“His head is the problem. It’s very hard. A pig’s head.”
“I think you mean he’s pigheaded, stubborn. But you love him. You nearly maimed me to get to him when you though he’d drowned, remember?”
“We should all forget that. It was but an aberration. My mind was temporarily muddled at the shock of seeing him again.”
“I won’t argue with you. Tell me, did he ever mention Trixie to you?”
Zoé turned to peer at the man inquisitively. She’d yet to attempt to place this Richard person with Max, let alone with the rest of the Redgraves. She could easily have looked at him and dismissed him; just another pudgy white-haired old man. Except for his physical strength. Except for his quick, incisive mind. That second look made it easier for her to believe this man had survived on his wits more than once. “His grandmother? Yes, he did. Several times. To hear him tell it, she’s quite extraordinary.”
“She’s considerably more than simply extraordinary. I do believe the two of you should have a small talk. In fact, I’m quite certain she’ll demand it.”
“Why?”
“Because even on such short acquaintance, I dare to say you two may be very much alike. Just don’t lie to her, because she’ll know.”
“I may be an exemplary liar,” Zoé said, one ear open to the sounds from beyond the cave, but hearing nothing more than muffled voices.
“The ability to lie convincingly is only a minor talent. Eleanor of Aquitaine could have taken lessons in family intrigue from the dowager countess. You’d have to live another forty years for even the hope of being a patch on Trixie Redgrave, young lady. Only remember this, as the dowager countess goes, so go the Redgraves.”
She turned back to face the man, studying his features in the flickering light from the small torch. “Why are you telling me this? For all you know, I could use such information against Max, against all of you.”
“I’m not quite certain why. Perhaps it was the way you reached out your hand as if to touch him and then turned away before he might see you. Or it might have been the tears in your eyes that blinded you to my approach. You’ve both been quite interesting to watch these past minutes. When you stand at a distance, see only the gestures, without hearing the words? Sometimes, young lady, that’s when the heart hears more clearly than the ears ever will.”
Zoé looked at Richard levelly. “Your heart and eyes deceive you, sir. Max has no heart, and neither do I. We’re cold, fairly terrible people, intent only on survival.”
“And the game,” Richard added, raising one eyebrow. “I lived by my wits at the card tables for the majority of my life, young lady, traveling all of England and the Continent. Always in search of the next adventure. To win, yes, winning is always important, as one can become accustomed to regular meals and a dry bed. But it isn’t paramount for people like us. We’re different from most of the world, aren’t we? For people like us, it’s the thrill of the hunt, the chances you take. The risks that make your blood pump hot in your veins, always skating on the thin ice of detection and even death—and feeding off that danger. That’s what I see in you, in Max. Together, you must have been pure beauty to watch in action.”
A hundred memories came crashing unbidden into Zoé’s mind. “Yes, we were both quite good at what we did. Thank you, Richard, for reminding me,” she said simply before heading toward the end of the tunnel, eager to get out from beneath the crushing confinement of the boulders overhead. “I’d say it’s time to go meet the family.”
CHAPTER TWO
MAX LAY BACK in his bath, his injured head propped against a thick, soft length of toweling. He’d vowed never to see her again, never ask about her, never think about her. He’d willed his heart and mind to forget her.
And then, there she was. Here she is. Under his brother’s roof and his grandmother’s at least temporary protection thanks to Richard Borders, and disturbingly back in his life. Clearly not forgotten.
Zoé. Blonde, beautiful, courageous, passionate, daring, clever. Lying, cold-hearted, devious, deadly Zoé Charbonneau.
From the beginning they’d been inseparable, paired together by the Crown and sent off to the Continent. First as wary partners, then as friends, then as lovers; they’d variously played the parts of siblings, husband and wife, priest and holy sister.
They’d even been so daring as to attend one of Bonaparte’s luxurious fetes as minor Flemish royalty, Max standing guard outside Boney’s private office after midnight while Zoé rifled through the drawers of his desk. She’d committed two dispatches from his field marshals to memory and then pocketed a small crystal paperweight bearing a gold eagle, just so the man would know someone had breeched his supposed impenetrable security—yet have no idea what information had been compromised.
Max’s contribution, a week later, had been to wrap up the paperweight and post it back to Paris, even as Zoé scolded him that such an action might be considered rubbing salt into an open wound.
And then she’d laughed, and he’d laughed, and they’d made love in the hayloft of a barn just outside Marseilles.
They’d been so good together. In every way.
They’d come together in passion in more than a dozen countries, sometimes in rainy meadows, sometimes on silken sheets, at times in leisure and other times in haste, to rejoice, or to conquer unspoken fear after near disaster.
They were two. They were one. They thought alike, anticipated each other’s every move, guarded each other’s back.
How many times had Max begged her to give up the game and allow him to take her to Redgrave Manor? Where she’d be safe, where he would visit her when he could, where he wouldn’t have to worry about her.
And how many times had she told him no, she couldn’t live not knowing where he was, the dangers he faced. They’d begun together and they would finish together, only when Bonaparte accepted true terms of truce, and proved his word. Until then, with war formally declared or not, they would live out their oath to the king.
Besides, if they’d only admit it, they were having themselves the adventure of a lifetime. Existing on the edge of danger and heart-pounding tension, loving freely and fiercely, relishing each new challenge, each victory, applauding each other for their combined brilliance. Were any other two people ever so alive?
Was any one fool ever so badly hoodwinked and betrayed?
“Dozing, or fading into unconsciousness again?”
Max opened his eyes, grateful to be rescued from his thoughts. “Gideon,” he said flatly. “If you’re referring to that moment climbing the hill to the horses, I did not swoon. I stumbled.”
“And quite gracefully at that. In either event, it’s a good thing your new friend was behind you. You’ll have to tell me more about him.”
“I’ll do that, just as soon as I know more than that I woke on the beach with him looming over me with that extraordinary grin of his, as if I’d just mightily delighted him. Now, can I safely assume you’re it as far as unwanted company tonight, or is Trixie close on your heels?”
“She’s otherwise occupied, welcoming home her new husband,” Gideon said as he shifted Max’s clothing from chair to floor and sat down. “You’ve missed a lot, Max, but you can hear it all tomorrow, after Jessica and I have departed for London.”
“You have a meeting with Perceval?”
“No, not this time. In fact, we’re rather avoiding each other, the prime minster and I. He nearly had Valentine clapped in irons, a sentiment I’ve shared more than once, but that also is another story, and I won’t deny our youngest brother the delight I’m sure he’ll bathe in as he tells it. Only then should you allow Kate to corner you and tell you all about how wonderful