Lord Harry's Daughter (4 page)

Chapter
4

Thus it was that several days later, as Sophia was painting the rugged landscape that rose on both sides of the Bidassoa River, she was greeted in a friendly fashion by a Basque shepherd driving his flock before him. “Buenos dias, Senorita.” The man touched his forehead in a respectful manner, but the look he directed at her was decidedly familiar. She was just about to turn away with haughty disdain when she stopped. There was something about the set of the peasant's shoulders, which were unusually broad for a man who spent his life tending sheep, that made her turn back to get a second look.

Her eyes narrowed as she took in the long, angular face and the dark, straight brows that almost met across the high-bridged nose. Cocking her head to one side, she frowned suspiciously and then grinned. “Surely it is not the inquisitive major doing reconnaissance again? It is hardly necessary for you to go to such lengths, sir. If you wished to see more of my work you had only to ask instead of sneaking up on me in this havey cavey manner."

The answering crack of laughter proved her to be correct in her suspicions. “Very good. You certainly have an eye for what is beneath a disguise, which makes you a very dangerous young lady indeed.” Despite his rough clothes, Mark sketched a bow as elegant and practiced as if he were greeting her at Almack's.

“I would not say that
dangerous
is precisely the word, but certainly
undeceived."
Sophia regarded him curiously. There was no doubt that the major was both amused and intrigued by her penetration of his disguise, but there was some other emotion, something deeper there, that she could not quite identify. Though he had laughed at her sally, there had been something else, a shadow that had crossed his face ever so briefly when she had accused him of sneaking up on her. The expression had disappeared in an instant. In fact, if she had not spent years training herself to observe, identify, and record every flicker of an eyelash, every flaring of a nostril or tightening of a lip, she might not even have noticed it, but she had, and it made her more curious than ever about the man.

Keeping an eye on his flock. Mark strolled over to look at the picture. “Most impressive, but not, I think, as good as the one I first saw you working on. This is picturesque, but it lacks the power of the other even though the landscape you are painting here is far more sublime."

“It is almost too sublime. The scenery itself is so overwhelming that I cannot quite get a feel for the place."

“Perhaps you do not feel comfortable enough yourself in such a landscape to be able to read its secrets and interpret them."

Sophia, who had been gazing absently at the rocks on the other side of the river while he was speaking, turned around to stare at him, her hazel eyes wide with astonishment. “Yes, that is what it is. That is precisely what it is, but how did you know?"

“Because I, too, am an observer of sorts, though not so talented as you, nor do I paint beautiful pictures.” Again the shadow crossed his face and an ironic, almost bitter note crept into his voice.

Sophia recalled the reconnaissance mission that occasioned their first meeting. “Oh, so then you must be...” She paused, struggling to remember the precise term Speen had used. When she had described the officer she had met to her stepfather's batman, she had told him that the major seemed to have been observing the fortifications at San Sebastian.
Ah, one of the duke's exploring officers, 1 expect,
Speen had replied. As she questioned him further he had elaborated.
The duke has a group of men upon whom he relies to find out information about everything—French troops, the roads, who among the locals can be trusted and who would sell him out for a few pieces of silver. They are all under the direction of the quartermaster general and the ones I know of, Sir John Waters, Colquhoun Grant, are exceptionally brave and talented men, as clever at disguising themselves as they are quick at seeing a thing and remembering it. They are as bold and resourceful as any man you could hope to meet because they always work alone. But neither Grant nor Waters looks like the man you describe.

“An exploring officer?” Mark supplied dryly. “Yes, I am one of those fellows who skulk around finding out what he can so the rest of the lads know what to expect when they ride into battle."

“Oh, you must not say it like that. Speen, my stepfather's batman, says that men like you are excessively ingenious and brave."

“And brave.” A mocking smile twisted his lips. “But otherwise, mostly ingenious and ... deceptive."

That was it. Now she understood the shadow. He was ashamed of being thought of as a spy. “Ingenious, yes, deceptive, perhaps, but certainly perceptive as well, and no less important than the men who drink and gamble all night and then die a hero's death the next day because they were too befuddled or too stupid to notice the ditch in front of them, a ditch that, if they were sober, would have embarrassed them even to give it a second thought."

“So
that is
how the dashing Lord Harry died."

Sophia whirled to face him again, but this time the hazel eyes were dark with anger. “How dare you, sir! You have known all along who I was and yet you did not have the grace to in..."

“Introduce myself? I apologize. I have been a spy too long and I have forgotten the niceties of civility, is that what you mean to say? That will not fadge. You would have done the same to me if you had known my identity, but your resources were not so good as mine."

Sophia bit her lip. “And who were yours, sir? Who was telling you tales about Lord Harry Featherstonaugh and his daughter?"

