He chuckled weakly. “You’re a terrible person even when you aren’t, did you know that?”
“I have several terrible people to be, within me, when I need them.” Twigs scratched her annoyingly as she stretched. “What does he look like? I have not seen him, you know.”
“Skin like shoe leather. Wide across the shoulders. Big barrel of a chest…”
“Not Doyle, as you understand quite well. I have seen Monsieur Doyle several times in Vienna when we were with great attention not noticing each other. What does Grey look like?”
“He is the Head of Section for the British Intelligence Service. He is not for you, my child.”
“Bien sûr. I am also, you understand, not for him. But I would still like to know what he looks like.”
“Tall and battered around some. Not handsome.” That was all he had to say.
“I hope you are more eloquent in reporting to your superiors, for of a certainty I am no wiser than I was three minutes ago.” She grimaced toward the unseen ceiling. “Which was doubtless your intention. You are right, though. It does not matter.”
There was no picture of Grey in her mind. He was strong arms to harbor in and broad hands with calloused palms that had touched her everywhere. He was sternness and great certainty in deciding what must be done, so much certainty that the air around him was charged with it. He was the cleverest of spymasters, frightening when he was one’s enemy. He was the smell of clean soap and a roughness of his chin when he had not shaved for several hours. Those things, and a voice speaking the French of Toulouse, were all she had. Strange to know so much about him and not to know what he looked like.
Adrian said, “Have you fallen in love with Grey? That wasn’t wise of you.”
Sometimes, she was not wise. There were many people who could have told him this.
He said, “You aren’t going to deny it, are you? Not to your twin.”
She listened to the fire for a while. “When one says, ‘I will not let myself feel anything for that man,’ it is already too late.”
“Why, Annique?”
“I do not think such stupidity can have a reason.” She had most assuredly been stupid. “To love…it is a great madness for those in our profession.”
“You’re right about that.” He shifted again, uncomfortably. “It was a woman who put that bullet in me. Did you know?”
“One cannot tell from looking at the wound, as it happens.”
“A remarkable girl. Something like you, in a way. A great player in the Game.”
“You should still not let her shoot holes in you. You are also very good at this Game you play.”
“We’re all daunting as demons. Did Grey get to you yet, or are you still a virgin?”
She should not have been surprised. There was nothing this one would not say. “You make numberless assumptions, many of them wrong.”
“I don’t think so. Has he?”
“Has no one told you that you are nosy beyond belief?”
“You don’t have to answer.”
“But you will speculate upon this endlessly, whatever I say or do not say. And you will do it aloud. There is no shame in you, Adrian.”
“None.” She heard the smile in his voice.
She sighed. “Tiens. Your Monsieur Grey has done nothing at all to me, except that kiss which you saw, and perhaps some other careless bagatelles in these last few days, which I do not remember very well. It does not matter much, one way or the other, whether one has performed that particular act or not…And you may stop your foolish laughing, which will only make your shoulder ache.”
“If Grey doesn’t hurry up and take you to bed, I swear I will. You should find out what you’ve missed.”
“Very little, I suspect. This business of man and woman is not a club with secret passwords. Me, I know all there is to know of these things and—”
“That’s what I thought. You’ve done nothing. Grey is six or seven kinds of a fool.”
“This is a very indelicate conversation, and I do not believe I will have it with you any longer.”
“If you get the chance, make love to him. He’s not a master of the art, like me, but—”
“You may keep watch, you, in a more serious manner. And do not pander. It is unbecoming.” She pulled the cloak up so it covered him more securely.
“I’m warm enough.”
“Then you shall stay so. I am glad I did not make love to Grey. He annihilates any common sense I have, which is disturbing to me as a Frenchwoman, for we are a logical race. I am more a Frenchwoman than a spy. Did I tell you I am decided to retire from spying?”
“Really? Governments all over Europe breathe a sigh of relief. Will you do it any time soon?”
“The moment I deliver you to safety and perform one small final task I have set myself, I shall slip away to become obscure and harmless as a dormouse. Probably in your own England. It is a big place, according to the maps. I do not think your Service will find me.”
“It’s hard for a blind woman to hide.” He was warning her. Always, just an inch beyond their conversation, hovered the uncomfortable truth—that they were enemies.
“I shall manage. When we leave here, I shall take you to my smuggler friend up the coast, if he is not in prison again. He can be trusted utterly. We are here in his very domain, which is most fortunate for us. I do not think we could travel far, we two.”
“You know where we are.” He was amused.
“If this is the monastery of St. Honoré, I do. I hold many good maps within my head, little brother. It is a talent of mine. Also, I know the coast here well. When I was a child, we came to visit just this smuggler. He is an Englishman like you. One of my mother’s lovers. I have a picture of Englishmen not quite accurate, perhaps, from having met only spies and smugglers in my—”
A sound that was not wind or the fall of rain or the faint rumble of the surf slipped into the pattern of the night. A distant pounding. She stopped talking instantly.
Horses. They came from the direction of the coast. In a single surge of motion, Adrian was up, kicking the fire apart, smothering it.
The beat of hooves grew louder and slowed. The riders turned aside, coming into the monastery.
“It is better if we go separately,” she whispered. I will be his death. Adrian must abandon me and run. “You will go first. Out the back. I have cleared an escape route as far as the wall.”
“Of course. An escape route. In between picking apples, you cleared an escape route. I’d expect no less.” Laughter rippled in his voice. For Adrian, disaster would always be a game.
The monastery courtyard filled with clatter and men talking between themselves. They had come to search the buildings. The metallic scrape beside her said Adrian had gathered up the pistol and was checking it. Then came a small miscellany of sounds as he rooted through his bag. His knives would be finding their way to their accustomed spots about his person. One, in a sheath, landed in her lap.
“Take that and put it away,” he said. “This is what we’re going to do—”
“We will run. You go through the garden. I will—”
“Shut up, Cub, and listen. I leave first. I’m going to take these Frenchmen for a stroll in the woods. No telling what accidents might befall them there.” He could have been talking of a pleasant evening’s entertainment—stopping at a café, then on to the theater. “You, ma petite, will keep your head down and stay put till they’ve gone after me.”
If he walked silently into the rain, he would be safe. Instead, he would lead the hunters away from her. “Do not—”
“Money.” He snaked a smooth, cool purse into her bodice, between her breasts. “Buy something pretty. When you get to England…” He was fitting his boots on, fast. “…forget about hiding. Go to the British Service and turn yourself in. They’ll make a deal with you for the Albion plans. And they’ll keep you safe from Leblanc.”
“I will not, of course.”
“Listen carefully. In London, go to Number Seven Meeks Street, not far from Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Meeks Street, off Braddy. Remember that.”