Joanna Bourne - The Black Hawk

“It is no honor to France to pursue one of the Cachés, after so many years.” She shrugged angrily. “We did not behave well toward them.”

If Pax didn’t have the French after him, that was better odds. Doyle would say—

Doyle had trained both of them. Him and Pax. He’d have to tell Doyle . . .

“We French speak always of love, but friendship is harder. Incomparably harder. Take your coat off and come help me.”

She wanted help with chairs. The tables, each with a chessboard built into the top, stood in an orderly line. Long padded benches went down one side. Chairs on the other.

“Over there.” She pointed.

Fine. He moved chairs. They were rush seats and slat, light to handle. Chess players didn’t need a lot of creature comforts. He took them two at a time to the front.

“Now the tables.” She’d already picked one up.

They fitted tables against the wall. When that was done, she put her hand on his arm and stopped him. “I did not know about Paxton.”

“I believe you.”

“It was . . .” Her eyes were intense on him, searching his face. “You know it was inevitable that we should plant one or two Cachés in your midst. Le bon Dieu alone knows how many agents you have inserted into the Police Secrète.”

“Don’t ask me.”

“I will not. I will say this also, mon ami.” She looked upon the crowded furniture. “I do not know every agent we French keep in England, but I do not think Pax is ours. I think he is loyal to you English.”

“Probably.”

“Will you have to kill him anyway?”

“Most likely.”

She said quietly, “You, yourself?”

“Not with these.” He lifted his hands. “I’m just going to give him to the men who will kill him. I’ll do it about five hours from now.”

Light and fast, she touched his left hand and his right where he held them out. “I see. I see most clearly. It is damnable. Let us finish this.”

Finish. Why were they moving tables? Seemed like they were going to shift one of the benches now.

She said, “He has money? Paxton.”

“A good bit. All of mine, plus everything I took this morning. And a couple of watches and the ring.”

“That will make good bribes. I try always to bribe with jewelry. It makes men secretive. Take the other end of this. It is heavy, is it not? This is very sturdy furniture in this café.”

Owl pointed to where she wanted it relocated. Fine. Just fine.

She said, “The hour before dawn is a good time to steal horses. One might be twenty miles away from Paris by noon. Now. You back up. Yes. That is right.”

They walked the bench a ways. Set it down next to the other one.

“He will be disguised by now. He is a very good agent if he has your respect, as I think he does. Push this closer.” She straightened and wiped the palms of her hands on her skirt. “That is good.” The benches, side by side, close together, pleased her. “I will get my cloak. It is in the storage room.”

When she came back, she brought the lantern and her cloak. She began removing bits and pieces from her cloak and setting them out on the table. A pouch of coins. A knife. Her little pistol. A box for bullets and powder.

“He is a good agent, your Paxton?”

He cleared his throat. “Very good. The best. Good as I am.”

She shook the cloak, testing to see whether anything fell out, and tossed it across the two benches.

“He has money and knowledge of the countryside and five hours’ head start. ’Awker, you and I have run from armies of Austrians with far less than that.”

The light stood on the table between the two of them. The dark was all around. Quiet. Intimate.

She said, “Tomorrow, you will go to your headquarters and betray an old friendship. Then you will argue for his life. You will bargain and find allies and you will keep him alive. I have faith in you.”

She stood before him and picked at the knot in his cravat. He was wearing just a turn around the neck and a square knot in front. Simple. The kind of neckcloth a chess fanatic might wear.

She tugged it loose, pulled the length away, and dropped it.

He saw what he should have seen a while back. “You’ve made a bed.”

“For us.”

THE BLACK EMPTINESS WAS NOT GONE FROM HAWKER’S eyes, not entirely, but it had receded. He no longer despaired.

If he were not so focused upon the horrible duty he must do, he would see that Pax’s situation was not hopeless. Pax had many friends in the British Service, Hawker not the least of them. Hawker would make the most formidable and wily of allies. There were ways and ways of fighting the masters of the great spy organizations for the life of an agent.

Later, they would discuss strategies. Right now, he needed her.

“It will not be a comfortable bed, mon vieux. But it will suffice.” A plain gilt brooch, suitable to a maidservant, held her fichu in place. She loosed it and laid it upon the table.

