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If Sinclair noticed her reaction to his closeness, he made no comment upon it. Instead, he lowered the window glass to obtain a better look, and then grumbled, “These streets are crawling with French soldiers.”

“Well, we are in France, Mr. Carrington,” she reminded him. But she took another look for herself and saw that he was right. Caught up in her own memories of Paris, she had failed to notice one very obvious change.

The Parisians still crowded into the streets as though they owned them, heedless of being crushed beneath the wheels of any passing carriage. But few of the citizens any longer sported the red caps or the tricolor cockade of the Revolution. What she now saw in abundance were indigo blue uniforms.

Soldiers swaggered their way along the Rue St. Honoré, jostling civilians out of their way, cursing, laughing, some even singing at the top of their lungs.

“More signs of Bonaparte’s influence,” Belle said.

“It gives a fellow a damned uneasy feeling. The last time I saw that much blue it was facing me from the opposite end of the battlefield.”

Despite her determination to keep her distance from Sinclair, his words intrigued her. So he had once been in the army, most likely the British.

Before she could pursue the matter further, the carriage drew to a halt before the faded brick building that housed Baptiste Renault’s fan shop.

Without waiting for the post-boy to come round, Sinclair opened the door himself and leaped to the ground.

A disgruntled look crossed his face as his glossy Hessians sank up to the ankle in mud.

“Welcome to Paris, Mr. Carrington,” she said dryly.

Grimacing, he turned to help her down. Instead of offering her his hand, he caught her about the waist and swung her clear of the coach, depositing her upon some planking that had been placed to bridge the distance from street to shop.

Momentarily she was aware of the tensile strength in Sinclair’s arms and other sensations caused by her breasts grazing against the hard wall of his chest, sensations she was quick to deny.

When their coachman whipped up the horses, moving off to seek out the stables, she glanced back the way they had come. “I don’t see any sign of the other carriage with Paulette and Lazare.”

“I am sure they will catch up with us. No fear of us managing to lose Lazare—” Sinclair broke off, giving vent to a startled oath.

Belle gasped as she saw it, too—the roan horse bearing down upon them in a blur of hard-pounding hooves and galloping legs. Paris boasted no such luxury as sidewalks. She and Sinclair had no choice but to dive to one side, slamming up hard against the brick wall of the shop.

The rider flashed past, missing them by inches, pelting them with spatters of mud churned from beneath the flying hooves.

“Damned idiot!” Sinclair straightened, staring in disgust at his sleeve, which now matched his boots. “Are you all right, Angel?”

Belle took a minute to catch her breath before nodding.

“Then let’s get inside,” Sinclair said, “before we are killed just trying to alight from our coach.”

They had mounted the first step to the shop and Sinclair was reaching for the door when they heard the now distant rider’s bellow. “Give way. Clear a path for the citoyen consul.”

Belle arrested her movement in mid-step, her gaze flying up to meet Sinclair’s.

He looked as uncertain as she, caught between anticipation and disbelief.

There was more than one man in France who held the title consul.

It would be the most incredible piece of luck if she were about to obtain her first glimpse of?—

“Bonaparte! Bonaparte!” The cry rose up from the crowded street behind her.

Whirling about, Belle saw a troop of four mounted horsemen forging a path through the throng of carts, pedestrians, and donkeys.

The first three—two wearing a profusion of gold braid on their military jackets, the third garbed in the more colorful attire of the Mamluke—acted as a vanguard for the fourth rider mounted atop a snow-white stallion.

It was this rider that the children ran alongside and cheered, while humble working women and ladies alike frantically waved their handkerchiefs, and the shouts of the men grew more frenzied.

“ Vive Napoleon! Vive la République .”

Belle caught hold of the wrought-iron railing along the steps, bracing herself for her first view of the man she had come so far to abduct, that Monster from Corsica, as her countrymen termed First Consul Napoleon Bonaparte.

Her initial reaction was one of disappointment.

Garbed in a plain gray greatcoat, he seemed of insignificant stature with a poor seat as well.

He rode his horse like a sack of grain, leaning slightly forward to maintain his balance.

