“No! Let me go.” She jerked away, flung herself to the far side of the bed, turned her back to him, and tucked herself tight as a hedgehog.
That was good. She wouldn’t twist up into a pretzel if she had a broken rib. “You’ve got your breath back.”
She faced the wall, taking deep breaths. “I guess we’re no longer being friendly in the dark where it doesn’t count,” he said.
No answer.
Rags of the flame-colored nightgown wrapped around her, like she lay in the middle of a shredded exotic orchid. Her hair was inky black, stark on her white skin. She hadn’t had an easy time of it lately. He could count her ribs. The shadow of old bruises marked her everywhere, a whole collection, in all stages of healing. Under the damage was a truly lovely body. Not lush, but perfectly shaped. If they’d made naked china figurines at that factory at Dresden, they’d have looked like her. Trust the French to find something this beautiful and make a spy of her.
The garrote she’d used snaked over the edge of the bed, absurdly red. That made it part of her nightgown and something he’d ordered into the room. Stupid of him.
It was twisted silk, unbreakable. An elegant and lethal weapon. If she’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead.
“One of us,” Doyle had called her. “One of the best.” Grey had her naked and battered and so weak she didn’t even brush her hair back off her face. Utterly defeated. All he’d had to do was catch her starving and exhausted and on the run from every police agent in France. And knock her half-conscious. And outweigh her by seven stone and be a trained killer. Simple, really.
She’d attacked him with forty inches of goddamned nightgown cord.
Congratulations, Robert. Another French spy routed. Splendid job. Damn, but he hated fighting women.
The quilts had scattered to the floor in their little altercation. He picked one up and pulled it across her. With that, she finally acknowledged his existence. She pulled the quilt close, up to her chin, and curled into it. “Did I hurt you?”
Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. “Did you what?”
“With the garrote. Did I hurt you? I was afraid I would kill you. It is very dangerous to attack someone with the garrote. But I had no choice, so I ventured.”
That was some mad logic for you. He sat on the bed and slipped his hand under the quilt, taking hold of her shoulder. She didn’t react. She might not have noticed. “You ventured, did you?”
“When the candlestick did not work. It was my last reserve, the garrote. I was almost certain I would not kill you, but there is always a large element of chance.”
That calm, considering voice was one of her lies. He didn’t need to see her face to know that. In her skin he could feel the fine-grained trembling that said fear, exhaustion, numbness. Shock. He’d seen this in men after battle, in prisoners under questioning. Push a man hard enough, and he becomes detached, almost uncaring. Annique had come to that place.
“The element of chance,” he prompted softly.
“I have no experience with the garrote, except one afternoon using it upon René, in Françoise’s kitchen, when he taught me. He most certainly did not fight me so horribly as you do. I suppose it was because of the good china.”
“The china would be a problem.”
“Françoise would not have been pleased if we had broken her dishes.” She pulled one hand out from under the quilt and scrubbed it across her face. “René thought I should become somewhat dangerous because I was so small. He taught me many deadly tricks, but they were never as useful as he expected.” She let out a long sigh. “I should not have attempted the garrote. I knew that, but I did not listen to myself saying so. And it was useless anyway. I was clumsy and have done nothing but enrage and hurt you.”
She hadn’t been clumsy with the garrote. She’d lost control because she wasn’t willing to kill him. “You didn’t hurt me.”
“Most likely I did, and you are being composed and manly about it. Though it is obvious I did not break your neck, which was my great fear.” The quilt wriggled as she uncurled. “I will tell you I am not sorry in the least, even if I hurt you gravely, because you should not make off with me this way. It is wholly despicable to entrap women and kidnap them with you across France and force them to wear indecent nightclothes only because you do not trust them.”
“We’re in a despicable profession.”
“I am reminded of this from time to time.” She shrugged and shifted away. “You need not hold on to me. I am entirely subdued, I assure you.”
“Docile as a lamb.” He kept his hand on the intricate scaffolding of her collarbone. Tension radiated from where his palm rested. It intrigued him, that tension. Her body was telling him secrets.
“You are the skeptic. It is your profession, of course. Still, it is sad you cannot trust such great simplicity as I offer.”
Simple? There was no end to the labyrinth inside Annique Villiers. He’d work his way through, given time. Already, he had one of her lies unraveled. He was almost sure…
He drew a finger along her shoulder and felt the shimmer of startled awareness. Nervousness danced under her skin. It was like stroking one of his brother’s new colts, a young one that hadn’t felt a man’s touch yet.
Not jaded, not hardened. Not practiced and knowledgeable. How had he managed to convince himself this was a woman used to being handled by men? Adrian said she wasn’t a whore, and Adrian was never wrong about women.
How many men, Annique? Not many, I’ll bet. Did your masters keep you unawakened so you could play the boy more convincingly? Their mistake. It left her vulnerable. Achingly, ignorantly vulnerable. He’d use that against her, sooner or later. “What the devil am I going to do with you, Annique?”
“Let me go?”
“No. Not that.”
“I did not think you would agree, though it would be wisest for both of us if I arose from this bed and went quietly into the night. You have no need to keep me.”
“What happened at Bruges?” He felt her skin answer. She knew. “That’s why I keep you. You might try trusting me. Better me than Leblanc.”
“I am hoping to escape you both.” She sighed. “Even now, there is a chance.”
“It’s possible. You’re skilled.” In his network of spies, he could count on his fingers the agents who matched Annique’s caliber. A spy like this was worth a cavalry division. “That’s one more reason I’m not letting you go.”
“I have known several men of your type. None of them was amenable to reason.” She sounded more and more resigned. “We come to an impasse, you and I. What will you do with me?”
“Damned if I know. Take you to England and decide there, probably. By then we’ll understand each other better.”
“I meant, what will you do with me tonight? I am eating life in very small bites these days, monsieur.”
There were men who’d push the interrogation now—badger her, keep her groggy and talking and see what she’d give away. She was so exhausted she could barely think. Keep hammering away at her, and she’d start making mistakes. Scare her enough, mix it with a little sympathy, and she might break. He’d seen it a hundred times.
Except tactics like that wouldn’t work with Annique Villiers, even if he could make himself do it.
“I won’t do anything with you tonight. I won’t tie you up, at any rate.” He ran one last brisk caress across the tangled black mane. It was the first step in seduction, getting her used to being touched. Besides, he wanted to. “Do you think you can hold off killing me till after breakfast?”
“I must rest before I try again. It is very exhausting, fighting with you.”
He laid a second quilt on top of the one she was wrapped in. It was just as well she didn’t roll over and look at him. His arousal was obvious as hell. Maybe he’d let Doyle guard her tomorrow—imperturbable, thoroughly married William Doyle. “You might as well go to sleep. Unless Vauban and the others taught you some way to kill me with a feather pillow.”