The Spy's Reward by Nita Abrams Page B

moonlight ride tonight.”
    â€œSeñor, I can ride!”
    â€œDon’t be absurd. I won’t go very far; I know my limits.”
    â€œYou can go tomorrow, during the day, while the ladies are resting.”
    â€œNow that would be inconspicuous,” Meyer said dryly. “An eight-hour absence.” He looked around the empty parlor, frowning. “Do you think perhaps I should exchange rooms with Mrs. Hart and her daughter? We could have a bed made up for you out here. I would be a bit easier in my mind if they were not sleeping in a room which opened directly onto the hallway.”
    â€œAn excellent notion, señor.” Rodrigo looked considerably more cheerful.
    â€œOh,” said Meyer, “I almost forgot. You owe me five francs.”

8
    Meyer climbed slowly up the stairs of the inn, hoping there was coffee. He had been so exhausted when Rodrigo came out to the stable to help him unsaddle his horse he had not been able to absorb half of what he had been told. As he unlocked the door to the parlor, his nose answered the question: yes. There was a pot, still warm, waiting on the table. He silently blessed his longtime servant and swallowed a cup in three gulps, still standing; he was afraid that if he sat down he would have considerable difficulty in getting up.
    He had found the journey back towards Digne exhausting and uncomfortable, but not otherwise difficult. He was not the only one on the road, however. Riders were still galloping north, some singly, some in groups. Where possible Meyer had withdrawn into the woods at the first sound of another horse. He had regretted that choice when he reached Malijai. There he had learned that one of the men he had avoided was none other than Embry, Napoleon’s physician. Digne’s royalist militia had stopped and searched Embry earlier in the day, and had thrown him into prison when he proved to be carrying messages to Napoleon’s supporters in Grenoble. Unfortunately, Digne’s municipal jailer was not as vigilant as the militia. Embry had escaped, and was now once again on his way north to prepare the way for his master. This was indisputable proof Napoleon had chosen the mountain route; Meyer had judged such a choice piece of news worth a pigeon from his precious little flock and had ridden back to Sisteron without bothering to cast any farther south for more information.
    What time was it? He pulled out his watch. Nearly six. He could manage four or even five hours’ sleep, since they were not traveling today. Perhaps he should plead some slight indisposition, spend the whole day in bed. It was very likely Rodrigo would not be fit to ride tonight either. He rubbed his unshaven jaw, yawned, and opened the door to his room.
    It was not his room. Too late he recalled that he himself had proposed the switch. And although he had been very quiet, he could not simply close the door and leave, because Abigail Hart was sitting by a low fire, very wide awake, looking straight at him. She was wearing a dressing gown over her nightgown, and a shawl over that, and was in every way save one far more modestly covered than she had been yesterday evening in the parlor. The exception was her hair. It fell over her shoulders in a thick braid, glinting here and there as flickers of light from the fireplace ran across it.
    She always wore caps, of course—and they were not token wisps of lace. He had never seen anything more of her hair than a scant half inch at the edge of her temples. Now he stood staring, in a kind of daze, noting that it was in fact many different colors: brown and light brown and dark gold and pale blond, each strand different, like the variegated wood of some exotic tree. It was long—nearly to her waist. She had not even made the token concession to fashion of cutting a few locks short in the front to curl around her face. Instead the brown-gold bands framed her wide forehead, flowing back and down into the braid