When he trotted farther up the Rue St. Honoré, only yards separated her from his prancing mount.

Situated as she was, partway up the stairs, she obtained a clear but brief view of the profile set beneath the black beaver cockade.

Pale as marble, Bonaparte’s features held the fierce majesty of an eagle.

When he turned slightly to acknowledge the greetings of the crowd, she saw that his eyes burned like live coals.

As his mount surged past, she was left with an impression of boundless energy and an arrogant self-assurance.

No mean adversary would this Napoleon Bonaparte be, she surmised.

But rather than being dismayed at the thought, it sent a tingle through her blood at the prospect of the dangerous challenge before her.

She felt somehow stronger, more in control of herself than she had since experiencing the shock of Jean-Claude’s intrusion back into her life.

Even after the cheering had died away, she still quivered with excitement as she turned to face Sinclair.

She felt unreasonably delighted to sense he felt it, too.

As Sinclair stared after Bonaparte’s retreating figure, there was a spark in his green eyes, even though when he glanced down at Belle, he ruefully shook his head.

“We both have to be quite mad,” he said in low tones. “The people in this city acclaim that man like a demigod. If we are caught trying to?—”

“We won’t be caught, Sinclair,” she whispered back, clutching at his arm. “He can’t always be parading in their midst, surrounded by his entourage.”

Sinclair merely raised his brows before offering her a strangely wistful smile. “At least I can thank Monsieur Bonaparte for one thing. He appears to have jogged your memory. You finally have recalled my name. Ever since we left that blasted ship, you have Mr. Carringtoned me nigh to death.”

His half-teasing, half-serious complaint doused some of her excitement.

She slowly withdrew her hand from his arm, remembering her vow to keep a wall between them.

But at the moment she could not seem to lay her hands upon so much as a single brick.

She experienced an uncomfortable vision of her recent behavior from Sinclair’s point of view.

“Have I truly been that much of a shrew?” she asked.

“Not shrewish, merely distant, as though you had retreated to another world.”

“I am sorry. I don’t usually inflict my partners with such—such womanish moods.

” She had to swallow a large measure of pride before she could continue.

“I fear I have always been something of a fool over Jean-Claude Varens, but I assure you I have recovered myself. You won’t be treated to any more such scenes as took place in the cabin. ”

“Good God, Angel. You don’t have to apologize to me for having bad dreams.” His eyes held that expression of warm understanding, his smile soft. “I have never been one for the stiff-upper-lip attitude. When you are around me and something hurts you, feel free to go ahead and swear.”

She felt herself returning his smile and half-reached out to take his hand.

“And you don’t have to be afraid to touch me, either,” he added.

“Yes, I do. Your touch seems to have an unaccountable effect on me.”

“A bad one?”

“No, merely one I’m not prepared to deal with,” she admitted frankly. “I am taking enough risks on this mission without hazarding anymore.”

She tried to meet his gaze levelly, but looking into Sinclair’s eyes could be as dangerous as touching him. She was quick to turn the subject.

“We should hardly stand here on the steps all day. They are accustomed to more curious sights here in Paris, but I fear eventually people will begin to stare. Come inside and meet Baptiste Renault, my one true friend in Paris.”

Sinclair sketched an elaborate bow and opened the door for her, motioning her forward.

As she passed beneath the portal, he gazed down at the top of her head, the soft blond curls haloing her perfect features.

He felt as though he and Belle had at last reached some sort of an understanding, but the final line was the same. She had rejected him again.

He was not so conceited as to believe that every woman would fall at his feet. He had met with his share of rebuffs, but they had never mattered. He had simply moved on to find a more interested partie .

He could not possibly be yearning for a woman he had heard cry out in her sleep for another man, a woman who might be the very spy he had been sent to betray.

He could not be that big of a fool, could he?

Sinclair refused to answer that question, refused to examine his own feelings any further.

Like Belle, there were some risks he was not prepared to take.

Realizing that while he had been consumed with such troubling thoughts Belle had already vanished into the shop, he followed her inside, closing the door behind him.