“Fitzroy Somerset and, ah, the duke."

“Oh.” She was silent for a moment, somewhat mollified. “Still you had no right to go asking around about me."

“No right? I find a woman, an Englishwoman, in the middle of a field, in the middle of a war in Spain, and I ask the commanding officer about her because I want to know the name of someone who happens to be the most superb artist I have seen in some time, not to mention that I was concerned for the safety of a young woman who wanders a countryside that is teeming with guerrillas, bandits, and soldiers of all types, and you take offense. Yet you who asked your stepfather's batman about me, tell me I have no right to ask such questions. I must take exception to such unequal treatment."

“I beg your pardon. It was rather high-handed of me."

“High-handed!” Mark was about to favor her with his full opinion of people who gossiped about other people when he paused. After all, she had apologized. She had looked him straight in the eye and offered her apology and, her expression told him, she still offered it. In all his years of dalliance, he had never known a woman to admit she was in the wrong, and he could not for the life of him remember when one had looked him full in the face with no dissembling, no coy smile, no pouting lips, just frankly and apologetically. It was completely and totally disarming. “Well yes it was high-handed of you, but understandable, given the circumstances."

“Thank you."

Oddly enough, she truly did sound relieved. Most women would not have given a second thought to what some exploring officer thought of them, but she really did seem to care for his good opinion.

Baaaa.
Mark was suddenly recalled to his responsibilities toward his flock and he turned around just in time to catch one of its members in the act of breaking away toward a promising patch of greenery. “If you will excuse me, I must look after my charges. When one of them takes it in his head to go another direction, the rest soon follow, and I promised Jose that I would return them all safe and sound."

He had just stepped out from behind the herd to go retrieve the stray when Sophia, applying one last touch of paint, turned to protest. “You still have me at a disadvantage, Major."

“A disadvantage?"

He looked so blank that she could not help laughing. “Yes. You seem to know who I am, but as you pointed out, my, er,
sources,
were not so forthcoming as yours."

“Oh. I am Adair. Major Lord Mark Adair. It must be these clothes, they have made me positively rag-mannered.” He hastily sketched another bow and charged after the errant sheep.

Sophia chuckled as she turned back to her painting. At least she had a name now, and with a name she could find out as much about him as he had found out about her. She might be able to dispense with Speen, who had become rather suspicious of her sudden interest in one particular officer. Instead, she could ask Andrew Leith Hay, an exploring officer in his own right, and aide-de-camp to his uncle, Major General James Leith, a friend of her stepfather's and a frequent dinner guest.

Andrew, who was a competent artist himself, had admired her pictures one evening when he had accompanied his uncle to dinner and he and Sophia had fallen into a discussion of all the picturesque opportunities offered by the Spanish countryside and bemoaned the difficulty of obtaining artistic supplies in a war-torn foreign country. Surely he could tell her something more about the major. Sophia was not about to remain at a disadvantage. For the moment, the major might possess more information about her than she did about him, but the situation would not remain that way for long.

Having settled that in her mind, she returned to her painting. What she did not admit to herself was that Speen, ordinarily the most incurious of individuals, had been entirely correct in the suspicions he had voiced when she had questioned him about the major's identity. “Seems to me you be mortal interested in this major fellow, Miss Sophia. That is not like you.” The batman had stopped brushing her stepfather's uniform long enough to fix her with an inquisitive stare.

“It is just that I do not like discussing my work with unknown critics,” she had replied airily. But Speen had not been fooled. He knew that it went deeper than that. There were hundreds of cavalry officers in the Peninsula to whom she had not given a second thought. What was it about this one that piqued her interest so?

If she had allowed herself to think about it, which she would not, Sophia would have had to admit that after this second encounter she was even more intrigued by the major than she had been after the first. Most cavalry officers were bluff, hearty men, dashing perhaps, but basically they were just splendid horsemen in search of excitement, and that was the extent of it. Everything about them could be learned in the course of one conversation and Sophia had met scores of them over the years.

Like all of them, this man was dashing and a splendid horseman, but there were hidden depths. He seemed to read her pictures in a way very few people had been able to. The comments he offered were not the standard admiring kind. They were thoughtful and insightful, and they revealed not only an observant eye, but a sensitive mind at work. Then there was his obvious discomfort over the role he was forced to play as an exploring officer. Most of the men she knew would have thoroughly enjoyed the intrigue and the adventure. They would have revealed in the unique trust that Wellington placed in them. But this man was clearly unhappy about the level of deception he was required to adopt, and this unhappiness hinted at a nature that was more reflective than most. Yet in spite of this, he had an air of insouciance, even bravado, that was at odds with this sensitivity, and that made him dangerously attractive, even to a woman who had spent her life among men noted for their bravado.

