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E scape was impossible. The carriage careened through the ruts of the dirt road at a bone-shattering pace, the slope of the French countryside flashing by in a blur of green.

But the sounds of pursuit could be heard clearly.

The shouts of the soldiers and the thunder of their horses resounded above the rattle of the coach windows, the clatter of the iron-rimmed wheels.

Within moments the carriage would be overtaken.

The four occupants of the berline realized this even before the coach began to slow.

They knew the exhausted team pulling the heavy vehicle could no longer maintain such a pace.

Late afternoon sun glinted through the windows, casting shadows upon the apprehensive faces of a slender seventeen-year-old boy and the careworn woman clutching a little girl close to her side.

When the sound of a musket shot cracked through the air, the child buried her face in her mother’s skirts.

Outside, the whipping mane of the lead soldier’s mount edged into view.

The rider hurled abuse at the coachman and the postboy, then bellowed out a command to halt.

Madame Coterin’s arms tightened about little Sophie and she exchanged a frightened glance with her son, Phillipe.

Both of them looked instinctively toward their companion, who was seated upon the leather seat opposite—a tall woman garbed in a high-waisted gown of black silk, her features obscured by a veil.

Even though her expression was masked, Isabelle Varens conveyed to the Coterin family an appearance of calm and collected wits.

“It will be all right,” she said in unmistakably English accents, her voice as cool and silvery as a clear mountain stream. “The important thing is to allow me to do the talking and not to panic.”

Isabelle reached with seeming casualness for a miniver muff stowed beside her upon the seat.

Only she knew with what tension her fingers crooked around the pearly handle of the pistol strapped within the fur’s depths.

The familiar rush that she always felt at the scent of danger coursed through her: part fear and part exhilaration at the thought of confronting the enemy, besting him.

Another shot rang out and the coach lurched to a stop, which nearly tumbled them all from their seats.

The French soldiers surrounded the berline in a swirl of dust and bluecoats, sweating horses and glinting sabers.

Belle could hear the postboy’s terrified cry.

One of the militia cursed her coachman, and Feydeau answered back with Gallic fervor.

Young Phillipe shifted his brown frock coat and groped for the hilt of his sword.

Stretching out her hand, Belle stayed him with a warning shake of her head just as the coach door was wrenched open.

The beefy shoulders of a soldier filled the opening, the sword he brandished forcing Belle back against the faded velvet squabs.

“Be still,” he growled. “Don’t any of you make any sudden moves.”

Madame Coterin shrank deeper into her corner, her sobs mingling with her daughter’s. Phillipe’s face paled. Using his thin frame, he attempted to shield his mother and sister.

“What seems to be the trouble, monsieur?” Belle asked. Her voice sounded slow and even, completely out of tempo with the quickening of her blood. She undid the leather strap that held the pistol and readjusted the muff so that she could level her unseen weapon at the man’s stomach.

“The trouble is, my fine lady, Sergeant Emile Lefranc does not take kindly to having his orders disobeyed.” The soldier puffed out his chest and thumped it with his fist. “When an officer of the Elboeuf militia demands a carriage draw rein, that command had best be obeyed double quick.”

“What right have you—” Phillipe managed to choke out before Belle cut him off.

“Indeed, sir, we intended no disrespect.” Behind the curtain of her veil, she assessed the burly man, resplendent in his royal-blue coat with scarlet facings and yellow epaulettes, the silver galoons of a sergeant upon his sleeve.

Probably recently enlisted and fiercely proud of it, likely to be overzealous, was Belle’s conclusion.

And beyond him, although she could not see to count them, Belle reckoned that the sergeant must have at least a half-dozen men at his call.

She relaxed her grip on the pistol. The threat of force was not the answer to wangling her way out of this one.

Her safety and that of the Coterins would depend entirely on her wits.

She was not even sure as yet what these soldiers wanted.

Playing for time, she pretended to shudder “Surely, sir, you can have no reason for terrifying innocent women and children.”

She noted Phillipe stiffened with indignation, but any gallant action he might be contemplating was hindered by his mother, who now clung to him as well as his little sister.

The sergeant’s sword wavered as he retrieved a crumpled sheet of parchment from his pocket and flashed it at her with an air of swaggering importance. “My orders are to stop any suspicious-looking vehicle and search it.”

