small logbook he kept regarding his activities as James's head of security.
This was how she learned that Drake had hired the majority of those black-clad guards in Paris, on behalf of James. They were a mercenary band of battle-hardened veterans of Napoleon's army, from a mixed regiment made up of men from different areas where conscripts had been demanded as the emperor's due. Most were French, but some were German, some Italian. One was Belgian.
Now they fought for hire, and the older one, Jacques, had been their sergeant.
Emily put his notes away in frustration, unsure if Drake was still the person she had known and loved since childhood or if he had resigned himself to darkness.
After all he had been through, she could not have blamed him, in a sense. But if he had started dabbling in evil, what did that mean for her, sharing this small chamber with him?
Night was already falling as she hastily put away his things after all her snooping. She lit two candles in the room, beginning to wonder if she had made a serious miscalculation in coming there.
Then her thoughts were interrupted as the low, metallic scrape of the iron door latch heralded his return.
Still unsure if he was altogether friend or foe, she was torn between relief and trepidation when the door opened and he came in, tall, dark, and dangerous.
Much too dangerous if he had ill intent.
He did not smile at her as he closed the door behind him, carrying a tray of food with a covered dish and a tankard of ale. When his glance flicked over her with a startled smolder in his eyes, she folded her arms across her chest nervously.
Keeping her distance, she watched him cross to the chest of drawers, where he set down the tray.
"What's that?" she asked, following him at a wary distance.
"Your supper."
"Oh. That's all for me?" She offered a cautious smile. "What about you?"
"I ate already in the Guards' Hall."
"Oh." She ventured over to him by the chest of drawers, peering into the pewter tankard of good German ale he had brought her, then peeking under the lid keeping her plate warm. "It smells good."
She suddenly noticed him eyeing her chest. She stepped back, wide-eyed, clutching the white linen shirt against her throat.
He sent her an idle frown. "You took my last clean shirt."
"Oh. Right." She realized in nervous relief that he wasn't staring at her body. He was only staring at the shirt. "Sorry. It was all that I could find. I-I'll give it back as soon as my clothes are dry."
He shrugged and turned away. "Don't worry about it. Looks better on you than it does on me." Then he nodded toward the tray. "Eat. You must be starved."
"I am a little hungry." As he turned away, Emily removed the lid from the plate, then glanced at him in question. "What is it?"
Drake was taking off his coat. "Bavarian cuisine," he said dryly.
She furrowed her brow, studying the unfamiliar food. The plate held a pale white sausage with a blob of mustard beside it, a little pile of pickled red cabbage, and . . . "What is that?"
"Potato dumplings," he informed her in wry amusement. "Go on, you'll like it. And if you don't, too bad. It's all we've got."
She flicked her eyebrows upward briefly at his matter-of-fact tone, but broke off a piece of the potato dumpling with her fork. "So, what have you been doing all day?"
"My job."
"What's that? Protecting James?"
He nodded, unbuckling the weapons belt slung around his lean waist.
She shook her head, feigning a casual air, when in truth she was fiercely determined to draw any scrap of information out of him she could. "I can't believe you're helping them," she remarked in an idle tone.
He just looked at her.
She put the forkful of food in her mouth.
Then he dropped his gaze dismissively, hanging his gun belt on a peg and unbuttoning his waistcoat.
Emily washed down a bite of sausage with a swallow of ale. "This is good. It was kind of you to think of me."
His insolent one-shouldered shrug feigned nonchalance, but she
This was how she learned that Drake had hired the majority of those black-clad guards in Paris, on behalf of James. They were a mercenary band of battle-hardened veterans of Napoleon's army, from a mixed regiment made up of men from different areas where conscripts had been demanded as the emperor's due. Most were French, but some were German, some Italian. One was Belgian.
Now they fought for hire, and the older one, Jacques, had been their sergeant.
Emily put his notes away in frustration, unsure if Drake was still the person she had known and loved since childhood or if he had resigned himself to darkness.
After all he had been through, she could not have blamed him, in a sense. But if he had started dabbling in evil, what did that mean for her, sharing this small chamber with him?
Night was already falling as she hastily put away his things after all her snooping. She lit two candles in the room, beginning to wonder if she had made a serious miscalculation in coming there.
Then her thoughts were interrupted as the low, metallic scrape of the iron door latch heralded his return.
Still unsure if he was altogether friend or foe, she was torn between relief and trepidation when the door opened and he came in, tall, dark, and dangerous.
Much too dangerous if he had ill intent.
He did not smile at her as he closed the door behind him, carrying a tray of food with a covered dish and a tankard of ale. When his glance flicked over her with a startled smolder in his eyes, she folded her arms across her chest nervously.
Keeping her distance, she watched him cross to the chest of drawers, where he set down the tray.
"What's that?" she asked, following him at a wary distance.
"Your supper."
"Oh. That's all for me?" She offered a cautious smile. "What about you?"
"I ate already in the Guards' Hall."
"Oh." She ventured over to him by the chest of drawers, peering into the pewter tankard of good German ale he had brought her, then peeking under the lid keeping her plate warm. "It smells good."
She suddenly noticed him eyeing her chest. She stepped back, wide-eyed, clutching the white linen shirt against her throat.
He sent her an idle frown. "You took my last clean shirt."
"Oh. Right." She realized in nervous relief that he wasn't staring at her body. He was only staring at the shirt. "Sorry. It was all that I could find. I-I'll give it back as soon as my clothes are dry."
He shrugged and turned away. "Don't worry about it. Looks better on you than it does on me." Then he nodded toward the tray. "Eat. You must be starved."
"I am a little hungry." As he turned away, Emily removed the lid from the plate, then glanced at him in question. "What is it?"
Drake was taking off his coat. "Bavarian cuisine," he said dryly.
She furrowed her brow, studying the unfamiliar food. The plate held a pale white sausage with a blob of mustard beside it, a little pile of pickled red cabbage, and . . . "What is that?"
"Potato dumplings," he informed her in wry amusement. "Go on, you'll like it. And if you don't, too bad. It's all we've got."
She flicked her eyebrows upward briefly at his matter-of-fact tone, but broke off a piece of the potato dumpling with her fork. "So, what have you been doing all day?"
"My job."
"What's that? Protecting James?"
He nodded, unbuckling the weapons belt slung around his lean waist.
She shook her head, feigning a casual air, when in truth she was fiercely determined to draw any scrap of information out of him she could. "I can't believe you're helping them," she remarked in an idle tone.
He just looked at her.
She put the forkful of food in her mouth.
Then he dropped his gaze dismissively, hanging his gun belt on a peg and unbuttoning his waistcoat.
Emily washed down a bite of sausage with a swallow of ale. "This is good. It was kind of you to think of me."
His insolent one-shouldered shrug feigned nonchalance, but she
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