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Hell, he could be an ass at times.
    She ate some food before turning her attention on him again. The bruise on her face was turning ugly, but it really did not detract as much from her delicate countenance as it should. Her eyes appeared clearer than they had all day. “You are a soldier, no? An officer.”
    â€œDid Cassandra tell you that too?”
    â€œNo. It is in you, however. The way you stand, the way you ride. It is in your face and your eyes. I have seen many soldiers in my life.”
    â€œIf you mean the rabble that is now the French army, I must ask that you not insult me.”
    â€œNot all the current officers are such rabble. But I speak of the past, from when I was a girl.”
    If she had left France when a girl, how would she know who was rabble in the army now or not? “I was an officer. When I received the title, I sold out my commission. There are some peers who are army officers, but very few.”
    â€œIt is the same everywhere. The duties do not allow for this other life too, I think.”
    â€œNo.”
    She cocked her head and looked directly and deeply. “You miss it.”
    Did he? He missed the higher purpose, that was certain. Fighting to protect a nation possessed a clarity that poring over the account books of an estate never would. Or that sitting through interminable arguments in parliament, while small-minded men jockeyed to protect their own interests, could match.
    He missed other things too. The easy camaraderie of men. The simplicity of life in the field. The whites and blacks of honor and dishonor. He missed the physicality of the life and the waking at dawn.
    Mostly he missed the certainty of knowing he was doing what he had been born to do.
    â€œI miss some things. Not others.” Not the deaths, or the betrayals.
    He would be wise to remember the latter now, especially the worst betrayal, and the lessons learned from it. Foremost had been not to trust pretty Frenchwomen who can make men into fools with a smile.
    He concentrated on eating his meal, trying to ignore the lovely Frenchwoman sitting so close he could smell her. She did not carry only the scent of that alley and of blood. Musk and flowers drifted to his nose distinctly. She wore clothes that were decades old, but she also wore perfume. Probably French perfume. Probably smuggled in. Possibly it was part of her payments from whomever sent her orders, and to whom she sent rolls of documents.
    He did not have to look up from his plate to see her, they were so close. So he noticed when she set down her fork. Her pale, small hand rested on the table near the dish. A soft hand, as he knew from her touch earlier. She probably lathered creams on them at night. French creams.
    His mind began itemizing the evidence against her, stacking each detail like a stone in a wall. It did not fortify his resolve about her as much as he assumed it would. Her wounds and bruises and the role he had played today encouraged tendencies to feel protective and sympathetic. Her bright eyes and flirtatious smiles and that scent tempted him to feel other things.
    Finally the meal ended. He drank some wine and waited for her to excuse herself and retreat to the other chamber. Instead she relaxed in her chair and drank wine too, glancing over its rim at him while her lips pursed along the edge of the glass.
    â€œSo, m’sieur le vicomte, I am fed. Evening falls and I am still here, as you required. May I ask now—what are your intentions?”
    A few ignoble ones entered his mind. “I told you. I intend to see that you follow the physician’s orders and rest a few days. There may be other wounds from those blows. Internal ones.”
    â€œThat is all you want?” She favored him with one of her coquettish, worldly smiles.
    It demolished the wall in a flash.
Hell, no. I also want to take you on this table, on the floor, against the wall, on the divan, and everywhere else I can think of.
“You are