Belle tried to read the document, but glimpsed little beyond the date before the sergeant snatched it back. Fructidor, the Year XI or, Belle thought, September 1802 to the sane world outside of revolutionary France.

“We shall be only too happy to cooperate,” Belle said in her sweetest tones.

With slow deliberation she raised her veil.

The sergeant froze, his eyes widening, his lips nearly pursing into an appreciative whistle.

Belle had no difficulty imagining what he was seeing: the eyes, melting blue, seductive; the cheeks, high, fine-boned; the ringlets, golden, the complexion, creamy, subtly shaded with rose; the lips, carnellian, tempting.

She had oft studied her reflection in the mirror, not out of any vanity, but more in dispassionate evaluation of the beauty Fate had seen fit to bestow upon her, a weapon that could prove more effective than the pistol she carried.

The sergeant had already forgotten himself enough to lower his sword. His manner was somewhat less blustering as he said, “Forgive me, madame. But I must ask to see your passport.”

“Certainly,” she murmured. As Belle withdrew the paper from the purse tied to the belt of her gown, Madame Coterin sucked in her breath, but the sergeant took no notice. His eyes remained fixed upon Belle. She forced herself to remain unperturbed as she handed over the passport.

The sergeant unfolded the paper. Stroking his chin, he made great show of examining the document. As the seconds ticked by, Phillipe drummed his fingers upon his knee. Belle sought to give him a reassuring smile. After all, the passport was one of the best forgeries English pound notes could buy.

But her own anxiety heightened when the sergeant stepped back and summoned one of his men. The two soldiers drew a few steps from the coach, their heads together in earnest consultation.

“ Mon dieu ,” Madame Coterin wept. “They know! They have discovered?—”

“Hush!” Belle whispered. Her neck muscles tensed as she strained to hear.

“Madame Gordon, sir,” the second soldier was saying, “traveling with her daughter and two servants.”

“Oh. Oh, of course.” The sergeant harumphed, then muttered something about the sun having been in his eyes.

Belle stifled an urge to laugh as she realized what had been wrong. “Nothing is amiss,” she whispered to Phillipe and his mother. “Only that the sergeant cannot read.”

But they had no chance to relax before the sergeant returned to the coach door. “You are Madame Gordon?” he asked, his eyes making a more thorough inspection of Belle, lingering on the bodice of her gown.

“That is so, sir,” Belle lied.

“An English lady traveling alone?” His voice held a faint note of censure.

“Alas, sir, I am recently widowed. Since your great general Napoleon has been so gracious as to declare a peace between our two nations, I thought to visit France as so many of my countrymen are doing. In the gaiety of Paris, I might forget the good husband I have lost.”

“But you are heading away from Paris, madame.”

“True.” Belle permitted her gaze to rake over the sergeant’s bulky form with just the right combination of shyness and bold admiration. “I have done enough forgetting.”

The sergeant’s cheeks waxed red. He returned the passport, removed his cockaded hat, attempted to smooth his coarse windblown hair, then straightened the hat upon his head again.

While he was so flustered, Belle pressed home her advantage.

Resting her hand upon his sleeve, she looked him full in the face and coaxed, “Perhaps, Capitain?—”

“Sergeant, madame. Sergeant Lefranc of the Elboeuf militia.”

“My dear Sergeant Lefranc, perhaps if you would tell me exactly what you are searching for, I could be of some help to you.”

The sergeant’s arm quivered beneath her touch. “Deserters, madame. Deserters from the army.”

Deserters? Not a certain royalist spy who most often went by the name of Isabelle Varens? Not the family of the Chevalier Coterin, the agent recently caught pilfering Consul Napoleon Bonaparte’s private dispatches?

Phillipe gave an audible sigh, and if Sergeant Lefranc had been gazing at Madame Coterin, he would have seen the relief she could not disguise. But the soldier’s stare never wavered from Belle, and she schooled her features most carefully.

“Dear me!” she said. “Deserters! How very dreadful.”

“Indeed it is, madame. But you would be astonished at how oft the country folk protect such rogues. That is why we need to stop every coach to be certain no one is hiding them.”

“As if I would do such a thing.” Belle heaved a tremulous breath. The sergeant’s interested gaze followed the rise and fall of her breasts. “I despise such cowards who slink away, leaving brave men like you to face all the danger.”