He leaned over her and she sank into him, reaching down to his trousers with one hand to fumble at unfamiliar catches. He groaned softly as she caressed him. Then his jacket was on the floor, his bow tie dangling, his trousers loose. A shocking sense of urgency filled her.
Hours passed. They were both naked now: She lay with her back to Roland, his arms curled protectively around her. This is unexpected, she thought dizzily. A little tremor surged through her. Wow. Well, her plan had worked: pull him into bed and annoy the hell out of Angbard by being a loose cannon. Except that wasn’t how it had turned out. She liked Roland a lot, and that wasn’t in the script.
“This is so wrong,” he mumbled into her hair.
She tensed. “What is?” she asked.
“Your uncle. He’ll kill me if he suspects.”
“He’ll-” Her blood ran cold for a moment. “You’re sure?”
“You’re immune,” he said in a tone of forced calm. “You’ve got huge leverage, and he doesn’t have specific plans for you. I’m meant to marry Olga, though, and that’s an end of it. Open defiance is bad. He’s probably been planning the marriage for years.”
“Surely I’m an, uh, acceptable substitute?” she asked, surprising herself. It hadn’t been in the plan when she came upstairs, unless her subconscious had been working overtime on strategies for spiking Angbard’s plans.
“That’s not the point. It’s not just about producing offspring with the ability, you know? You’re about the most unsuitable replacement for Olga it’s possible to imagine. Making me marry Olga would buy Angbard influence with her father’s braid and tie me down with a family. But an alliance with you wouldn’t do that-in fact, he’d risk losing influence over both of us, to no gain for himself.” He paused for breath. “Aside from marrying out, one of the council’s worst fears is fragmentation-world-walkers leaving and setting up as rivals. We’re both classic fragmentation risks, disaffected rebellious adults with independent backgrounds. My plans… reform has to come from within or it’s seen as a threat. That’s why I was hoping he might still be listening to me. There’s nothing personal about Clan alliances, Miriam. Even if Angbard the kindly uncle wanted to let you and me stay together, Angbard the duke would be seen as weak by the council, which would open him up to challenge… he can’t take that risk, he’d have to split us up.”
“I didn’t know about the competition angle,” she murmured. “What a mess.” I don’t want to think about it.
“This is a-it isn’t a… a one-night stand?” he asked.
“I hope not.” She nuzzled back deeper into his arms. “What about you? What do you want?”
“What I want seldom has anything to do with what I get,” he said, a trifle bitterly. “Although-” he stroked her flank silently.
“We have a problem,” Miriam whispered. “Tomorrow they’re going to put me in a stagecoach with Olga and send us both to the royal court. Herself to pay respects to the king, me to be exhibited like some kind of prize cow. You’re going to be staying here, under his eye. That right?”
She felt his nod: It sent a shiver through her spine. “It’s a test,” he murmured. “He’s testing you to see what you’re made of-also to see if your presence lures certain disaffected elements into the open.”
“We can try for a different outcome. Olga can be taken out of the picture by, well, anything.”
He tensed. “Do you mean what I think-”
“No.” She felt him relax. “I’m not going to start murdering women in order to steal their husbands.” She stifled a laugh-if it came out, it would have been more than slightly hysterical. “But we’ve got a couple of months, the whole of winter if I understand it, before anything happens. She doesn’t need to know anything. I bought a prepaid phone, right under your nose. I’ll leave you the number and try to arrange to talk to you when we’re both on the other side. Hell, the horse might even learn to sing.”
“Huh?”
“There might be a plague of smallpox. Or the crown prince might fall truly, madly, deeply in love with a shallow eighteen-year-old ditz whose one redeeming feature is that she plays the violin, getting you off the hook.”
“Right.” He sounded more certain. “I need that number.”
“Or my uncle might fall down a staircase,” she added.
“Right.” He paused.
“A thought?” she asked.
