. . . She sighed and rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands as she recalled her rather unwise promise to Gerard. She was used to playing a lad; she'd been playing at being a lad for the greater part of her life since her father could not really carry out his duties with a daughter tagging along, and he had refused to leave his child at home since he felt he was the only one who could really protect her from the enemies he had gained in his line of work.

Papa. If only she knew where he was now. She hadn't seen him in more than a year, closer to two, and she herself had barely escaped her pursuers with her life intact. She shivered at the thought. He couldn't be dead; she simply refused to believe that she would never see him alive again. The marquis was inordinately good at his chosen profession and always had been. Besides, Erik had promised that her father would be safe, and she refused to contemplate any other alternative.

Swiftly she got up from her seated position on the bed and accidentally knocked a basin to the floor. It fell with a loud clatter, and Laurel unsuccessfully stifled an exclamation of pain as she jammed her stocking-clad foot against the bedpost. The young woman bounced back on the bed grabbing her tender foot and praying to God she had not foolishly broken anything.

"Are you all right?" D'Artagnan rushed into the room and stopped short at seeing the blond-haired woman dressed, or rather half undressed, in male attire.

"Mince and blast! Don't just stand there. Close the door, quick. Before anyone else comes to see what happened." The young musketeer complied and then promptly froze facing Laurel, a look of bafflement in his light blue eyes.

"I, I, I . . ." he stuttered.

Laurel completed the examination of her foot and concluded nothing was broken despite the soreness. "It's not broken." At the young man's continued look of confusion she explained. "My foot, I didn't break it. I was afraid I might have, but it's only bruised." Laurel put her clenched hand to her pursed lips. What was she going to do? "I see you've discovered my little secret."

"Why?" D'Artagnan finally managed to get out, struggling to come to terms with the unorthodox situation. It was definitely improper for a musketeer to remain alone in the chamber of a young, single woman. He shouldn't even be here in the first place.

"My father's out of the country," she began in a measured tone, "and a lone woman could hardly welcome a group of strange men to her home. Nor could I allow you to remain out in this weather. So I did the only thing I could think of: had a servant play my father and became a lad for my own protection." Her deep blue eyes met his, and she carefully looked him over. No more than one and twenty and probably not even that old, but strong, beardless, boyishly handsome with a bearing that indicated breeding. "Your word, monsieur."

"What?"

"Votre parole monsieur." She searched for the name that would fit his description and stumbled upon it. "D'Artagnan, please, promise by your sacred word as a gentleman that you will not betray my secret. I'm putting my reputation completely in your hands." And my life, she added silently. No telling what fiasco she might have accidentally embroiled this young man in.

A musketeer and a gentleman didn't destroy a lady's reputation, but to allow his friends to remain in the dark about who was really their host, and unaware of the truth of the situation . . . She waited silently, and finally he responded. "You have my word as a gentleman that your secret is safe with me."

True to his word the young musketeer revealed nothing, and the following afternoon he and his party left while Laurel and Gerard looked on. As she watched the procession depart she wrapped her arms around her body. She had a very bad feeling not unlike the one she'd had when she and Peter abandoned Thomas to his fate some year and a half earlier.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Exhausted, Laurel wearily crawled under the sheets and pulled the blanket to her shoulders. Swiftly she blew out the candle by her bedside and settled back to her pillows in preparation for much-needed sleep when she felt an ominous presence in the room.

Her still open eyes registered shock as they perceived a shadow looming over her bed. Her first coherent thought was that she should have listened to that bad feeling she'd had days earlier.

The young woman attempted to reach for her dagger. Not soon enough. A strong hand clamped over her mouth, "Non, ma petite. Don't scream."

"Papa," she whispered, limp with relief, when the hand had been removed. "What are you doing here?" She shot up and heard her father's grunt of pain. "You're hurt."

He waived her hands away. "No time for that, chérie. I'll be all right. Of that you can be sure," Thomas reassured. "But you're not safe here. The Prussian agents aren't just looking for me anymore. They are also looking for you."

"It's those papers you gave me before I fled Belgium, isn't it?" Sudden enlightenment struck her. How could she have been oblivious for so long? Didn't say much for the intelligence she was so proud she had cultivated.

Her father didn't respond, but she knew it was the truth. "Then we both must flee as quickly as we can to the Netherlands." The Netherlands had frequently taken in political refugees, and they'd be unlikely to turn two wealthy French aristocrats away.

"Non. You must give me the papers, and I can get the rest from the agents in Brussels, Marseille, and Luz. Then I can take them to the king and warn him. Quick, Laurel, get the papers, and you must prepare to leave for Uncle Joseph's estate immediately." There was still his old nemesis to capture, and that was not a depraved character he wanted his daughter to have to tangle with.

"Non." She would not go to the estate of her father's deceased sister. Joseph, her uncle by marriage, and his wastrel, profligate son were not to her liking. Nor did she have a desire to be pressured into marriage with her cousin. Disgusting, filthy man.

"Look, you must-"

"Non, papa. You're in no condition to be relaying secret papers back and forth, and I won't permit it. Don't you argue with me," she said, shooting to her feet. "I may only be your daughter, but you raised me on campaigns such as this. You taught me the tricks of your trade, how to take care of myself. I'm taking those papers to Compton in Marseille." Also, she quickly reminded him that her fluency in several other languages was quite beneficial and would aid her in completing the task.

"Laurel, you mustn't get involved. They'll kill you too, even though you're a woman. They may even do worse than kill you." . . .