Jane Feather - [V Series] (9 page)

“I trust you’re satisfied that I’ve fulfilled my side of our bargain?” he said with an ironic twist of his mouth.

“Perfectly, milord colonel,” she responded. “And don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it, because I could see how your eyes were twinkling.”

“I’m very sure my eyes never twinkle,” the colonel said, revolted at such an image.

“Oh, but they do,” she assured him with a grin, her perfect teeth glimmering in the moonlight. “You’ve just never been looking in a mirror at the right moment.”

There seemed no adequate response to this, so he changed the subject. “I’ll rest the horses when it’s absolutely necessary, but other than that, I don’t intend to stop until we reach Elvas.”

“Cesar has a great deal of stamina,” she said placidly. “And he was well rested in Cornichet’s camp.”

“You, on the other hand, are very short of sleep,” he observed.

“I can sleep in the saddle. I’ve often done so.” She cast him a sideways glance. “Don’t worry, milord colonel. I’m perfectly prepared to uphold my end of the bargain. And I’ve never yet dropped out of the line of march.”

Once again he could detect the currents of energy surging through the slim, upright figure. She was radiating purpose and determination, and he was instantly uneasy. Whenever he’d sensed that determined energy before, La Violette had been up to no good.

T
HE STEADY BOOMING OF THE GUNS BESIEGING THE WALLS OF
the Spanish town of Badajos drowned all other sound as the cavalcade approached the town standing on a hill in the midst of a flat plain. The sky was metallic, clouds hanging low over the gray earth, creating a uniform colorlessness, broken only by the scarlet tunics of the cavalrymen.

Julian, riding ahead of the troop, was watching Gabriel and Violette, as usual riding off to one side on slightly higher ground. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but from their gestures it seemed they were engaged in some altercation. The girl was gesticulating fiercely, her body, fluid in the saddle as she made her points. The giant Gabriel in contrast seemed to exude a rocklike obstinacy, occasionally shaking his head in a sharp, brief negative.

They were a two-hour ride from headquarters in the Portuguese border town of Elvas, and Julian would be bringing in his flower just within the five days he’d set himself. Unfortunately, he wasn’t bringing in a submissive, intimidated prisoner ready to have her petals plucked, but a vigorous, self-determining mercenary who might be induced to sell her secrets, but certainly
wouldn’t meekly divulge them for the asking. It would be interesting to see what Wellington made of her … and of his colonel’s part in the play.

Julian grimaced. He’d have to find an explanation for how he’d lost his prisoner and had to agree to a negotiated settlement. The truth was far too mortifying. He could only hope that the brigand would keep her mouth shut about that riverside madness.

He became aware that the two were cantering toward him. Gabriel was not looking happy; the girl’s expression was neutral. They reached him and turned their horses to ride alongside him.

“While I’m gone, I shall hold you responsible for the bairn, Englishman,” Gabriel announced gruffly, his hand, in what seemed to Julian very pointed fashion, resting on the hilt of his massive broadsword.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Never you mind, but you’re responsible, mark that well.”

Julian shook his head with a half laugh of disbelief. “You expect me to be responsible for the actions of La Violette? Good God, man, I know my limitations.”

“Not her actions, but her safety,” Gabriel declared before Tamsyn could voice her own indignation.

“And I suppose it doesn’t occur to you that one has something to do with the other?” Julian said acidly.

“I am responsible for my own actions,” Tamsyn said impatiently. “And my own safety. Gabriel, you’re being an old woman.”

“El Baron left your safety in
my
hands.” There was a mulish set to the giant’s mouth. “And if y’are going off on this frolic on your own, little girl, then I’ll keep faith with your father as I see fit.” He glared at St. Simon. “So, English Colonel, any harm comes to one hair of
her head, and I’ll cleave your head from your shoulders.”

Tamsyn raised her eyes heavenward. “No harm is going to come to me in the English headquarters, Gabriel.”

“No, that I’ll guarantee,” Julian said, deciding to ignore Gabriel’s extremely unfriendly threat. “For as long as she’s a guest of headquarters. But if she steps outside Elvas, then it’s out of my hands. I’m no nursemaid.”

“And I don’t need one,” Tamsyn snapped. “Or a bodyguard. Do be off now, Gabriel. The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back.”

