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fact he’d surrendered—a novel experience for him, she was sure—told her the danger did indeed nip at their heels.
    This adventure was a little too real for comfort.
    He turned his back again, and she leaned into him, wrapped her arms around his neck. Shaking out his cloak, he gathered it around them and fastened it loosely at his throat, effectively tying them together. To keep her warm, she knew, and probably to conceal her light-colored gown beneath the enveloping black. But it gave her a claustrophobic sensation, and when he rose she just dangled there by her arms.
    That detestable name rumbled through his chest. “Ethelinda?”
    He obviously knew how to negotiate, too. “Oh, as you demand.” She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he started down the slope after his bodyguards.
    Not since the orphanage when the girls huddled together for warmth had she experienced such familiarity—and this was not the same sensation at all. Her arms rested on his shoulders, her head was at the level of his. She could smell the scent of his hair. Her bosom pressed against his back. She experienced his every breath, and found herself pacing her breathing to his. The base of her torso, a place that had tingled when he’d kissed her, rested againsthis spine, and the movement of his body gave her an odd thrill, much like the scientific experiment she’d once done for Leona. Electricity, Leona had called it, and it had knocked Evangeline off her feet.
    She supposed he’d done the same.
    She hugged her legs to his waist tightly, for if they slipped—
    His head turned. “What is that noise?”
    She stiffened, listening behind them for the crunch of boots or the clatter of hooves.
    â€œYou’re grumbling.” His lips barely moved, yet she heard his words, or felt them perhaps.
    â€œI am not.” Then she realized what he meant, and admitted, “It’s my stomach.”
    â€œYou should have eaten your dinner.”
    With her mouth close to his ear, she could retort, and the sound did not travel. “For once, you are right.”
    They passed Victor and Rafaello, and the bodyguards waved them on.
    Danior dug in the pocket of his waistcoat. “Here.” He pressed something into her hand.
    Cautiously, she freed her hand from the folds of his cloak and looked. She held a white package—something wrapped in a handkerchief. She opened it, and realized she held a firm, crusty roll.
    â€œHenri insisted I take it for you. He said you’d be hungry.”
    â€œThe traitor.”
    â€œYou don’t have to eat it.”
    â€œHa.” Bracing her elbows on Danior’s shoulders, she lifted the bread to her nose. She inhaled the yeasty smell, then said, “I spent most of my early years hungry. I don’t scorn food from any source.”
    He laughed, low and rich. “You weren’t hungry. You were chubby. But at least I know why you grew so tall.”
    She wanted to argue with him. She wanted to eat. And eating, she knew, would provide her with a great deal more satisfaction than banging her head against the immovable wall that was Danior. She nibbled the end of the roll, and sighed as the first bite slid down her throat and comforted her stomach.
    â€œIt’s good that you’re not chubby now,” Danior said. “This trek would be difficult.”
    She paused in her gustatory quest. “It must be difficult, anyway.”
    â€œNonsense. I’m strong.”
    Leona had told Evangeline about this, too. Men, she had said, were notoriously proud and stubborn, never admitting to weakness, and a wise woman always catered to that pride.
    â€œNobody’s that strong,” said Evangeline, unwise woman.
    â€œI am.”
    He sounded confident, and in fact he moved along the path without pause. The long muscles in his back stretched and contracted as he walked, and she could feel his stomach muscles flexing against her calves