Chapter
5

While Sophia was rather unwillingly occupied with these reflections on Major Lord Mark Adair, the major himself had little time to reflect on anything but returning Jose's flock to him in one piece. It was not until after he had seen them safely penned behind Jose's simple hut, had changed back into his own clothes, and was making his way back to headquarters when he was struck with a thought.
How in thunder did she recognize me? Surely my disguise was better than that.

The question plagued him during maneuvers all the next day, and it was still bothering him the day after that when donning a monk's robe, he went to visit the sympathetic
alcalde
of Ostiz, whose position gave him ample opportunity to observe the French troop movements. The pretext of consulting with the mayor on a civic matter also gave Mark the opportunity to meet with other citizens who furnished useful information.

He spent a long, hot day riding from to Lesaca to Ostiz and back on the back of an exceedingly bony and recalcitrant donkey and by the time he had reached the outskirts of Lesaca again, he was tired, thirsty, and his patience had been tried to the utmost by the stubborn behavior of his mount. They were just approaching the first house in the village when the donkey, his interest seemingly caught by something at the side of the road, came to a complete halt and refused to budge.

Growling with exasperation. Mark slid off and cautiously raised the cowl he had pulled down to cover his face. Glancing around, he tried to discover what had caught the beast's attention. Off to the right was a small but exquisite shrine and there, in the sheltering shade of a gnarled tree, sat Sophia with her easel. “I do not blame you for being curious,” Mark muttered to his mount as, pulling the donkey's reins, he advanced toward the shrine, with as reverent an air as it was possible to adopt towing a reluctant animal, as though he intended to offer up a prayer to the saint of the shrine.

Tugging the cowl back down over his face he approached Sophia.
"Buenos dias, senorita."
He kept his voice low and gravelly this time.

Sophia glanced up and nodded abstractedly.
"Buenos dias, padre."
She turned back to her work, then paused, her brush hovering in midair of the easel as she directed a penetrating stare at the monk.

Blast!
She had recognized him again. How in the devil's name had she done that? Still, Mark maintained his reverential pose, hoping against hope that he was wrong.

“Good day. Major.” Her voice was amused. “This certainly
is
a most uncharacteristic role for you."

Mark shoved the cowl back so he could see her eyes dancing and the dimple at the corner of her mouth. “And just what is it about me that allows you to see through my disguises so effortlessly?"

Sophia could not help chuckling at the utter frustration in his voice. “My lord, you are far too...” She stopped and flushed as she realized the implications of what she had been about to say. Spanish peasants and Spanish priests did not have the broad shoulders and magnificent athletic physique of British cavalry officers. And even though it was mostly obscured by robes. Lord Mark's physical presence was still a powerful one. But a young lady, even one raised in army camps, could not allude to such a thing.

“Far too...” he prompted, relishing her momentary confusion. He was enjoying her discomfiture. After all, she had certainly discomfited him, recognizing him as quickly as she had, and she knew she had discomfited him. “Ahem, now what were you saying?” He grinned and waited expectantly while she wrestled with the answer.

“I was about to say that Spanish peasants and Spanish priests are not so ... I mean they do not have ... well, in general they are not so
well nourished
as cavalry officers,” Sophia finished lamely.

So that was it. He as rather flattered, in an odd sort of way, that she found it difficult to acknowledge to him that it was his physique that had given him away. During their previous encounters she had been so coolly self-possessed, so eager to get back to her painting that it had appeared she saw him as an interruption rather than as a man—an attitude that had caused him to stop and reassess himself.

All of his adult life, women had been as attracted to Mark as he had been to them. He had become accustomed to seeing a certain appreciative sparkle in their eyes when they looked at him, detecting a certain coyness in their smiles, and hearing a certain breathlessness in their voices. None of this had been present in Sophia. Both of their previous encounters had left him with the uneasy suspicion that he was not as interesting as he had previously assumed. Each time he had parted from her he could not help wondering if he had become such a coxcomb that he expected every woman to be intrigued by him, and when one was not, he found it not only disconcerting, but difficult to accept. So now it gave him more satisfaction than he cared to admit to discover that Miss Featherstonaugh did see him as a man after all.

“I shall have to make sure that I stoop after this, hunch my shoulders, and perhaps shuffle just a bit so I look a little less
well nourished,
as you put it.” He was being deliberately provocative and it gave him a great degree of satisfaction to watch another faint tinge of pink wash over her face. “It is to be hoped that the average French soldier is a good deal less acute than you are."

“I expect they are. And besides, they are men."

“Men? Of course they are men, but what does that have to do with anything?"

“Well, it seems to me that in general men tend to be more preoccupied with themselves than women are and therefore are less likely to pay attention to others around them. Women, on the other hand, are brought up to care for their husbands and look out for the welfare of their children and servants so they are naturally more aware of everyone around them."

