He has Frank's crowded teeth, his fine lines, those deep creases that frame his mouth — they make me look rather villainous, don't you think, Frank once said, sweeping her up in a mock embrace like a matinee vampire, and she had laughed. The lines deepen when he frowns. They deepen when he smiles. The look of alertness she has come to love, to miss and then to know again — close attentiveness, as he listens.

It no longer sounds absurd in her own ears, this story she's telling. It sounds poor and small and indefensible. Telling it all is like being stripped naked piece by piece — she doesn't even have the dignity of a good lie to hide behind any more, only the feeble truth. Seated opposite this man, she has the luxury of gazing into his face as she unspools this absurd story — honeymoons and stones, centuries and dresses.

No one knows where she is. No father, no brothers, none of those customary barriers in a place and time dominated by the unquestioned power of men. Not a friend in the world. The only people in the world who might possibly care about her wellbeing will not be born for a hundred years and more. She is utterly alone with this man, and at his mercy.

A log tumbles from the grate, sending a cascade of sparks — Claire jumps in her seat. It's the first sudden movement either of them has made in perhaps an hour. He seizes her by the wrist, his hand springs to the nape of her neck like a child lifts a kitten, and he guides her back into her seat by force.

Claire's body stiffens. She has not heard him speak for so long that she has almost forgotten the sound of his voice. Deeper, somehow, than Frank's — she must remind herself that they are not the same man, they do not share the same lungs and the same vocal cords, the same tongue and lips. It's only the surface that carries the resemblance. Jonathan Randall's voice is hoarse and dark, sharpened by the delivery of orders.

"As it seems that I am your husband, however indirectly—" —his hand on the back of her neck, lifting the weight of her hair, she holds her breath waiting for him to close a fist in it and pull hard but he does not— "—a man has certain responsibilities to his wife. Wouldn't you agree?"

He's mocking her. No, worse. He believes her. Of course he does, he's a madman, a monster, a brute. What happens to madwomen in the eighteenth century can surely be no worse than what happens to spies.

"That's all there is. Believe it, or don't. I can't force you."

"What was he like, your husband? Frank, you called him."

"He was — he was a gentle man."

"Tell me about him, then."

"He was — he was nothing much like you, except in his looks. Superficially, I suppose." Frank's sweet mouth, his crooked face, the hard line of his cheek and the dreaming spread of his smile — Randall's face is pressed to hers, she can feel his breath against the prickling skin of her throat. "He was a scholar. He'd served in the army during — during wartime."

Christ, don't let him ask about the war. He couldn't possibly understand it, and worse, he might like it. All that utterly pointless brutality. All that blood poured out. The sheer mechanical agony of it, the bombs, the sirens, the tank-treads, the ghastly camps. "He served as an officer. When the war ended, we were together again."

Frank must think that she is dead, by now. If she dies here, he'll never even know how it happened. Randall's brow furrows. "What sort of family does he come from?"

He lets her hair drop from his grasp. His hand lingers over her throat, his fingertip dipping into the tendon-hollow just above her collarbone — Claire must not make a sound, in trying not to tremble.

"Sussex stock. Not so good as he once believed, I think."

Randall laughs — warmly and sweetly, her husband's laugh, low and resonant. "You little chit."

"You must think I'm a lunatic."

"On the contrary, I believe every word. No one would fabricate a story as utterly unbelievable as this unless she meant every word of it."

Claire laughs dryly, almost a cough. "I could come up with grander lies than this, I'm sure."

If given time. I'm a French spy, I'm a witch of the old ways and I curse you, I'm a prophetess like Joan of Arc and your soul belongs to Hell—

"What do you expect me to do about it? Wheedle out your secrets? I prefer a more direct approach with women, as you know."

He takes her hand in his, with purposeful and suggestive courtesy — Frank had smooth hands, almost like a woman's hands. Randall's are callused to a soft rasp, worn by the slip of leather reins bare-handed. Had he worn gloves, to flog a young boy nearly to death? Had he felt the urge to slip one off and to touch the raw flesh? Or had the whip-handle bitten his palm to bleeding? She wants to tear her hand away and to scour it clean again, clean of that touch.

There are more words than ever for men like this, in Claire's time. Words for the courtroom and the court-martial. Where would a man like this be, if he were in Frank's place? What would he do? A nasty little martinet taking pleasure from the pain of others, pressing likely victims wherever he might find them. A dance-hall rapist, a sadist, a pervert.

"I haven't got any more secrets. That's the last of them." A tremor of absurd laughter has crept into her voice.

"Will you swear to everything you've told me here? Swear it on your husband's soul."

He traces the ring on her finger. The breath is stuck in Claire's throat, all the invective she might ever pour out is frozen in the midst of her.

"I will."