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mistress, and his rough grip was nothing like the skillful touch which had once sent her senses spinning. Caroline did not want to look into his eyes, but she knew she must if she was to make the charade convincing. As his hands moved to the neck of her gown, she raised her head and looked him full in the face.
    His gaze was as cold and impersonal as his touch, but as she met his eyes his expression altered. His hands stilled, clenching convulsively on the fabric of her dress, and an emotion somewhere between pain and longing flickered across his face. For a moment he stared down at her. Then, very slowly, he lifted one hand and traced the line of her jaw. His fingers were rough and callused, but his touch was startlingly gentle. Caroline tilted her head, pressing her face against his hand.
    Another volley of shots, rising above the tumult in the street outside, shattered the moment. Adam jerked her to him, his hand sliding inside her gown to close on her breast. Caroline gasped at the intimacy of his touch. Then the door was flung open with a crack that sounded as if it had shattered both hinges. Her face pressed against the soft cambric of Adam's shirt, Caroline could see nothing, but she heard a coarse laugh and an exclamation in French, though the words were not anything her governess had taught her.
    "I believe it is customary," said Adam, in withering, perfectly accented French, "to knock before entering the presence of a superior officer."
    There was a sharp, astonished gasp, followed by a moment of silence and then by a cautious, questioning, "Sir?"
    "I," Adam informed the intruder, in tones that dripped with icy contempt, "am Captain St. Juste of the Lancers. May I ask who you are?"
    "Laclos, sir, of the Guard. Ah—"
    "Here now, what's the trouble?" demanded a second voice, louder, rougher, and accompanied by heavy footsteps.
    "He says he's a captain," Laclos explained. "Captain St. Juste, of the Lancers."
    "Oh, he does, does he?" The door was slammed shut, muffling the chaos in the street. "And might I ask what you happen to be doing out of uniform—sir?" the second man added in a tone which made it more an insult than an expression of respect.
    Adam's hands slid to Caroline's shoulders in a grip that was solid and strangely reassuring. "There is some military business which is best conducted out of uniform. I am sure I do not need to elaborate."
    Laclos drew in his breath, but his companion chuckled and Caroline did not find the sound pleasant. "What business would that be, Captain?" the second man inquired. "Investigating the local harlots, perhaps?"
    "Gazin," Laclos muttered, plainly uncomfortable, "perhaps we should—"
    "Shut up," Gazin barked. "Who's the wench?" he demanded, his voice suddenly sharp. "She doesn't look Spanish."
    Adam, Caroline knew, had been hoping to keep her face hidden, but now there was no help for it. "Of course not," she said in French, turning round and indicating that the very suggestion insulted her. "I am English and I was not born in such a hovel as this."
    Both the Frenchmen were taken aback. They were much as she had imagined them: Laclos no more than twenty, tall and rangy with a shock of dark hair; Gazin several years older, short and heavily built, his hair sparse but several days' growth of beard clinging to his face. Both wore patched trousers and coats of white and green, so stained and begrimed that the colors were almost indistinguishable. A battered shako sat unsteadily on Laclos's tousled hair. Gazin was bareheaded, and he held a pistol negligently in his right hand.
    It was Gazin who recovered first. "Ah," he said, with evident satisfaction. "I thought as much. What about him?" he demanded, waving the pistol in Adam's direction. "Is he English, too? If you know what's good for you, you'll tell us the truth, woman."
    "English?" Caroline laughed in disbelief. "You must be joking, m'sieur. Does he sound English?"
    "I think," said Adam, putting a possessive arm around