“And I’ve your word you’ll not move from Elvas until I return?” He glowered, clearly very unhappy.

“You have it.” She leaned over and lightly brushed his cheek with her fingertips, her smile soft, her eyes warm. “Don’t fret, now. I’ll be quite safe, and you know this has to be done.”

Gabriel sighed. “If you say so, little girl.” He wheeled his charger and cantered away, raising a hand in farewell.

“Poor Gabriel, he really doesn’t want to go,” Tamsyn said, still with that fond smile. “He can’t bear to let me out of his sight, not since …” She stopped, her eyes clouding, the smile vanishing.

“Since …?” Julian prompted.

Tamsyn shrugged. “History, milord colonel.” She shaded her eyes, gazing across the plain to the walls of Badajos. The ground beneath them was shaking now with the bombardment, and the whine of shells from the returning French fire could clearly be heard.

“Where’s he going?”

Again she shrugged. “Just to fetch something. We’re getting close.”

It seemed that Violette had said all she intended to about Gabriel’s mysterious journey. He nodded. “We’re concentrating the bombardment on the bastions of Santa Maria and La Trinidad.”

“How soon does Wellington expect Soult to get here from Cadiz?”

“You are well informed,” he said with an ironic raised eyebrow. The impending arrival of the French marshal to relieve Badajos was one of Wellington’s main anxieties.

“Of course. I fight this war, too, Colonel.”

“You fight for your own gain,” he said bluntly.

Her eyes flashed. “As does your army, sir. Only the partisans fight simply for their country, and I fight with them.”

“You deny you sell your services?” he demanded.

She gave him a look of supreme contempt. “To those who can afford them, I sell them. To those who can’t, I give them. Sound business principles, milord colonel. And war is business, as you damn well know. Men get rich in wartime.”

“Profiteers,” he stated in disgust.

“And what are you in it for, English milord?” she asked with the same contempt. “Nothing as vulgar as wealth, of course. So what is it? Glory … honor … rank?”

Julian made no response. It was true he pursued all those goals, but he fought for the honor of his country, for loyalty and patriotism. He wasn’t going to explain such concepts to a mercenary who would only mock them.

They were skirting the trenches now outside the walls, and the sound of the bombardment was deafening. Tamsyn’s Arab was skittish, tossing his head, lifting
his feet high, seeming to pick his way with delicacy over the soft, rain-soaked ground. The cavalry horses, on the other hand, were untroubled by the noise and the uneven terrain and plodded steadily on.

When a shell burst a few feet from them, throwing up a spume of mud, Cesar whinnied in high-pitched fright and plunged sideways. Julian automatically reached for Tamsyn’s bridle to steady the animal.

“Take your hand off!” she commanded with such ferocity his hand dropped immediately. Expertly, she brought the animal under control, speaking to him softly in Spanish, and when he was quiet, turned again to the colonel, her eyes spurting flame. “How dare you presume to touch my bridle?”

“I’m sorry.” He was genuinely taken aback by her fury. “I’m used to riding with my sister. She’s not a natural rider, and I have to be on the alert all the time.”

“Well, I am
not
your sister,” she declared, still furious.

“Fortunately, in the circumstances,” he murmured, unable to help himself, a wicked glimmer in his eye.

Tamsyn glared at him for a minute, then went into a peal of laughter. “How right you are, Colonel. There are some vices too heinous even for mercenary bandits.”

His amusement, misplaced as it was, died as quickly as it had arisen. “We will not speak of that incident again, if you please,” he said with an awkward formality.

Tamsyn glanced sideways at his set face, and a mischievous smile twitched her mouth. “You’d not wish your commander in chief to know you’d been dallying with a prisoner, I daresay.”

“No, damn you, I would not!” he snapped.

“And you wouldn’t wish it to occur again?” she mused. “How unflattering of you, Colonel. I confess I would enjoy a repetition.”

“Forgive my bluntness, but I would not,” he stated flatly, turning his horse aside. “Sergeant, you and the men may leave us here and return to the brigade. I intend to cross the river by the east pontoon.”

“Right you are, sir.” The sergeant barked an order to the troop behind him, and they cantered off toward the city of tents forming the army’s encampment between the Guadiana and the siegeworks. The colonel and his companion rode along the river bank toward one of the pontoon bridges connecting the siegeworkings with headquarters at Elvas.

