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aunt,
she is not well. I must get her to a doctor in...in Calais."
    His stare did not leave her face. "You seem
uncertain of your destination."
    She started to frown at him, caught herself,
and lowered her lashes instead. "Yes, I am so stupid about such
things. That is why our driver knows the direction. And I must get
my aunt there at once." She looked up, striving for a stricken
look. Only she was not much of an actress. She had barely muddled
through being Juliet in her aunt's house party last year when they
had done Shakespeare's tragedy. This looked to have an equally sad
end.
    "We fear it is consumption," she said, her
voice low.
    A few soldiers shuffled away, putting their
hands to their mouths, left uneasy by an illness that had no cure
and left one coughing up blood and slowly wasting.
    The captain, however, only glanced at
Diana's aunt, his face expressionless. He looked back at Diana, his
stare steady. For a moment, the torchlight shifted and she caught a
glimpse of his eyes. Brown eyes—a mix of warm and dark. Shrewd
intelligence flashed in the depths.
    He knew the truth.
    The color drained from her
face, leaving her skin colder than the raw spring night
warranted. How did he know they were
English? Had he guessed? Or had she given
them away somehow by overplaying her role?
    Heart beating fast, she met
his stare, her eyes wide and the truth now in her mind, willing him
to understand. We just want to go home. We
are no harm to anyone.
    It seemed forever that he stared at her, his
dark eyes again shadowed, his stern features revealing nothing of
his thoughts. The pulse pounded sluggish in Diana's throat. Once.
Twice. Three times. She counted each beat. Would he arrest them
now?
    Turning sharp, he faced the man who had
ordered them from the coach, a short, lean man with pox scars on
his cheeks. "The man we want is not here—pack the mademoiselle's
and the madam's trunks. They are to go on their way at once."
    Glancing at her aunt, Diana
let out a long breath. Her aunt seemed to have caught enough of
what was said to have grasped that they were to go. Aller.
    Diana turned to the captain
again. "Thank you," she said, putting all the feeling she could
into the words. " Merci
beaucoup. "
    His mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles,
and she realized he had an attractive face—and an even more
attractive mouth, with a full lower lip.
    She smiled back.
    His face hardened again as he said, his
voice pitched only for her and her aunt, "You may find it best for
your aunt's health to take her further than Calais. I urge a sea
voyage. France is not the place for two ladies who have no
protection beyond their own reckless courage."
    Stiffening, Diana started to deny they had
ever been reckless about anything, but her aunt squeezed her arm
tight, silencing her.
    He turned away, all brusque military bearing
as he barked orders to his men, sending some scurrying into the
darkness while the rest finished a hasty repacking of the ruined
clothes.
    Diana glanced around, her brows pulled tight
and an odd hollowness in her. An easing perhaps of the tension of a
moment ago? Yes, partly that, she knew. But his remark had stung—he
could have at least acknowledges her thanks!
    Well, she would be glad that he had allowed
them to leave, even though he seemed to suspect they were not
French. But considering what he had said about their carriage not
holding the man they wanted, perhaps the captain's gallantry was
nothing more than a desire not to be distracted from his duty by
mere women.
    That rankled even more.
    With her chemise, her aunt's jewel box as
well as her aunt's arm, she turned slowly, as if with a care for
her aunt's health. Diana led her aunt back to the coach, leaning
close to whisper in English, "I think he knows—"
    Her aunt interrupted, her tone sharp and her
French halting. "Hush—not here."
    Diana nodded, her cheeks hot. She did not
seem to be very good at this pretending, and that endangered them
all.
    At the coach,