Mark was about to launch into a fierce rebuttal of this poor opinion of his sex when he realized that it was largely true. It was his mother, for the short time she had been alive, who had listened to his childish joys and woes while his father had remained distant and uninvolved. He was the authority who commanded awe and respect from his sons but had very little interaction with them. Certainly the women Mark had enjoyed during his adult life had made a habit of studying the likes and dislikes of their men, catering to them with such determination and skill that he had never been entirely sure of what they wanted or enjoyed in life except for him. “You may be in the right of it,” he agreed slowly. “And it has also been my experience that women are far better at dissembling than men so it would seem that a woman would be much better equipped for identifying dissembling and deception in others."

“You are a misogynist indeed, sir.” Sophia could not help wondering which particular woman in the major's life had been responsible for the ironic note in his voice and the cynical twist of his lips.

“Not at all. I am a great admirer of the fair sex, especially those who are talented as well as beautiful.” The mocking expression became an admiring one as he watched the color rise again in her cheeks. She was not what the fashionable world would call a classic beauty, for her mouth was too wide, generous, he would call it, and her cheekbones were a little too pronounced for a world that liked its women to be decorative rather than determined. But the eyes made one forget about everything else. They were large and expressive, fringed with thick, dark lashes and their hazel depths mirrored every thought. No, she was not precisely beautiful, but she was striking in a way that instantly captured attention and made one want to learn more about her.

At the moment her eyes gleamed a wicked green as she surveyed his rough habit. “And what were you able to learn today. Father? Surely you discovered more than the few small sins of some poor villager who works too hard even to think about transgressing."

“They may be too busy to stray from the paths of righteousness, but they are not too busy to notice French troops marching by their fields or bivouacked outside their villages. And some of them understand enough French to be able to listen to conversations as they wait upon the officers. All of this they report to a few trusted alcaldes who in turn unburden themselves to their trusted confessor"—with a wave of his hand he pointed to his robes—"who listens most carefully and sympathetically to all their problems, and then offers them advice that has more to do with survival in this world than advancement in the next."

“And how is it that you are able to converse with these people? Surely they do not speak English, and their language more closely resembles Gascon than Spanish."

“My mother was Spanish, from this area of the country. And yes,” he responded to her inquisitive look, “I inherited her looks.” My father met her at the Spanish embassy in London. Her father was part of the Spanish delegation. Spanish was in fact my first language because she always used to sing to me and tell me stories in her own language and my nurse, who had been her nurse, spoke the dialect of this area.

“My father little thought when he married her that he would be responsible for creating one of Wellington's most adaptable spies. Unlike many of the exploring officers, I can be depended upon to respond in Spanish even if I am caught unawares or awakened from a deep sleep, something that even our most accomplished linguists cannot be counted on to do because English is their mother tongue. However, my father was ignorant of my spying activities—I spared him the shame I have brought on our name—and he lived with the happy deception that his second son was honorably employed in winning the war as a major in the Fourth Dragoons.

The bleak expression in his eyes and the bitter note in his voice made Sophia want to reach out and smooth away the angry lines that wrinkled his forehead and twisted his lips into a self-mocking smile. “And what of your mother? Surely she must be proud of what you are doing to help her homeland?” Sophia could not think why it was so important to reassure him about the value of what he was doing, but it was.

“She is dead."

“Oh. I am sorry.” Her portraitist's intuition told her that there was more to it than this. Behind the ironic self-deprecation lay a hurt so deep that it had never been addressed, a hurt that had remained, covered over, perhaps, but never healed.

“At any rate, now you see why I am so good at what I do, and why no one, with the exception of a suspiciously sharp-eyed artist, questions my identity, whether I am a shepherd or a priest. Now if you will excuse me, I shall be on my way. The duke needs his information before nightfall and the way this contrary beast moves"—he gestured disparagingly at his donkey, who was quietly munching a vicious-looking thistle—"I shall barely make it."

“Very well. I shall not detain you. Major.” Sophia returned to her painting, but her brush hovered ineffectually over her paper as she puzzled over the torment she sensed in the soul of Major Lord Mark Adair. What was it about him that made him so savagely ironic when he spoke of his role as an exploring officer? Certainly Andrew Leith Hay did not appear to suffer a similar distaste for the role or for himself. She would just have to ask him what he knew about the duties of exploring officers in general and Major Lord Mark Adair in particular, when he returned. She had not seen him for some months, not since they had been quartered in Frenada. A few days after they left Frenada she had heard that he had been captured by the French. Sophia herself had been too busy packing and repacking as they followed the army across the Ebro to discover any further details until after the battle at Vitoria when she heard that he had been released
en parole
in exchange for a French officer, a Captain Cheville, who was being held prisoner in England.