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What, precisely, did one say to a former ballerina who had learned horsemanship in a circus and was apparently distressed by the fact? A man trained to enter hostile cities under false names ought to have a useful sentence. None presented itself.

He reviewed his available tools. Information—not applicable. Tactical reassurance—she would see through it immediately and be insulted. Charm—she was not, at this precise moment, in the market for charm.

Well, then… he was wholly unarmed. He considered retreat. It would be the clean solution. She would recover. They always did.

Rodrick continued down the path.

She heard him before he reached the wall and turned. Her eyes were red, the eyes of a woman who had been crying and was prepared to dispute the evidence. Something tightened under Rodrick's breastbone. He disliked it immediately.

"In the future, you might consider not revealing personal details that make you embarrassed." And tearful, but he didn't say that aloud.

Her shoulders sagged. "Simple as that?"

"It has served me remarkably well. If a weakness cannot be corrected, you should deny the enemy access to it."

Louise gave him a tired look. Still, she didn't seem comforted, which was mildly perplexing. He exhaled through his nose. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before the advice caught on. He waited a few moments, and when the brooding continued, he climbed onto the wall beside her, leaving enough space between them to respect the prohibition against contact.

This was new. Sitting beside a woman with no immediate advantage to be gained. Offering… what, exactly? Reassurance? Perspective? He could not quite name it, which already made it suspect. But she did not send him away. Progress at last.

"I am told that some people find it useful to speak of such things." He glanced at her briefly, then turned back to the landscape. "You may try it. This once."

"I'm not embarrassed by anything," she said, and her fingers dug into the rock.

"If you must know, you rode magnificently. The fact that you learned it in a bad season for ballet does not alter the results."

She closed her eyes. The wind caressed her face, brushing some stray curls from her forehead. "He would not see it that way."

Rodrick did not ask who. He knew who.

She looked north, at the pale line cutting through the valley. He followed her gaze and thought of the man with a daughter who could vault onto a seventeen-hand stallion.

"If Bonaparte saw you ride today and failed to be proud, the deficiency would be his."

"Of a daughter who learned to ride in a circus?" She made a sound that was not quite a laugh. "He would take me for a jester."

"Then he would be a fool."

Her eyes went wide, as though she had forgotten to guard them. The line of her mouth softened, parted, then stayed that way.

He had seen her like this before in the warehouse and in the cabin on the ship. A little girl longing for her father.

Rodrick cleared his throat and lifted his hand toward her knee, but stopped before touching her.

You don't touch me anymore.

He lowered it to the stone between them instead. She looked at his hand, and then at his face.

He pulled away slowly. "You have spent half your life becoming remarkable without him. You cannot now decide none of it counts because—"

She caught his neckcloth and yanked. The linen tightened against his throat. Rodrick pitched toward her with a startled grunt. Louise met him halfway.

Her mouth struck his. The assault drove his breath back into his lungs, and he braced both hands against the edge of the wall to keep from toppling backward. Stone scraped his palms. Her nose bumped his, and her teeth caught his lower lip.

Christ.

She drew back half an inch, breath warm against his mouth. This was an excellent opportunity to restore order.

Her mouth opened, and her tongue slipped uncertainly between his lips, and every useful thought deserted him. If his cock had previously displayed alarming Bonapartist sympathies, it had now thrown on a tricolor cockade and begun marching on Paris.