“Why are we doing this?” He was slow upon the buttons of his waistcoat, not taking his eyes off her. “Remind me.”

Because you are in such pain it tears at my heart—you who do not allow yourself to be hurt by the world. You, who are so armored by your sarcasm and your wit. Because you are my friend. I could turn aside from a mere lover, but not from you. “It is one last time.”

“It’s always been one last time. Every time. We lead dangerous lives.”

He was a man of deft and dexterous hands, yet he was awkward with the simple task of removing his waistcoat. The button of his collar also eluded him.

“We will not play games, you and I. Let me.” She slipped the button of his collar free.

“They can see in through the window, if anyone comes by.”

“We are hidden well enough by the back of this bench. I will blow the lantern out in a moment. Then I will seduce you for a while.”

“Unnecessary.” He laughed a little. “Why, Owl? Why’d you change your mind?”

This was the Hawker she knew, asking such questions. Awake and alive behind his eyes. Tough, cynical, unsentimental. The lover who was hard stone and hungry fire.

“We are friends.”

“I don’t need to bounce the mattress with my friends. Neither do you.”

She told him a little more. “I am afraid.”

Hawker’s knives dropped to the table beside her gun, convenient in case there was need of them. He began to unstrap the sheaths. “Afraid of what?”

“I am overwhelmed by a knowledge of mortality tonight. We dance upon the edge of the abyss, and tonight, I cannot stop myself from looking down.”

“Damn. You’re being philosophical. That’s a mistake.”

They were both thinking of the agent Paxton, in the dark, alone, running through the streets of Paris. If worse came to worst, all his strength and skill would not save him from death.

She said, “I am a fool to lie with you. It is disaster upon disaster if we are caught. This morning, I was resolved to set you aside and be wise. It seems I am not that wise.”

Hawker disentangled himself from the last knife harness. He pulled his shirt over his head. He wore a silver chain around his neck with a medal of Saint Christopher upon it. A gift from Séverine. She had received the twin to it.

His bare chest made cogent arguments up and down her nerves. It always did. But tonight, when she looked upon him, she knew that even Hawker could die. This perfect machinery of his body, this warm muscle and bone that contained him, was not invulnerable.

“I will not be prudent,” she whispered. “Death comes to us all. I will not go to meet it with small, cautious steps.”

“You’re not going to die.” Hawker leaned over and blew out the lantern. “You stop thinking that. There is just a myriad of things it doesn’t do any good to let into your head. That’s the first of them.”

“I cannot help it. I have seen your Paxton fall so quickly, so completely.” The darkness was not absolute. She could see his outline. See the shape of his features. In some ways, it was easier to talk when she could not see him clearly. “I feel disaster flapping over us like a great bird. If Napoleon dies at the hands of an Englishman, we will be at war in a week. You and I will meet on opposite sides of a battlefield one day. It is not impossible we will be forced to—”

“Hey.” He took her hand and lifted it. Turned it. Kissed the palm. “Not tonight. Forget that for tonight.”

Such thin skin lay at the cup of the hand. The little touch there, and she was struck with heat between her legs. She glowed there. Ached there.

He kissed her palm again and closed her hand over it and held her hand in both of his. “Take that. Put it away and save it for later.”

He was dim and colorless. Speaking to him was like speaking to the night itself.

“I am too fond of you,” she said.

“The complaint of women from one side of Europe to another. Come to bed, love.” She knew that in the dark he gave an Adrian smile. A Hawker smile. Challenge. Madness. A promise of earthly delights. An elegant depravity.

She left her shoes behind on the floor, untied her garters as she walked and let her stockings drop, pulled her skirt up, and crawled beside him.

“Lie down. I want to . . . Ah. That’s good.” His lips sucked three, four, five kisses at her throat. “Did I ever tell you your skin cools off when you sleep? You’re like silk. Cool when you touch it.”

“You may compare me to silk all night long.”

He threaded her hair back from her forehead, bit by bit, then kissed there too. He was in no hurry. Hawker was never in a hurry, not even when she buzzed and twitched with wanting him.