to Amber.

She'd want to go to Paris immediately. For his sake, but also for the sake of the very same duty she once had to her own work, she would urge him to leave. Her loyalty and her devotion were as great as his.

But loyalty could kill. Devotion ensured it.

He shook his head. Flummoxed, he followed Dejean to the local oenothèque . In the shade of the café, Ram sat down with the other men to order the local vin rouge .

Espionage was a dirty business.

He'd be damned for a fool if he never went to Paris with this information—but he never would. He'd walk the earth with Amber, wandering forever, if that was what she wished.

He sat drinking, laughing with the men of Charleville as he must. Losing himself in his conundrum. In the memory and lure of Amber's flashing dark-brown eyes.

Amber St. Antoine was too important to him to risk her life. He wanted her to live a long and a happy one. He even dreamed in odd moments that he'd prefer if she lived the rest of it with him.

If he could persuade her to that, he'd be one hell of a good talker.

But he should save his breath. Because she had no reason to agree.

*

That night at family dinner, Amber noticed Ram's preoccupation. She doubted others did, but she had grown to know him better.

She liked him. Or admired was the better word. He was a man of tempered emotions, and the wild rush beneath the calm river of his exterior was a flow she detected now. She was glad she did. That granite core of his personality was what she relied upon. What she had needed from anyone—any man—who sought to help her. And Ram had. Did. Quite well, too.

Here he sat, conversing with the Boyer family as if he were their old dear friend. In many ways, he was, but he, by his joie de vivre , added a depth of honest tenderness that made his affections welcomed and returned.

But tonight there were lines of concern from the corners of his eyes. They had not been there this morning. She could not imagine what might have happened to create it. This morning, with news of the muskets' production, he had gone off to his chores with the men of the town in hearty good attitude.

She had helped the women of the town finish the sewing of many mummers' costumes. She had not seen him before all the family gathered for a glass of vin blanc and tiny savories in the salon before dinner. But the meal dragged on, everyone so primed to enjoy the next two days of games and fun. Finally, they each drifted off to their beds.

Ram hung back. "Go up. You must be tired." He begged off retiring upstairs to their rooms. "I need to walk."

"May I come with you?" She probed his gaze. "I won't talk if you don't wish to."

"No. Do come. Although I am not good company."

She smiled in apology. "I am certain that I myself have not often been the best companion."

He put his hand to her waist and opened the dining room door for her. "I forgive you your poor manners, madame."

She could see he jested. "I am better these past few days. You must agree," she teased.

"I do." To her words, he sounded strangely resigned. Yet, trying for levity, he gallantly offered his arm. "The back garden?"

"Let's."

They strolled down the long central hall toward the large double-glass doors at the rear of the house. There, the stables, the carriage house, and the gardeners' house swept around a cultivated area in a half-circle. To the right, by the kitchen door, a red-brick fence enclosed the flourishing vegetable garden.

Corinne—Sophie's mother, Amber had learned from the girl—had been devoted to her roses. A small, neat parterre bound by chalky-white stones held the dark, green-leafed bushes. They sat in long rows and bloomed in all colors, shapes, and sizes. What filled Amber with awe and a heady inspiration was the mix of the rosy fragrance with the gentle night air.

"One day I would like to have a rose garden," she confided quite spontaneously, taking the stony path among the bushes. "I'm sorry. I said I would not chatter."

"My mother grows them." He bent to cup a fat white bud and inhale.

The look on his face endeared him to Amber even more. To his mother as well, she was sure. "Does she enjoy other activities?"

"Cards. Few ever play with her. She is a wizard."

Amber snorted. "Counts them in her head, does she?"

"Indeed. Mind like a mousetrap."

Amber burst out laughing. "I would like to play her."

"Oh, no," he said with a grimace, his hands clasped behind him as he walked beside her. "You count them, too?"

She nodded, satisfied with herself. "I do. Aunt Cecily taught me."

"Dear me. The woman is a legend."

Amber grinned and bent to inhale the delight of what wafted up from two red buds tightly bound together. "She is. So many call her ruthless, not just in cards, but in so much more. Her dealings with Josephine. Her defense of all her friends. And then, of course, she has been so very good to Augustine and to me. She took me in at nine, and she took Gus from her parents when she was just a baby. They were ill suited to raising a child, and Aunt Cecily was intolerant of their excuses. They were, she told us both, wild things and libertines. Aunt would not allow them to have Gus, neglect her, nor corrupt her."

"Your aunt is not really related to you, is she?"

"No. But to Gus, yes. Distantly, somehow. We do not ask. She does not say. Aunt saved us both when she learned of our plights. And I am forever grateful. She gave us a good life. She would have given the same to another young girl, another daughter of a youthful friend of hers."

"What happened to her? Why did your aunt not save her?"

"She was to come to us. An heiress to an English barony. She disappeared when she was sixteen. Ran away from home. Aunt Cecily never found her, though she sent out scouts to search for her."

"Every time I hear about your aunt, I do admire her more."

"She is worthy of it."

In the moonlight, his blue eyes glistened with sympathy. "Before you left Paris, did you say goodbye to her?"

Amber sucked in a breath. "No."

He waited, searching her face, and she understood he wished an explanation.

"I knew it was best to say nothing to her or to anyone, Ram. I could not risk a messenger getting captured. I dared not write a note to fall into anyone's hands. My aunt knows me well. Once I did not appear at my normal social calls, I knew she would understand my desire not to involve her."

"And what of your agents who depend on you? What of them? Did you send them word?"

"Never. It is the nature of my chain that if one of us does not appear, the others may choose to return to check on us once at the appointed day and time, but if we miss our scheduled round twice, agents know the chain is broken. To them, so long missing in March, I was gone. I trust them to keep to that agreement."

"It is a good one," he said with resignation.

"It ensures we are safe, one from the other, if someone gives up information under"—she would not say torture —"duress."

Then she turned away, upset anew by knowledge she had ruined a fine network that had operated for years. "I left. I was afraid." She clutched her arms. "I am ashamed."

He was behind her in a moment, his arms, warm and strong, binding her back to him. His lips near her ear, he breathed hot, reassuring words: "Sometimes there is nothing to do but the most obvious. If you had stayed, you tempted fate."

"Vaillancourt threatened it." She sank back against Ram's oh-so-welcome comfort. "The deputy police chief is not a man of many words."

"Does he want your network? Names? Methods? Or does he seek something else?"

"Me," she said so low she doubted Ram heard her.

But he growled deep in his throat, and the arms that possessed her grew strong as iron.

"He told me he will have me. For his bed. For his reputation. For his glory. He'll make me his whore and his prisoner. I know not which would come first, but I know he wants my agents' names. The one who reports to me and the one to whom I report. He knows how we transfer information. He told me so the night he threatened me. And if I don't give him all he wants…"

Ram buried his lips in her hair and tightened his arms around her so securely that she could barely breathe. "I won't let him have you. Never."

She spun to face him and cupped his cheek. "I trust you. I have trusted so few in my life. But you, I believe."

"Thank God." He smiled, though the look had pain in it—and she knew not why.

But, she concluded, as he took her hand and led her inside and up to their bedroom, that he knew not how to cope with his issue.

As he undid the laces of her gown and performed the service of a maid and imagined husband to undo her corset, then turned his back as she stripped and donned her muslin night rail, he expressed his simple, gentlemanly devotion to her as he always did.

Yet something ate at him.

Tomorrow, she must learn. For to make him happy was a goal she now had. To do any less would be miserly when he'd given up his whole life to guard her.

In turn, she owed him much to show him her thanks.

She would have to think on what that was.