Far Too Tempted (3 page)

“If you plan on telling Robert I was spying on you, it won’t matter. He won’t punish me. He doesn’t care what I do.” The declaration was quiet and defiant.

Not quite yet a woman, with a child’s fears so evident. Alex felt his heart tighten. He was only too afraid she was right about Robert. “No, I don’t plan on telling Robert anything.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To say good-bye.”

Stonily, she responded, “All right then. Good-bye.”

He hesitated, not sure of how to handle the situation. What happened needed to be addressed, he was sure of that. After a moment, he asked, “What were you doing there, Jess?”

She shrugged, feigning an indifference it was obvious she didn’t feel. “I was home here alone. I’m here alone a lot. I guess I just wanted to see people enjoying themselves.”

An awkward pause ensued. He had no idea how to approach what she had seen happening between him and Miranda. He felt acute guilt over her shattered innocence, though it hadn’t been at all intentional on his part.

He smiled at her. “You’ll have fun soon too. There will be more parties than you can attend and I’m sure you’ll be invited to them all.”

She stared back with hostility blazing in her eyes. “Perhaps.”

Though she was young, it was a sour realization—apparently the outrage of a scorned woman knew no age limits.

Hell. He swallowed and said in abrupt apology, “Jessica, look, I’m sorry.”

“Are you going to marry her?” The question was brittle and accusing.

Damn it, a chit of fifteen should not make him feel so ashamed of himself. “No, I’m not. The lady in question is already married.”

Silver eyes widened in open shock.

Good, he told himself violently. He wanted to shake her out of this foolish notion that he was someone she should love.

The worry was unnecessary, of course.

He already had.

Slim hands clenched into fists in her skirts. Her chest heaved under the ill-fitting dress. She said between her teeth, “You’re a…promiscuous cad. I hate you and all you stand for.”

The accusation hit a bit too close to home for comfort. He lifted a brow. “It seems to me just yesterday you said you loved me.”

Jessica tilted her chin up defiantly, her eyes flashing silver fire. At that moment, she looked every inch the woman she would be become, astoundingly lovely and full of outraged pride and flaming spirit. “I didn’t know you. I guess I thought I did, but I didn’t. And I do hate you.” She whirled around and marched from the room.

“Good-bye, Little Jess,” Alex said softly.

The slamming door was all the answer he received.

Chapter One

April 1812

Badajoz, Spain

They’d finally taken the city.

The trenches emptied, the fury of the siege driving the men like wildfire drives a frightened animal. Alexander Ramsey could feel the energy and terror throbbing around him like a giant heartbeat. Artillery fire still belched from behind him and men scaled the walls like ants, bodies falling in sickening, repetitive arcs to pile on the ground. He whirled his horse and shouted orders to his men, pushing forward. One hand dripped blood and his leg hurt, but he barely noticed.

Always forward until Wellington decided he had flung enough men at the walls.

It looked like it finally had been enough. Escalade. The ladder parties had done their work well. He’d just gotten word the 3rd Division had been inside the castle walls for some time and there were three breaches still swarming with men.

But the cost. His mind registered the mangled sea of dead around him with numb horror. By God, they’d lost thousands. The air smelled heavy with carnage and death.

He spurred forward, telling himself to concentrate on the possibility of victory instead of the terrible scene spreading out like a nightmare. They were doing it—he had to remind himself ten times a day. The Allies were forcing a French retreat, painfully slowly and city by city, but a retreat it was. Wellington had vowed to follow them over the French border.

At least this was one more battle won.

The massive front gate still smoldered, the timbers blackened with the evidence of the enemy’s desperation. Inside the city, buildings were on fire and everywhere there were people running and shouting. Surely Phillipon would be requesting terms of surrender, Alex thought as he nudged his weary mount forward. Maybe the French commander already had. It had been hours since he’d heard any news that was reliable.

What a bloody, bloody battle.

What utter chaos.

He had to dismount and proceed on foot. The melee he found inside the fallen city confirmed his worst fears.

A tiny child darted across the street, slamming into his legs and then scrambling away, much too young to be alone in the whirl of panicked people, and squalling at the top of his lungs. People milled everywhere, both civilians and British, Spanish and Portuguese soldiers, shouting and tripping over bodies. The sound of rifles banging against doors rose through the din of gunfire.

The triumphant troops were wild, beginning an uncontrolled looting of the city against all instructions.

Not knowing what to do, his orders swallowed by the holocaust of noise, Alex whirled in circles, barking out instructions. If he was heard, he could not tell it in the actions of the men around him.

“Hell,” he ground out, and swallowed hard. After a night and day that had seemed a lesson from the depths of despair, this madness was even worse.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a young woman being dragged out of a splintered doorway. One of the few people not screaming, she was instead fighting valiantly, her long, dark hair streaming like banners of ebony silk across her bared shoulders. That the two men holding her could succeed in stripping her of the rest of her clothing soon seemed a forgone conclusion. As he watched, one of them shoved at her skirts.

Fury seethed through Alex’s body. This was not why he’d suffered and starved and repeatedly risked his life. Badajoz had finally fallen after what seemed like a lifetime. He wanted to celebrate and move on, not cloud the hour by soiling the honor of the army he represented.

“Halt!” He threw himself forward, one hand on his sword. Recognizing one of the men clutching at the girl, he shouted, “Captain Welsh, let her go. Now, sir.”

Welsh, short and stocky, with the dark hair and thick features of a peasant, gave hardly more than a passing glance at the direct order. He fumbled at his breeches and for the first time, the girl sprawled on the street whimpered in real fear. “Shove off, Colonel.”