“Only this.” She felt lips touch the top of her spine. “You’d better be sneaking back to your apartment soon, because it’s three in the morning and we can’t afford to be compromised-either of us. But I want you to know one thing. Something I kept meaning to tell Janice, but never got a chance to-and now it’s too late.”
“What’s that?” she asked sleepily.
“I know this is crazy and dangerous, but I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Somehow Miriam made it back to her rooms without attracting any notice-possibly the sight of dishevelled and half-drunk maids stumbling out of an earl’s rooms and through the corridors at night was not one to arouse undue interest. She undressed and folded her clothing carelessly, stuffing cheap theatrical maid’s costume and designer gown alike into her suitcase. She freshened up in the bathroom, as much as she could without making the plumbing gurgle. Then, completely naked, she sat down in front of her laptop. Better check it before bed, she thought muzzily. Clicking on the photo utility, she spooled back through the day’s footage, back to her own exit-neatly packaged in a gray suit-en route to her appointment with the duke.
The camera was set to grab one frame per second. She fast-forwarded through it at thirty FPS, two seconds to the minute, two minutes to the hour. After ninety seconds, she saw the door open. Pausing, she backed up then single-stepped through the footage. Someone, an indistinct blur, moved from the main door to her bedroom. Then a gray blur in front of the laptop itself, then nothing. She had a vague impression of a dark suit, a man’s build. But it wasn’t Roland, and she felt a moment of fear at the realization.
But she’d gone into the bedroom safely. Nobody had tampered with her aluminium suitcase, and her chests of clothing were already stashed in the main room. So before daring to go to bed, Miriam spent a fruitless half-hour searching her bedroom from top to bottom, peering under the bed and lifting mattresses, checking behind the curtains.
Nothing. Which left a couple of disturbing possibilities in mind. Don’t try world-walking in your bedroom, she sternly warned herself, and check the computer for back doors in the morning. She packed the computer and its extras-and the gun-in her suitcase. Then she lay down and drifted into sleep disturbed by surprisingly explicit, erotic phantoms that left her aching and sore for something she couldn’t have.
She was awakened in the dim predawn light by a clattering of serving maids. “What’s going on?” she mumbled, lifting her head and wincing at her hangover. “I thought I said-”
“Duke’s orders, ma’am,” Meg apologized. “We’ve to dress you for travel.”
“Oh hell.” Miriam groaned. “He said that?”
He had. So Miriam did her waking up that morning with three other women fussing over her, haphazardly cramming her into a business suit-about the most inappropriate travel garb she could think of-and then from somewhere they produced a voluminous greatcoat that threatened her with heat stroke while she already felt like death warmed over.
“This,” she said through gritted teeth, “is excessive.”
“It’s cold outside, ma’am,” Meg said firmly. “You’ll need it before the day is out.” She held out a hat to Miriam. Miriam looked at it in disbelief, then tried to balance it on her head. “It goes like this,” said Meg, and seconds later it did. With a scarf to hold it in place, Miriam felt cut off from the world almost completely. Are they trying to hide me? she wondered, anxious about what that could mean.
They led her downstairs, with a trail of grunting porters hefting her trunks-and incongruous metal suitcase-and then out through a pair of high double doors. Meg was right. Her breath hung steaming in the air before her face. In the past week, autumn had turned wintry with the first breath of air rushing down from the Arctic. A huge black wooden coach balanced on wheels taller than Miriam stood waiting, eight horses harnessed before it. A mounting block led up to the open door, and she was startled to see the duke standing beside it, wearing a quite incongruous Burberry overcoat.
“My dear!” he greeted her. “A final word, if I may, before you depart.”
She nodded, then glanced up as the porters hoisted her trunks onto the roof and a small platform at the back of the carriage.
“You may think my sending you to court is premature,” he said quietly, “but my agents have intercepted messages about an attempt on your life. You need to leave here, and I think it best that you be among your peers.