Tamsyn nodded to herself. Somehow she didn’t think the colonel was telling the truth. How could anyone, having once enjoyed that explosion of ecstasy, not hanker for more. Cecile’s voice spoke in her memory, soft with sensual laughter, telling her daughter that love-making was an appetite that grew whereon it fed. Tamsyn could hear the baron’s answering chuckle, see his dark hawk’s eyes fixed on her mother’s face as if he would devour her.

A familiar wave of sorrow washed over her. She didn’t resist it, simply waited for it to recede. The grief was for her own loss, since it was not possible to imagine two such joined souls as separated, even in death.

They crossed the pontoon into the small town of Elvas, the guards coming to attention as the colonel passed. The cobbled streets were thronged with soldiers in the green tunics of riflemen or the scarlet of infantry and cavalry; aide-de-camps hurried between command posts; laden commissary drays lumbered through town on their way to supply the troops in the trenches. Cesar
shied as a mangy dog darted out of an alley pursued by a tribe of ragged urchins.

“That animal is too high-strung for his own good,” Julian observed as Tamsyn soothed the horse.

“He’s not accustomed to towns,” she said, reacting with asperity to this criticism of her beloved Cesar. “He’s not used to being surrounded by people. But he’ll carry me without flagging for a hundred miles along a mountain track, and he’d outrun any beast you have in your stables, and over any terrain, milord colonel.”

“Doubtless.” He contented himself with the dry observation, wishing she wouldn’t call him that, it had such a sardonic ring to it.

He turned his horse aside into the stableyard at the rear of Wellington’s headquarters. “Presumably that sensitive beast will behave himself with the grooms here?”

“Cesar has beautiful manners,” she retorted, swinging down to the cobbles with an agile movement that belied her fatigue. A groom came running over, his eyes wide at the sight of the magnificent Arab.

“Eh, that’s a beauty an’ no mistake, sir,” he said admiringly to the colonel, his eyes darting curiously to St. Simon’s unusual companion.

“Yes, but he’s high-strung,” the colonel said. “So be careful with him. I don’t want to find myself looking for a replacement.”

“You wouldn’t find one,” Tamsyn declared, handing the reins to the groom. “He’s unique.” She stroked the animal’s neck, murmuring incomprehensible sounds that clearly soothed the horse. “Take him away,” she said to the groom. “He’ll be quiet enough now.”

“Let’s go.” St. Simon spoke with an abrupt brusqueness.
He turned and strode toward a flight of outside stairs at the rear of the wooden building.

Tamsyn followed, aware of her fatigue now as an almost deadening exhaustion. She was in no fit condition to negotiate with Wellington. She needed food and sleep before attempting the audacious task she’d set herself. A lot would depend on what kind of man the English commander in chief proved to be. From what she’d heard, he was of volatile temperament except on the battlefield, capable of flaying his own senior officers in one breath and offering the most urbane and civilized conversation in the next. He was also known to have a fondness for the female sex. Whether she could capitalize on that remained to be seen. Filthy and bedraggled as she was at the moment, Tamsyn doubted she would create a favorable impression.

At the top of the stairs the colonel opened a door, and they entered a square landing at the head of an internal staircase. The space was set up as an office, and a harassed brigade-major, sitting at a deal table, looked up from the mountain of paper in front of him.

“Colonel.” He came to his feet, saluting. “The Peer will be glad to see you, sir.”

“Fretting, is he?” Julian returned the salute, glancing toward the closed door behind the aide-de-camp.

“Something chronic,” the man said with a rueful grin. “We tried to blow up the dam the Froggies constructed outside the San Pedro bastion and didn’t get anywhere, and old Soult’s on the march.” Unable to hide his fascination, he scrutinized the small figure standing just behind the colonel and said, “He’ll be glad of some good news for once.”

“Mmm.” The colonel contented himself with the brief mumble. “Keep an eye on her,” he said shortly,
ignoring Tamsyn’s swift indrawn breath, and strode to the door, knocking briskly before entering.

Tamsyn strolled over to a window at the head of the stairs and perched on the broad sill. She regarded the brigade-major thoughtfully. “Does English hospitality run to a glass of wine … or even water? Riding for two days is thirsty work.”

The man looked dismayed, casting a quick glance around as if for assistance.