The indifference to his words together with the recognition of his rank made Alex nearly speechless with fury. He stopped a few feet away and hissed through his teeth, “I told you to let the woman go, Captain, and I expect to be obeyed. We are soldiers in King George’s Army, not rapists and pigs.”

“She’s asking for it, sir, harboring the French.” It was a half-hearted protest. Welsh rose to his feet warily, eyeing Alex’s outstretched weapon. His uniform coat hung open and his shirt was unfastened, making Alex wonder if this poor girl had been the first.

“She had no choice but to harbor the French, any more than we gave her a choice today to harbor the English. Make no mistake, we are not here to commit more atrocities against these people.”

“Atrocities?” The word was ground out. A cannon exploded in the background but neither man flinched. Welsh’s small, flat eyes flashed defiance.

“I chose the word with care. Your intentions, sir, are despicable.”

“Did you see how many of our men…of your men”—a sneer curved the captain’s mouth as he spoke—“died last night? We paid for every inch of this ground in blood. Sir.” The last added word was made a deliberate insult.

“None of that being her fault.”

Welsh’s thick lips parted in a macabre parody of amusement. “Perhaps not. But her people owe me, which means she owes me. Would you care to go next, sir? I have heard you are a bit partial to the ladies.”

A reddish haze overshadowed Alex’s vision. “Damn you, Captain. Stand aside. It’s an order.”

As in battle, the events of the next moments seemed to blur and grow hazy. Alex remembered lunging forward and the stocky captain coming up to meet him. His sword swung out, only to be parried by a skilled thrust. Both of them were seasoned by years of battle after battle. Whatever Welsh lacked in finesse he made up for in ferocity and brute strength. The fight was instantly fierce and as ugly as the frightful carnage around them. Alex found himself trying to win the fight but not wound one of his own, his mind at the same time boggled by the absurdity of the situation. They’d come so far, only to…this?

The other solider had an absorbed interest in the fight, allowing the young Spanish girl to get up and away. She managed to scramble to her feet and run back into the house, clutching her torn clothing. As he dodged a deadly blow aimed right for his groin, Alex was vaguely grateful she was gone and therefore out of harm’s way.

Welsh was relentless and without honor.

Alex tried hard not to follow his example.

Neither of them noticed when the girl, a shawl now around her bared shoulders, came back out of the house. The gleam of metal in her raised hands registered only dimly.

By this time they were face to face, and sweating. All around them the city heaved in turmoil, screams piercing the dawn again and again.

The shot came out of nowhere.

Alex felt at first as if he were stuck by some flying object, something that hit him hard and left him breathless. The blood soaking his shirt immediately brought reality crashing down.

Christ. He was shot. He knew the feeling a little too well.

It was bad. He had enough experience to sense that too. His sword clattered to the stones of the street, his whole arm going numb and useless.

Welsh loomed over him as his knees buckled. There was a gloating smile on the officer’s face. “Those stray bullets are hell, aren’t they, Ramsey? I owe someone with bad aim a favor. Well, Colonel”—the words were said softly in the turmoil—“it seems your order is cancelled after all—”

Alex couldn’t have called a warning even if he cared to when he saw the upraised knife in the girl’s hand dive downward and bury itself in the captain’s back. As he watched, Welsh’s expression changed from vindictive to twisted agony and he fell forward screaming, pitching across Alex’s body.

The late afternoon sun slanted in the windows and laid quiet patterns across the trim grass of the lawn outside. April in Sussex meant a thickening of green in the countryside, and when Jessica Roweland looked out the window of her dormitory room, she could see tiny white flowers blooming in the tumbled remains of the nearby abbey ruins.

“I fear the yellow does nothing for you.”

With a laugh, Jessica turned from admiring the view and whirled in an exaggerated pirouette. “I was rather thinking that myself. Your brother might not fancy himself marrying someone who just stepped out of a bowl of tropical fruit.”

Rebecca giggled lightly, clapping her hand over her mouth. Her dark eyes shone with amusement. “Nathaniel tends to be a bit picky, it’s true.”

“Then perhaps I should change into a different gown.”

At the open wardrobe, Rebecca fingered several dresses thoughtfully before retrieving a rose silk trimmed with white satin. “Try this one, Jess.”

Quickly, Jessica shook her head and frowned. “That’s one of your new gowns. I don’t recall you even wearing it yet. I accept your older gowns with gratitude but that is enough charity on your part.”

“It isn’t charity.” Rebecca rolled her gaze heavenward. “We’re going to be sisters—real sisters and not just best friends—once you and my brother are married.”

Stepping out of the maligned yellow dress and moving to carefully hang it up, Jessica said, “I still cannot believe it sometimes. Your family has been so kind to me.”

Rebecca gave an unladylike snort at odds with her refined features and gracefully slender form, and tossed back her long, dark hair. “I hardly think Nathaniel would consider it kindness to fall head over heels in love with you. He simply couldn’t help himself. He tells everyone he meets how he is engaged to the loveliest girl on English soil.”

As she reached for her dressing gown, Jessica turned away and drew the soft, worn material over her chemise. References to her looks always made her uneasy, especially in the context of her recent engagement. Nathaniel Greene, Rebecca’s oldest brother, had swept her into a somewhat whirlwind romance that was the height of any young woman’s fantasy. He was handsome, attentive and, above all else, lavish with his compliments and apparent satisfaction over acquiring a wife whose physical beauty pleased him.

Acquiring, Jessica thought wryly as she crossed the room to drop down on the bed. That was the problem. Nathaniel managed his family’s business with shrewd competence. Acquiring was one of his favorite words. She just wasn’t sure she liked it applied to her, though as she had reminded herself often enough, she was indeed a lucky young woman to have captured his interest.

Yet, there was a cloud obscuring her happiness.