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One of William Laurence's most charming traits, if Napoleon had to pick just the one, was his rectitude. There was something so endearing to the way he stood at parade rest even in relative peace, his face forcefully neutral and his hands folded behind his back—probably so Napoleon could not see them clench. It made unsettling him almost irresistible: he wanted so badly to see what it would take to make him bend, if he ever would. Promises of wealth and power did not make him so much as blink, and gratitude for his service to France elicited little more than a pained twitch of his eyes as he demurred, but he sometimes flushed in the most delightful manner when Napoleon praised him.
In spite of these games, Napoleone found nothing as entertaining as simply talking to him. Laurence was hopelessly courteous and respectful even to the Emperor of his beloved nation's greatest foe, but that wonderful Celestial of his had clearly rubbed off on him and he could not always help himself from arguing fiercely against some of Napoleon's thoughts. At times he fell quiet, his face troubled, as one of his own points appeared to him as indefensible and he had to mentally concede the victory to Napoleon. His devotion to England was clearly not as blind as he made it seem; yet he never ceased defending its interests, though he received no reward for it but the Admiralty's contempt. This saddened Napoleon, though the resulting discussions were a great delight to him and he often sought them out.
Today was one such time. He had extended a polite invitation to Laurence while they waited for the Sapa Inca to make her choice between France and England, an invitation which Laurence had doubtlessly accepted only so that he might learn something of Napoleone's machinations. They now stood in the heat of Anahuarque's lush gardens, arguing the judiciousness of the British alliance with Portugal. Going off Laurence's weary expression, he was considering whether defending his principles was worth the effort. It was a face Napoleon liked very much on him: the answer was almost always yes.
Then that face stilled in shock as Laurence's body jolted. His eyes widened, his breath hitched, and his shoulders drew tight not in offense but in pain before his legs gave out under his weight.
Napoleon's body moved ahead of his mind. He caught Laurence before the man could collapse, barely faltering under his weight, and wrapped a protective hand around the back of his neck to steady him. Warmth bloomed against his chest where Laurence's bullet wound was already bleeding through his clothes. His other hand found the pistol he knew Laurence kept under his coat, drew it and aimed over the curve of Laurence's bowed spine in one smooth motion.
The bullet burned through the clammy air and through the chest of the gunman before he could flee or shoot again. It froze the shock on his face: he was still wearing it when his back hit the ground.
Good. He lowered his arm and looked down at Laurence, whose pale face was pressed into Napoleon's shoulder by his firm grasp. His breath sounded labored but he appeared conscious, if barely.
"Get him to my physician," he ordered the soldiers who were only now bursting into the scene with their weapons drawn.
He made sure that they carried the wounded man with equal speed and haste before he finally turned his attention to the body cooling in the grass. Laurence had better pray through the pain that he had not acted on orders of the British Admiralty, or England would burn before the night was through. Napoleon would light the pyre himself.